My son Ronan died a week before his third birthday. He’d been sick with a terminal illness for his entire life, but as a friend of mine wisely noted, “Death and dying are very different.” Now he is dead, which has marked the beginning of a new stage of grief, one that is characterised by deep sadness and longing, but cleaned of the mania of panic that is part of anticipatory grief.
Ronan is released from a body that could not live in this world; as his mother, I am released from watching him suffer. But we are still divided, forever and for good. I mourn him, I miss him, I’m sad. I’m angry, I’m confused, I’m scattered. I’m elated that he is free; I am ready to be happy. I’m human.
What do you say to a grieving parent? What does it mean to offer condolences? Here is a short list of what grieving parents do NOT want to hear, followed by stand-in statements that might feel awkward, but are actually helpful. Mind you, this is my personal list, but I know from my communication with other parents that many would agree with me.
I would die if I were you. In addition to being obviously rude, this statement is also a lie. You would not die. Human beings are built to withstand all manner of chaos and calamity and survive it, be transformed and changed by it, yet live on. When a grieving parent hears this, it feels like a judgment, or a prediction—you will never be happy again and if you are you should feel guilty—or, at its worst, a suggestion. We already feel cursed; please don’t make it worse.
Say this instead: That sounds like the hardest thing in the world. I’ll be thinking about you.
I can’t imagine. This is also a lie, because the idea of losing a child wouldn’t be so horrible unless you could imagine it. It’s also a distancing maneuver, as if by refusing to imagine the worst you can somehow avoid it. Grief is already deeply isolating, and by offering pity instead of empathy (which requires the use of one’s imagination), the griever feels more alone than ever.