I want to write a piece for AlterNet about godless/ secular grieving, and I’m asking for help from readers.
The piece I want to write is tentatively titled, “What Do You Say to Grieving Non-Believers?”. The gist: A lot of religious and spiritual believers find themselves stymied when the non-believers in their lives are grieving. The comforts and consolations they’re used to offering and that they rely on themselves — “they’re smiling down on you,” “you’ll see them in the afterlife,” “it’s all part of a plan,” etc. — obviously don’t help with atheists and other non-believers. At best they’re useless; at worst, they’re actually upsetting. But people often don’t know what to say instead. And even some non-believers have a hard time knowing what to say to the grieving non-believers in their life, since they’ve often been brought up in religion, and have been brought up framing death and grief in religious terms.
So what, specifically, can people say — or do — to comfort and console the non-believers in their lives who are grieving? What words or actions have actually helped you? (And what shouldn’t people say? I’m not going to focus on that as much in this piece, but I’m probably going to get into it somewhat.)
You can reply in comments here; or, if you prefer, you can reply privately, by emailing me at greta (at) gretachristina (dot) com. Please let me know if you want your quotes to be attributed by full name, first name only, or with a pseudonym. (If you don’t say otherwise, I’ll quote people by first name only.) You can also request that details of your
story be changed to protect your identity — if you do make this request, please tell me which details you want changed and how.
And in the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that comment threads on AlterNet are often not kind, especially in posts about atheism. Even in posts that you’d think would be received with some civility — such as posts about grief — commenters there can sometimes be very ugly. So please be prepared for that when/ if you decide to contribute.
I hope this piece can help shift attitudes about grief among non-believers, and can make things easier for some of us. Thanks for your help.
1. Hug.
2. “So sorry for your loss.”
3. Anecdotes/testimonials that capture the essence of the deceased.
4. Offer to help – especially with something specific.
”I’m sorry for your loss. Are you okay? Anything you need?” Hugs often help too, even from strangers. A touch, a smile, a gesture. It’s the real human love and sympathy that gets you through, not the fantasies. Not love for you yourself personally, necessarily, but for someone else hurting. A hand across the gulf of pain and sadness, any hand, is what helps you hold on.
When my Dad got sick and died (a loss that brings tears to my eyes even now, over a decade later) I was genuinely comforted by so many people, from the kind lady at Delta who departed from the script after arranging my airfare to say ”Hang on honey, you’ll be there soon,” through all his friends who came by to share some small reminiscence (and cut my Mum’s grass, clean the rain gutters, all manner of small practicalities), his nurse who turned up on her day off at his funeral… The list is endless.
My experience then was a testimony to how universal real human empathy can be, and the fairy stories about how he was ”looking down from heaven” were not a comfort at all but rather a well-intentioned but misguided cheapening of the shared grief of losing him and shared appreciation of having known him. That was my experience anyway.
You can quote me by name (if you choose to quote me at all).
Unfortunately, I’ve had to help bury several people that I’ve loved. I think people obsess about the proper thing to say, when the real issue is figuring out the proper way to listen. The reality is that if someone is grieving, you don’t have to say anything. In fact, there’s nothing you can say that will make things better. If some one is grieving, all they need to know is that you understand their grief, that you empathize with what their going through, and that you’re willing to shut the hell up long enough to let them express their grief.
I don’t think grief is essentially different than any other human interaction. When a friend gets engaged, has a birthday or looses a loved one, they really only want to talk about either their excitement or grief. Let them.
Avoid canards, be personal. This is true of non-believers addressing grieving believers as well (and possibly for believers addressing believers, though I can’t say for certain if stock phrases about Heaven actually satisfy believers mourning a loved one or not). Show that person you are there for them, that you understand their loss and their pain and that you are willing to be their shoulder to cry on. If you must talk, tell them about how the deceased died painlessly, lived well and happily, was such a great person, and/or made such an impact on other people’s lives (of course, only if it is true). Avoid trying to stop them from crying and avoid getting visibly uncomfortable when they are expressing their sadness to you. You may not even need to say much, just physically be there for them and let them say what they need to say to you. There may not be a need to shove platitudes down their throats at all, you may just need to let them get things off their chest without reflexively trying to get them to minimize their sadness in the name of comforting them. You will know the person and the situation better than someone on the internet, and I doubt you will find a one-size-fits-all technique capable of quelling the sorrows of all bereaved people (the very fact that there is a need to come up with things to say specifically to non-believing mourners is a testament to that). Be a sympathetic human being and try to avoid the urge to dress up the expressions of sympathy in religious regalia, and I’m sure that’s all that the mourning non-believer could ever want.
I think that, when we die, a piece of us lives on in the consciousness of others around us whose lives we have touched. This simply follows from our understanding of how minds work and need be supported by no novel hypotheses about supernatural afterlives. This is what I like to emphasize when speaking to people who are grieving, regardless of their belief system.
There isn’t really any good thing to say, whether the person who has lost someone is a believer or not, but it helped me some knowing that they were still around in my memories, and those of others.
I remember how annoying I found it way back when, as a church-going teenager, people uttered all the usual meaningless religious cliches on the death of a friend of mine. She was 15 and pretty and funny and she died of sickle cell disease and these people were telling me she was “in a better place” or had been “called to the Lord” or some such despicable nonsense. I hated hearing these things and had no way then to turn them away.
More of the same when my mother died a year ago, but this time, I replied by telling these people “I don’t believe that”, etc. Those that shared their fond memories of her and made offers of practical help were much appreciated. The most comforting words were spoken to me by the Hospice chaplain (!) who said I would sometimes experience moments of “slipping on emotional bars of soap” and that I could call anytime I wanted to chat, rant, cry. He listened, and, while I don’t remember anything else he said during our talks, he certainly didn’t attempt to convince me of any ridiculous woo.
Why is it so hard to just say something human like “I’m sorry, I know you really loved that person”? Or to share happy memories of them?
I think they don’t know their “consolations” are hurtful, at least I hope they don’t know!
I know with loved ones who have been ill before dying I take comfort knowing they are no longer suffering – a comfort not available to any christian who is honest about what their faith teaches.
Without love, and joy, you don’t have grief. (OK, I know this isn’t strictly true, but in most circumstances, it is.) Grief is a measure of the joy you had, of the importance of this person in your life. Both your lives were the better for knowing one another.
Though this person is gone, it was important to them that you knew their love for you would go on ,that their hopes for you living a happy and fulfilled life didn’t end with their death.
Remember them as they were, not a saint, just a human being in all their amazing complexity.
…rephrased to fit the situation
I think that in some sense this is the wrong question. When you say something, it becomes about you, while it should be about those who grieve. So when you have to say something, say something that recognizes the others pain, and somehow invites him or her to share their grieve. Don’t say anything with the intention of making the other feel better. Often enough this will be understood as you not understanding the weight of the grief, that you think whatever you said, can make the person feel better at that moment. They have a right to feel as awful as they do and if that makes you feel uncomfortable, bare it or leave. Don’t give in to the urge to fill up the silence. Just being there for the other in silence is often more comforting than whatever you say.
There are time you can do/say something for an other. Other times you are more helpful by being there for the other. That mostly means being present and listening. Listening in an empathetic, accepting way without judgment hearing how awful the other feels and how hard he is grieving and making it clear that you understand and that there is nothing wrong with feeling that way.
By the time my dad died when I was eleven years old I already knew that I was a non-believer, but of course there was no way for anyone else to know that, so I had to put up with weeks of the kind of spiritual platitudes you’d expect from an endless stream of relatives, friends of the family, and other well-wishers who were all Christians to some extent, even if just culturally.
The experience taught me a couple of things; firstly, that however viscerally offensive I found some of those platitudes (“everything happens for a reason” was a particular highlight), the fact that they were well-meant and said sincerely mattered more than the fact that they were inappropriate and stupid, and my irritation was always with the platitude, never with the person delivering it.
Secondly, that even a mindless, stupid, ovine platitude from someone I cared about was better than no response at all, because at the very least it broke the tension. The worst I felt over that period was when I had to deal with people who didn’t know what to say, and so said nothing.
And lastly, that expressions of empathy or solidarity were always far more welcome than attempts to cheer me up, or explain or excuse my grief.
I only ever use “I’m sorry for your loss” nowadays.
Well, I don’t say I’d say anything different than I’d say to a believer, so probably the right question is: What to non-believers say to gieving people*.
Hug if appropriate. Obviously, not everybody wants that, and not everybody wants that from you.
“I’m sorry for your loss” is never inappropriate.
Other things depend on the situation and relationship. If the person who died suffered greatly, relatives are often relieved that it is over. Telling them that it’s a shame X died so soon (and couldn’t have suffered for longer) might be as inappropriate as telling somebody who lost a loved one unexpectedly that they should be glad they didn’t suffer.
Be there. Sometimes words are just not appropriate at all. Help them if you can, and sometimes being there is all the help you can give. I once spent 2 hours on the phone with a friend basically saying nothing. Her aunt had died, I knew she was alone but I couldn’t go to her either, so I was present on the phone. I don’t want a cookie, but my friend said later that she really appreciated it, because that night she didn’t want to be alone.
*Because I’d think it to be quite offensive to say something you don’t mean and believe in just because the other person does, especially when the believer knows that you don’t
I feel that a good way to comfort a non-believer is to talk to them about the life of the person they have just lost. How the person lived their life, the good and sometimes bad memories and how that person touched and changed the lives of others in a positive way. Reminding them that even though their loved one is gone, the good that they did in the world still continues on through the people whose lives they influenced.
Agree with #1 Lauren. Is it so hard to say what a good person they were without saying that they must still be alive in spirit form?
I take three approaches when I’m with someone who’s grieving. Which one, or which combination, depends on the headspace they appear to occupy.
If they’re already talking about the events and how they feel, I listen to what they say. Even when they get repetitious, I keep listening. I don’t interrupt, I don’t divert the subject. When they stop talking, I listen to that: a silence on their part is not necessarily an invitation to speak.
If they’re stuck for something to say, but seem as if they want to talk about the events and how they feel, I ask them to tell me about the object of their grief. A person who died, a person who left a relationship, a job that ended, etc: “Tell me something about her. What was she like? Tell me a story.”
That’s sometimes painful for them, but avoiding pain isn’t exactly the point. It often results in laughter and tears, or anger and rants, or a return to talking about how they feel. Whereupon I listen.
When they start talking about their grief as something bad, and when they start getting down on themselves for grieving, is the only point when I insert my own perspective.
I say, “I have a hard time making strong emotional connections to people. People who know me say that’s sad, that I can’t feel intimate friendships. It also means that I don’t grieve when a friend dies. It’s sad that I can’t connect, and it’s sad that I can’t grieve. If it’s good to love someone, then the best thing in the world that you can do when they’ve died is to grieve.”
I feel fortunate that the last several years have brought me to bdsm, where I’ve finally been able to experience the connection people talk about. My first sadist died of cancer scant months after we met, and I suddenly knew what everyone else went through. And what I had been telling others for many, many years before resonated: my job, when she left and when she died, was to grieve.
– emc
I come from an absolutely atheistic family, and most of our friends and relatives are godless too, so the issue isn’t so big here. But when my mother died three years ago I talked a lot with my son about it (obviously). He had just turned seven when she died, and some of his friends in fact repeated nonsense about her being in heaven. We talked about that the best thing to think about is, that she is not anywhere but in our hearts. And she takes up a quite some space there. When he saw the latest/last Harry Potter movie (the scene where all Harry’s dead people turn up and encourage him) he said “They are in his heart” and then a millisecond later one of the characters go to Harry Potter, puts his hand on Harry’s chest and says “we’re in here” (or something of that sort) and my son just with deep recognition says. “Yes, they are in his heart”. (Then I choked up).
SO long story short: “I’m sorry”, “I’m thinking of you”, “I’ve made som stew”, “I’ll take your kid to the movies” are all perfect answers. And IF you feel the need to talk about the dead and where they are now, the only two proper things to say to an atheist are 1. in the grave 2. In our hearts.
I think the classic Irish form – also available in other Celtic dimensions – is fine and goes thus:
Walk up to the bereaved person, look them in the eye and hold a handshake long enough to prove it is no mere token gesture, then say “I’m sorry for your trouble.”
No more speech is required but use your evolved H sapiens brain to discern whether you should say more at that moment – probably not – or the person wants to say something to you – maybe, maybe not.
Yes, it is slightly formalised but it works without either party having to intrude on the other’s thoughts and beliefs, which is where things go wrong – not in reccognising the fact of the death. Once the fact has been acknowledged then perfectly normal conversation, albeit sad, becomes straightforward.
Of all the myriad things I have managed to get anxious about in my life somehow this has never been one of them.
“We will remember them”
My granny died just before I turned 11. She looked after me while my parents worked during the day, so really she was like a third parent. My parents told me that although it was sad, I still had my memories of her, and that as long as I kept them it would be like she was still with me at times. I would remember the good things that happened and what she would say to me in certain situations and the memories became less painful and more comforting, although eleven years later I still sometimes get surprised by tears (like now). She was a remarkable woman and by remembering her and what she did I have felt supported. Not because she was there looking down on me, but because I know that if she could handle it, I could too. Even just knowing that she would be proud of me is enough.
“I’m here for you if you need anything”. A hug never goes amiss either. Offers of help – one of the best things for my family after my mum died, I think, was that our family friends and neighbours started bringing us food that they had made. They even organised a roster so that we wouldn’t get it all at once and have to throw some away. It meant that for about a month after she died we only had to worry about making dinner once or twice a week. I appreciate flowers, too – it’s hard to be completely sad when there’s a sunflower in the room.
I was also very moved when one of Mum’s friends from her childhood told me that he didn’t feel that Mum was entirely gone – not in the sense of her spirit watching over us or whatever – but because he kept noticing bits of her – a turn of phrase, a facial expression, an aptitude, a firmly-held belief – in me and my sister.
When my father died of cancer (although still achieving a ripe old age) I arranged with the agreement of my mother to have a humanist celebrant rather than a nominally religious funeral as although my parents would reflexively claim to be C of E, in practice they observed no faith.
Consequently friends of his in attendance were aware that I was an atheist (especially as I read a piece originally composed by Adam Lee of Daylight Atheism).
I got a lot of the usual religious platitudes anyway; “He’s in a better place” being the most common, probably as he had been ill for some while. I took these in the spirit they were offered, but the best and memorable comments were from people who had known my father in situations we did not share in common; little anecdotes and insights into his character that made me smile and remember the living, loving, gregarious man he had been and left me feeling that I knew him even better than before.
My best friend (also a non-believer) lost his father last year. He said afterwards that what he wanted to hear more than anything was “That fucking sucks.” An acknowledgement that he was hurting, and that was his right.
What I say to someone who is mourning greatly depends on how well I know them.
For an acquaintance, I’d say: I’m so sorry for your loss. I would probably follow that up with a donation to an appropriate charity (e.g. Heart and Stroke Foundation if they died of a heart attack or a charity they supported in life, like the local shelter).
For a closer/good friend, I’d add meals delivered to the house, visits where I vacuum the floor and wash dishes and time spent just talking about the person or the weather or whatever the grieving person wants, basically.
When my good friend’s husband died suddenly of a heart attack, she reported to me that the most helpful things I said at the time were:
1. In response to her question about what she was going to do now, I said: You’re going to keep breathing and keep living. The rest is details.
2. When we were having a longer discussion about the consoling notion that a belief in an after-life must afford the religious(assuming, ofcourse, they think their loved one went to heaven) I shared my feeling that real eternal life was just our children. My father died 17 yrs ago but his genes live on in his children and grandchildren. We all have eternal life, just not eternal consciousness.
I open up the comments list to see that Lauren pretty well nailed it with comment #1. [It might be helpful to suggest something specific you can do to help if you can think of one, or just turn up with some food.]
But while here I’ll add that I think some of those statements “they’re smiling down on you,” “you’ll see them in the afterlife,” “it’s all part of a plan,” which are meant to console, are as hurtful and comfortless to some religious believers as to many atheists.
Ditto on the listening. Ditto also on reminding the grieving that the deceased lives on in the memories of those whose lives he/she touched. It might also help to say something like “he/she lived well” or “he/she made the best of his/her years.”
“Death isn’t as bad as the mystery makes it out to be. Think of it! S/He is no longer in pain, they have no stress, no responsibility, no strain, it’s a never-ending nap. Every mistake they’ve ever made has been forgotten, every battle they’ve ever lost, every argument they started and couldn’t win, it’s all gone. From this day forward everyone will speak highly of them, remember only the good things and use the next year reaching out to family because this has reminded us that we’re all mortal and that every one we love will eventually be taken from us.”
Then I give them a hug and if they grieve for an excessively long time I point out to them that everyone dies, we’ve almost passed the age where our friends are more likely to die from reckless accidents and will soon enter the age where we start losing our parent’s older siblings to age or health related issues. Then we’ll lose our parents. We’ll have a few unlucky friends lose their children to reckless accidents then we’ll start losing our friends to age or health related illness. The loss of our siblings and spouses, statistically, will hit us the hardest then we’ll die and someone will share this knowledge at our funeral.
I’ve actually had more luck with the logic of the second statement. It sounds cruel but with the right tone, some kind of beverage, and an appropriate amount of comforting touch, it’s not.
Offering a grieving person some nugget of wisdom is useless. It doesn’t matter if the nugget is religious or simply platitudinous. What counts is to share, to the best of one’s ability, the burden just a bit. Words that say “I grieve with you”, with an emphasis that is scaled to the degree to which one is close to the grieving person is what should be offered. If you are close enough, your physical presence should be provided.
Each situation is unique to the individuals involved (whether we’re talking about believers or nonbelievers). How I frame any response depends entirely on how well I knew the deceased, and how well I know the grieving person/people. There isn’t any “pat” answer or “one-size fits all” reply in the face of death. Sometimes, silence is the most heartfelt condolence that can be offered…and I don’t mean silence like absence; I mean a touch on the shoulder, a squeeze of the hand (if they’re open to that), a hug perhaps. Sometimes words simply are inappropriate. Any words. Sometimes, just the physical act of caring condolence is more than enough.
If I know the person/family more closely, I’m inclined to lean more toward action anyway. What do they *need*? Are small children involved who could be babysat while attending to post-funeral stuff? Would a house cleaning service be helpful for a couple of months? How is the person/family faring with food, since cooking is not often on people’s minds at time of loss…? These are all just *suggestions* as possibilities. How we respond depends entirely on very unique factors and should be individualized/customized to the people involved.
Actions speak louder than words. I will never forget how, when I was in college, and my beloved grandmother died, my friend put me in her car and drove me over three hours away to be with my family. Needless to say, this person has remained one of my dearest friends.
Greta, you want to advise the religious on how to comfort and console the non-believers in their lives who are grieving. The “problem” believer in these situations would be the ones who are convinced that expressing their idiosyncratic beliefs would be helpful to the bereaved. These folks are going to be tough to advise. Perhaps appealing to their capacity for empathy which is obviously lacking. Because they are so blinkered in their beliefs, I doubt that asking them to imagine the tables switched, say, a non-believer telling them that recently departed is being recycled as worm food and eventually stardust, will get the point across. It will only take the topic into the god/no god argument. Perhaps using a secular example; “you wouldn’t want someone to say to you, ‘Sorry your Mom’s dead, it’s a comfort that she now knows that Toyotas are the best built cars’, it just comes across as callous to the bereaved.” (you’re the imaginative writer, come up with a better example!!)
btw, I really enjoy articles like these which get away from the great debate and deal with the practical aspects of being a non-believer in a majority-believer world.
My dad died this summer rather abruptly at the age of 55. He had been diagnosed with cancer 2 months earlier, but it had already metastasized. Chemotherapy proved to a bridge too far for his body.
I’m an atheist in a family of believers. Things like “He’s in a better place now”, while meant kindly, just angered me. What better place was there than with us, his family who loved and needed him? Fortunately nobody was stupid enough to try to tell me “it was part of God’s plan for him” because they would have gotten an enraged earful.
I decided to speak at the funeral, because I wanted to make sure that anyone else who was there who was a nonbeliever (not that I specifically knew of any) got the comfort I felt I was looking for. I shared something a friend had told me when I mentioned that I felt I could talk for hours, but we didn’t have that kind of time; she said “You were lucky to have had a father that you can speak of for hours with love. Not everyone does.” And I talked about how Dad was still with us; in his books, his jokes, his family members.
There was nothing anyone could have said to make me stop hurting. Heck, there STILL isn’t. But as Tamsin mentioned upthread, the most comforting thing anyone said to me was that she saw a lot of Dad in me, in my mannerisms and just personality. It really helped me feel he wasn’t completely gone.
(As a side note, I don’t think I would have found anyone telling me “Death isn’t that bad” to be a helpful thing. I’m not sad for him; he doesn’t care. I’m sad for me! And reminding me of all the things he’s not doing anymore just emphasizes WHY I still feel broken most days.)
My parents have been going through a revolving door of life threatening medical issues. Not often, but I sometimes have expressed on Facebook my fear about whatever their next procedure is. Of course many friends responded with support messages, some with promises of prayer. However, what I was most touched by was the restraint of several of my religious friends, one a evangelical pastor, that did *not* go there. Instead of their usual references to their religious belief, they just gave me words of comfort and encouragement, that they were thinking of us and were there if we needed them.
Sometimes restraint is the best gift of all to people going through a rough patch.
Also, Fred Clark shared this link:
http://www.calebwilde.com/2011/12/11-worst-and-best-things-to-say-at-a-funeral/
Having lost a child I found it very upsetting when people comforted me with “it was probably for the best”. What?? Did they think he’d become the next Hitler or what? All I wanted from my friends and family when I was in an acute sorrow was a hug, and someone to cry to. I didn’t need them to say much really, because there is no one who can say anything to make the loss of a child feel better. Nothing. And I found it very ok when people said “I don’t know what to say, but I feel so terrible for you”. Later, when the grief started to lose its clenched grip, I needed someone to let me know that it was ok to laugh again. To live again. That I wasn’t a bad person for needing my life to go on at 21 years old.
Still now, almost 20 years later, I appreciate when people include my dead son into a conversation when it is natural. Say his name, acknowledge that he could have been a grown up now and so on. Very few people do, so I don’t talk much about it either unless to other parents I know have lost children. When someone asks me how many children I have, I always say two, but think three.
“Sorry for your loss. Can I help?”
and as has already been said, talking abuot the deceased to bring up good memories. My husband and I recently has to euthanize a cherished cat. And what made me feel best is talking about how goofy this cat was. Yep, I still cried but it wasn’t the crazed grief I generally would have had. Any religous nonsense said to me would have gotten a violent reaction.
One of the functions of calling hours/funeral services is simply the acknowledgment between the bereaved and each caller that the death has occurred. In the case of coworkers or people you see on a superficial level but frequently, I find the approach that I, as bereaved, appreciate most is a short and sweet expression of sympathy AT THE WAKE, and maybe when I next see them at work, a squeeze on the shoulder (better than more verbal solicitude.)
I’d rather keep my tears confined to the formal grieving forums for every Tom, Dick, and Harry, and in the ensuing months just succumb privately or with my nearest and dearest. I don’t like to have to shift into that condolence gear at times not of my choosing, although I would certainly prefer a brief “sorry for your loss” even months after the fact than no acknowledgment at all.
When deciding whether I should attend a wake or not, I ask myself, “will I have to bring up this death when I see Jane Bereaved at the next book club meeting, or should I just go and acknowledge it now in the time-honored forum?”
It’s situational of course, but somethings might be…
“They lived a good life.”
“They made the world a better place.”
“Remember all they accomplished.”
… and similar comforts that focus on the deceased’s LIFE.
I wish something I could say could ease your bereavement. I’m sorry, seems … so inadequate. Please know that I care, and am available if you need me for anything.
There were three things people said that I found the most useful when I was grieving my fiance’s death:
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I know there’s nothing I can say that will make you feel better.”
“Let me help by [doing something useful].”
Those useful things included taking care of my house and my children while I couldn’t, making sure I was eating well, and listening to me talk about what happened and what Bonnie had meant to me.
“How can I help?” was meant well, but it wasn’t useful to me ’cause I hadn’t a clue how anyone could help . . . until they actually did.
It’s been over twenty years since Bonnie died and the memories still bring tears to my eyes; some from the loss, and some from how wonderfully people came to help me through the hardest time of my life.
I wrote a post about Atheism and Grief earlier last year. I actually find grief as an atheist simplier than when I was a theist.
In that post, I said, “I can be sad and I can rejoice in my memories of the people I love who are gone. I don’t have to wonder where they are; if they were “good enough” to be in a better place; if they are watching over me. They are in my heart and in my memories – and when I miss them – that is where I will find them – always.”
The rest can be read at http://www.gratefultobeofthisworld.blogspot.com/2011/05/grief-and-atheism.html
When I lost my grandma last year, the most healing experience was talking with other people about their memories of her and especially their feelings about how she impacted the lives of those she loves. Because that is where the dead live on – in our hearts, our memories, and if it was family – our genes. Whenver I see a trait of my grandmother in one of my aunts, or even in myself, I wonder if that was part of the (obviously unconcious, but no less valued) inheritance she left to us. I find comfort in these thoughts.
If it’s an acquaintance, “I’m sorry for your loss” is usually more than enough in the way of condolences.
For a closer friend, there’s usually either an implied or overtly stated offer to help. The grieving process is pretty personal, so I tend to give people space and not try to intrude unless they specifically request something of me.
My cousin committed suicide a few months ago, and the only thing besides “what horrible news” and “I’m so sorry” was to try to think of ways to help my aunt and uncle through the process.
Yes, they’re platitudes and maybe even cliche. But sometimes, that’s what’s available. There’s a reason that cliches became cliches.
I don’t think you get points for originality in a situation like that. A genuine statement of sympathy and concern is more than enough.
At work someone’s child died recently, and while he was out we had a counselor come in and talk to us. And what was interested was the religious comments even offend religious people who have lost someone. No one, not even a Christian, wants to hear that “god has a plan” to kill their loved one, or that some moron thinks he knows why tragedy happens.
Mainly the counselor said to say
1.you’re sorry
2. you’re here for them
3. offer to help (or make specific offers, or just come over and start helping)
4. recognize your uncomfortableness or awkwardness is about YOU, not them. You don’t want to upset them because it will make YOU uncomfortable, not because you’re worried about their feelings. So recognize that, and don’t let fear of being uncomfortable stop you. Do what’s best for the person, not what will make you feel better.
some don’ts:
5. don’t constantly bring it up
6. don’t say anything religious or spiritual, or indicate in any way that you think there is a reason
My typical response is along the lines that while we will all die, not everyone has the priveledge of being remembered. I know that I will always remember [insert memory here about person who has died]. It is personal and recognizes the joy they brought to my life while they were living. I typically bring food too, I can’t help but feed people.
@ plutosdad, I find it very curious that even the counselor said that religios comments aren’t very appreciated by believers. To me, that would seem to indicate that a huge amount of claimed religious belief is extremely situational.
Helpful things people said to me:
What can I do to help?”
“Even though she is gone, you can still talk to her.”
My mother died when I was 25. My father died a year and a half later. I learned then that the best thing you can say to a grieving person is “I am so sorry for your loss.” That’s it. that’s all the needs to be said. Follow the statement with a hug, if you are close enough to the grieving person. This works for religious people, non-religious people and athiests. Skip all that nonsense about “he/she is in a better place.” They aren’t here and that is the only point. Also skip “at least his/her suffering is over.” He/she shouldn’t have had to suffer in the first place. I’ve been the grieving person. Just tell me that you are so sorry so that I know someone understands.
What I keep running into is that theists tend to either not think that atheists grieve in any way they can recognize, or that grief is the opening they need for conversion. When they see that we are also human, it breaks their stride even if only temporarily.
One noteworthy incident was a close to a decade ago when a rabid fundie in the office received news that his father had died, and a card was passed around for everyone to sign. It was full of brief expressions of sympathy ranging from vague to sincere, some invoking notions of a god and/or afterlife (except for one guy who simply wrote “Dude, that sucks”). When the card came to me I thought for a while about what I could possibly say that would be meaningful, and after a while I grabbed a pen, turned the card over so I could use the entire back side, and wrote the following –
——–
“Dennis, I can’t speak to your beliefs; I can only tell you what I know. I know that the universe we inhabit is vast and ancient, billions of years across in time and space. In that time, countless stars have been born and died; burning only hydrogen at first but creating and adding heavier and heavier elements over subsequent generations as matter fuses in their cores, until such elements as carbon, iron, phosphorus, nitrogen, oxygen, potassium and the like exist in sufficient quantity to make organic chemistry possible. Which makes us possible. We are, all of us, born of the ashes of dead stars.”
“One day, long after you and I are gone, our own sun, warming us since it first ignited from the aggregate of matter that also formed this world and the other planets in our system, will burn up all of its fuel and die. By that time it will have long since swollen to the point where it has swallowed our world and burnt it to ash, and the shock wave of its death will cast the ashes of our sun and this planet out into the wider universe once more. Eventually, some of those ashes – mine, yours, and your father’s – will likely find themselves condensed into another protostellar cloud, whose newborn sun will warm planets of its own. Perhaps one of those will have life someday.”
——–
Dennis was someone I had locked horns with on more than one occasion previously; he tended to swing back on forth on whether it was more important to convert eeeevul atheists like me and few others at the workplace, or to convert the Muslim employees. He received the card that day and I saw him nodding thanks to some othe co-workers, but he didn’t approach me until the next day and when he did he was at uncharacteristic loss for words. What he finally managed to stammer out was that everyone else wrote something generic and perfunctory, but I had obviously put some real though into my note and said something that I really meant. He didn’t expect that, and he was genuinely appreciative of it. Dennis knew that he was the “Crazy Christian” of the office and was enjoying the free pass that evangelical sorts milked for all they could in the wake of 9-11, and he knew that no one was fooled. He knew what everyone thought of him, and admitted it. The most outspoken atheist was the one who wrote the words that moved him the most in his grief, and he was taken aback by that.
@44 andrea
I think even if a person is comforted by the idea that their loved one is still living on in a better place, there is a difference between thinking that eventually instead of right away, but also, thinking that yourself and having someone tell you that.
For instance we might complain about our parents, but at the same time be offended when a friend points out something our parents do wrong. Maybe grieving is the same thing. I haven’t lost anyone close, but if someday I am comforted by the idea someone still exists and is happier, if someone else says it to me I might still think “who the heck are you to say that?”
After that session at work I asked some people (my fiance, her father who lost his first wife, my parents who are very catholic) and they all said something like “duh”. Even 15 years after his wife’s death, my fiance’s very religious father thinks “god has a plan” is a lot of crap, though he’s comforted by the idea she’s with his god, he’d still rather she be here.
I’ve been thinking about this stuff a lot following the loss of my Dad. I’ll point out, in case someone else hasn’t, that this stuff applies to people who lose beloved pets just as much as it does those who lose human loved ones.
Some stuff I think would work:
I’m sorry for your loss.
I always admired how he/she did such-and-such.
We were all so lucky to have him/her in our lives. The world is a better place for having had him/her in it.
Also: The sharing of happy or funny stories about the person, especially events you all shared, that works wonders. (“Remember the time we filled up the bathtub with water, because they said the water was going to be off for several days, and we came in and found grandpa had taken a bath in it?”)
Non-believers, like all other people in times of stress, really want to know that someone is there for them. That someone understands what they’re going through, or at least cares enough to try. That’s the reason that, for me at least, theistic consolations are so ill received. That isn’t trying to understand, and it feels like they’re trying to take advantage of my pain. It’s almost extortion, like “Hey, if you’d just BELIEVE you could pretend they’re still around”. That’s NOT what I want, and it makes me angry with them.
Saying things like, “I understand” or “I’m here for you” helps. It’s also usually really nice to help them remember good things about the person they’re missing. We all need to be reminded sometimes that our tears are the LAST thing the person would have wanted.
I really agree with w_nightshade. I find that a lot of times the things we say to the grieving are meant to calm them down and make them feel better. Sometimes it helps more to say something along the lines of, “I’m sorry, that really sucks and is unfair.” It’s refreshing to hear and makes people feel understood. This works for death but also for lesser griefs like losing a job or dealing with illness.
Regarding the hugs comments – some people (I am one of them) are not fond of people touching them especially when they are upset, even by somebody they are very close to. Hugs when I am sad make me feel vulnerable, but it also feels rude to push a person away. Perhaps it is better to ask, “Do you need a hug?” so that the person can accept or decline on their own.
Why say anything except to reassure the person you’re willing to listen? It’s been a while since my mother passed, but I don’t recall any burning need to hear someone natter on with platitudes and homilies, and I certainly didn’t want to hear cherry-picked verses from scripture. People who are grieving will speak when they’re ready to speak. The same goes for those who have survived horrible situations such as combat, accidents, or natural disasters. I fear too often we speak to the distressed because WE want to position ourselves as caring individuals. A hug or a polite touch on the arm will do that better than some Hallmark condolence card ever could. It’s about the grieving, not about us.
I am so sorry for your loss and my thoughts are with you during this difficult time. Never hesitate to ask for anything even if its just to talk or a shoulder to cry on.
A hug or squeeze of the hand can convey so much without words and sometimes that is enough.
I try to be gracious when Christians offer religious condolences because I know that at that particular moment they are also saying something to comfort themselves as well as comfort the grieving and that arguing or debating then isn’t the answer.
Looking forward to reading the final product Greta. Something I think we can all learn from.
From my experience as a griever:
Hugs have never ever hurt. Anytime I’m upset or grieving, I just want to know there’s someone to lean on. I don’t necessarily want to talk about it though. I guess I’m just emotionally weird, I’d rather just cuddle and distract myself until I’m ready to handle it. But the biggest thing I want to know is that my grief is being taken seriously. Which, in the past, it hasn’t been. As an animal lover, I’m always surrounded by pets, who don’t live forever. And it broke my heart when I was told by my church that animals don’t go to heaven. Needless to say, even the thought of my doggies and birdies and ratties in animal heaven isn’t particularly comforting anymore. But when I had to put my pet rat Finn down just before exams, I had the support of even my most emotionally uninvolved of friends, which was incredibly gratifying, and it made me feel less embarrassed about my grief. So if someone is crying their pants off over their dead gerbil, you should take it as seriously as if it was a member of the family.
Also, this is kind of difficult to do, but if it’s possible, I have never felt more free of grief than when cuddling with a cat or kitten or dog or puppy. That may just be me though.
From my experience as a comforter:
I have had times where hugs were the absolute worst direction to take. I’ve had times when conciliatory words were the worst direction. The only way I have been able to handle these situations is to let the person know I’m around, and that at the drop of a hat, I will do anything they ask, without question or complaint. I have gotten myself into trouble with trying to apply my own methods of comfort grieving in situations where I don’t know precisely what to do, so now, I try to leave it open ended. Mainly, I try to ask if someone wants to be hugged or touched, if they want to talk about it, if they want me to make them dinner, if they want to stay over at my place.
In any case, what I would say is, you should really know the person and what they specifically want and need, and how they experience grief before you can comfort them. The biggest mistake you can make is to make their grief about you.
My mom’s beloved brother (“Ben”) died at 21 after a car accident; she was 17 and devastated. Among all the kind words, memorials, and events, one gift stood out. Ben’s girlfriend compiled a journal of his favorite book quotes, poems, passages, and stories, as well as material of his own; Ben was a gifted writer with a passionate love of language and literature, and the journal was packed with words that had touched him and words of his that had touched her over the years. Today, over forty years later, my mom can pick up the journal and enjoy her brother’s wit, intelligence, and sensitivity. And though her children never knew their would-be Uncle Ben, we can pick up the book and spend a little time with his memory—we even share many of the same favorite writers.
I can’t imagine a better gift for a grieving person, atheist or otherwise. In the throes of a gut-wrenching loss, knowing that a loved one will always be remembered and that his or her passions, talents, and quirks touched many lives can be a powerful comfort—one rooted in this world and this life.
I don’t have a lot of experience with this myself, but the question brought to mind something Penn Jillette said in one of his YouTube videos from a while back, about when his mother died. A lot of people said the standard things that people think they’re supposed to say to make someone feel better, like about how she’s at rest now, at least she went peacefully, she had a long run, maybe you’ll see her again some day, and so on. Then he spoke to one friend who said (paraphrasing considerably): “You’re going to hear a lot of people telling you to take comfort in this or that or whatever, trying to make you feel less bad. That’s all bullshit. This is the worst thing that could possibly happen.” And he said that was the thing that helped most of all for him to hear. I guess because it was an acknowledgment of just how awful he felt, that this was a terrible thing and it was okay for him to grieve just as much as he felt like he had to. Maybe this is a slightly different question from how to help people actually feel better once they’re ready for time to start healing things, I don’t know.
Actually, I just thought of a personal example too. My girlfriend’s cat died recently, and the thing we kept coming back to when comforting each other was how well she’d taken care of him when he was alive. He was a rescue cat, and his first decade of life had clearly been fairly rough if not outright abusive, but with her he was pretty happy and lived longer than anyone expected. She’d done really well by him, right up to the end, and it helped a little to focus on that.
“We are worse now that he/she is gone, but we are so much better people to have known him/her at all.”
“The positive impact he/she had on me will last my whole life, and I will pass that to my child(ren).”
You know… as long as all that’s true.
I just lost my mom in July, so this is very pertinent to me. First of all, I have had to confront, first hand, the mixed feelings that come when believers say, “I’m praying for you.” I just take it as a kindness that they are thinking of me, I NEVER give a snarky comeback to that. But for non-believers and believers alike, the best thing is always to acknowledge the loss and, if you knew the person, or knew something of the person, to tell a little antecdote (if it’s positive). Talking about a loved one brings them back, in a way, for just a second. It is comforting to recall good times, or special attributes. And offering to BE there for the person….not just mouthing the words, but really BE there. Take them out to eat, or go with them to the cemetery.
“I’m sorry” about covers it. Far better is to DO something supportive, whether it’s listening, including the bereaved in planned activities, etc.
When I lost my life, oddly enough one of the things I took comfort in is the fact that I’d only miss her while I was alive, and that there was no heaven from which she was aware of the continuance of life without her. No ghosts to provide either of us with suffering.
And, of course, that should be “lost my wife” in the second paragraph. Freudian typoes…
I can tell you what NOT to say. Or, rather, all of the things people said to me that I couldn’t stand.
“Everything happens for a reason.” — So my loved one was nothing more than a puzzle piece in the grand scheme? Thanks, that doesn’t make me feel any better.
“God has a plan.” — 1) I don’t believe in your god, and your delusions are not comforting. 2) Even if I did, again, having someone I care about be considered nothing more than a pawn in a mythological creature’s game of solitaire chess does not help.
“They’re in a better place, now.” — No, they’re not, because there is no heaven.
I understand that a big part of people believing in these myths is to make themselves feel better about the fact that we, and everyone we love, are all going to die one day, and religion serves as a crutch to hold them up under this idea. But just because deceiving themselves helps them, doesn’t mean it’ll help me. I have too much pride in my own intelligence to insult it by sacrificing my brain on the altar of mythology. That being the case, every well-intentioned (but not well-thought-out) word that religious people tried to offer me in sympathy was like acid in my emotional wounds.
I think it depends on how well you know the bereaved. I lost a very dear friend last summer. He had the bad luck to develop an unusually virulent type of squamous-cell carcinoma. He withstood chemo and radiation well, but unfortunately, so did the cancer.
At the memorial we had for him, I hugged his wife and said, “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how much pain you are in. We all loved him, and we will miss him terribly. Be sure to let me know if there is anything I can do for you and the boys.”
But then, I did not know her well. The most frequent expression used by his friends (while hugging each other tightly) was “This fucking sucks” and “I hate this”.
Add me to the list of people who think Lauren nailed it at the top of the thread.
I don’t get too upset by the religious platitudes (not much gets me riled – I might just inwardly roll my eyes) but the real consolation since my wife died a little over a year ago has come from friends and family who invite me to dinner, or to a movie or concert, or reminisce about her, or are just there to hang out and talk. And give a hug now and then. Heck, just a quick text to say ‘hi’ does wonders sometimes.
I’m meeting one of those friends after work today for dinner. Even though she’s a devout Catholic she knows and accepts my atheism and has never uttered any of those platitudes. Some believers get it.
So many good comments. I am afraid I will just be repeating many of them, but I want to share my experience with comforting my 13 year old daughter when we had to euthanize her cat.
First of all, I reassured her that we made the right decision. Even though he was a young cat (2 years old) he became suddenly ill. The vet could not find out what was wrong and he kept getting sicker and sicker despite our best efforts. Every day we worried that he would die while we slept or while we were away at work/school.
I assured her that it was ok to find relief in the fact that it was finally over. That she didn’t need to feel guilt in the relief that comes with the end.
I told her I was sorry. That she loved him very much. (He was such a great cat, and they were best buddies. He waited for her to come home from school, followed her around the house and slept on his own special pillow next to her every night.) I told her that yes, her heart was broken because she loved him.
I sat with her in silence while she cried. I sat with her in silence while she raged. And I sat with her in the silence that comes after.
We buried the cat, read from “The Little Prince” (The part about taming foxes and roses) and played Garth Brooks “The Dance” and cried.
And I told her when she was ready, we could have another cat.
6 weeks later, we brought Nicky and Norris home. And we love them.
I told my daughter that all things die. It is a natural part of life, and that you never know how long you have with a being. Whether you love them for days or decades doesn’t matter. They brought joy. Joy and grief are part of life’s cycles, just as day and night. Dawn follows night, and joy will follow grief.
I hope that I taught my daughter there is nothing to fear in death, that grief is appropriate and healthy and it is equally appropriate and healthy to determine when it is done and lay it aside and continue to live.
Thank you all for such wonderful insights and letting me contribute to the conversation.
I think “I’m sorry for your loss.” is good. If the deceased person was ill for a long time, maybe suggest that the person is at peace now. I suppose admitting you don’t know what else to say is acceptable, as we pretty much are all conditioned to have religious responses, even after we realize we no longer believe, and coming up with alternative ways to phrase your sympathy is tricky.
this could be a small book lol i’ll email it
I lost my best friend to cancer this summer. It was a very difficult time for all of us her numerous friends but even more for her dad, brought on an emergency visa from India, unaware of exactly how sick his daughter was, just two weeks before her death. And for her brother, who did not make the trip and learned of his sister’s death on a phone from over 10 000 km away.
Neither father nor daughter were particularly religious, even though they suscribed to a loose form of hinduism. But this, even if it did give her dad some ritual things to attend to, wasn’t the thing that helped us, believer or non-believer, get through this.
For us, the thing that helped most was our being together, and our sharing our memories of my friend. Can you actually believe that we all laughted when her father told us of some silly stunt his daughter did ?
It was difficult spending time alone with her dad, when I did not even speak his mother tongue. But we managed. He needed someone to cook for him – and force him to eat -, drive him around, listen to him when he wondered angrily why this happened. So that’s what I did.
I think it’s the only meaningful thing one can do. Be there. Listen. Help.
I always thought it was about support and comfort, which doesn’t have to be couched in the language of religion. I mean, does a Baptist go to a Catholic’s funeral and say, “Man, I’m so sorry, if only your husband hadn’t been an idolator. I know it’s too late for him, but maybe I can show you some literature?”
Support and comfort. “I’m sorry for your loss; if there’s anything you need, just let me know. I made you a casserole.”
I like to say, I wish you happy memories. Although at an actual funeral I’d probably say, I’m so sorry, and something to convey my affection for the deceased.
What I’d say would vary by context. I’d want to let them know that I was there for them if they needed anything. If I didn’t know the deceased very well, I might say, “tell me about her.” Or if I did know the deceased, I might try to recall something positive that I remembered about her life or my interaction with her.
My goal is to help bring to mind something to hold onto in the present. That happened, and you or I are better for it. She had a positive effect in the world, and we know it.
I think it depends on what exactly has happened. In cases of drawn-out illness or something painful, there’s “He’s not suffering anymore.”
But usually I just stick with something like, “If you need to talk, or drink copious amounts of tea, or do something totally unrelated, I’m here.” I find it most effective to put that offer out there, and the person I’m talking to can accept it or not, and can then tell me exactly what they want from me – to discuss it, to be distracted, or whatever.
There are so many really good suggestions on here already. Most of the best ones are the simple ones. “I know you loved him/her, I did as well.” “I will always remember him/her.” “He/She made a lot of people happy, and was a great gift to the world.” There are an infinite number of way to express an appreciation of a person’s life for what it was: a great life, shared with all of the surrounding people.
But just for my self, I would like to add one more thought: if someone “slips up” and does say something like “I’m sure they are comfortable whereever they are” or something similar, that I completely and utterly disagree with but that is nonetheless well-intentioned, it’s not like I’m doing to start throwing flames at them. When all is said and done, if I am grieving, I’d probably just take it the way the person intended it (the same way I take it when someone wishes me a Merry Christmas): as something pleasant because they wanted to make me feel good.
So although I appreciate the consideration if someone wants to respect my beliefs, it’s silly for them, I think, to get uptight and “scared” about what to say to me.
I posted some don’ts earlier, I figured I should post some do’s, as that’s what this is really supposed to be about.
I can tell you perhaps the most comforting thing someone said to me after I lost my daughter was, “I’m here. I know I can’t understand what you’re going through, and I can’t make the pain go away. But if need me, for whatever reason, just know that I’m here.”
It was simple, but it wasn’t oozing sticky sympathy, it wasn’t assuming anything, it wasn’t calling on myths I don’t believe in, it wasn’t patronizing. It was just, “I’m here.” It was one of the few things anyone said to me that made any difference at all. Because when you lose someone you love, especially a child, you feel very isolated in your grief. Two steps out of the world as it is.
Pain is also isolating. When I was seriously ill a few years back, I got a lot of sympathy and pity I didn’t want, and a lot of “I’ll pray for you.”
Now, I realize it means that the person cares, they’re beseeching their imaginary friend to have mercy on me, and that’s nice. But it’s also selfish in a way, because it only makes *them* feel better about the situation; it didn’t mean a damn thing to *me*.
So. how do you comfort the non-believer? By letting them know you’ll be there for them if they need you, and actually doing so if needed. Express how sorry you are, but don’t drown them in sympathy. I can tell you from experience that it can just make it worse. And think, really think, about whether what you’re going to say is designed to help them, or to satisfy *you* that you’ve done good. Because a person’s time of grief is no time to be verbally masturbating. You’re there for them, so make sure what you have to say is going to be for them. I can’t tell you how many people really just seemed like they were saying what they thought they should, to feel like a good person, instead of thinking about what I needed to hear.
This appeared in Sarah Bunting’s Vine advice column ten years ago from one reader in response to another reader who had lost the love of his life in the World Trade Center. It has stuck with me all that time.
“A friend of mine gave me this analogy and it has stuck in my head ever since: if you break your arm, it hurts like a mother. You go to get a cast put on it, but it still hurts. If, on the day you get back from the doctor’s office with that cast, someone hits you on that arm, it’s gonna hurt so bad you’ll feel like you’re going to pass out. A week later, if that person hits you again, it’s still gonna hurt, but not as bad. Eventually, it just won’t hurt as bad, and while you’ll still have some pain in that arm, you’ll be able to turn around and smack the hell out of that person for hitting you every week while you had a broken arm.
It’s a stupid analogy, I know, but it kept creeping into my thoughts after the funeral…I found myself thinking, “How much longer until I’m in ass-kicking condition again?”
It’s been a little over two months for me, and while I’m not in full ass-kicking mode yet, I can feel parts of “me” coming back…there was a while when I didn’t know if that would happen or not.”
http://tomatonation.com/vine/the-vine-october-2-2001/
When my grandfather passed away, an atheist friend of mine said to me, “I am sorry that you are hurting, and I know how much you will miss him. I hope you are able to heal the pain in your heart with all your good memories.” I was very comforted by this, and whenever I started to hurt again I thought of these words and of a happy memory of my grandfather, and it really did help. To this day I use these words to express my condolences to non-believers and believers alike.
Lots of great comments. To make something explicit and verbal which is implicit in several of the above: when the deceased is someone you knew directly yourself, it’s also appropriate to share, “I’ll miss them”, in whatever words and to whatever extent it’s true.
There can be something isolating and crazy-making about the death of a loved one. There you are with your world blown apart, and yet the sun ridiculously keeps on shining, there are kids screaming their fool heads off chasing each other around the playground, little boats serenely sail back and forth across the placid river, the commuters stream from the subway station intent on their mochajavaccinos and their cell phone conversations, as if everything were perfectly normal, as if the most awful thing possible hadn’t happened. That moment of recognition from another shocked survivor, that communion between two of the bereft can be profoundly validating. It says not only “I know know how you feel”, but “In some measure, I feel it too.”
1. Is there anything I can do?
2. I’m sorry for your loss.
3. A hug or a pat on the shoulder.
4. Call me if you need anything.
When people say, “I’ll keep you in my prayers,” I try and translate that to, “I’ll be thinking of you.” I try and remember that when people say this, they are really only trying to be helpful, they don’t mean to be presumptuous. I wind up feeling sorry for them to an extent because even when things are bad, the truth is still better than fantasy.
More thoughts, perhaps somewhat tangential: My mother’s sister died very suddenly in September this year, less than three years after Mum. It was different when she died than when Mum died, and one of the main differences was a feeling of rage. Not at my aunt, and not just on my behalf – my 85-year-old, frail, Parkinson’s-afflicted grandmother has now lost both of her beloved daughters at a time in her life when most people should be able to count on support and help from their children. I was angry that we were having to go through this all over again, so soon (it seemed) after losing Mum. And one of the things that helped me was knowing that other people who had cared for Mum and my aunt were also furious, and that it was OK to be furious at the flukes of nature that kill two sisters a couple of years apart in their early fifties. At my aunt’s funeral, my sister read Edna St Vincent Millay’s poem Dirge Without Music, and a lot of friends and family said that it pretty much summed up how they were feeling at the moment.
After my aunt’s death, one small thing that gave me comfort was that she had been a registered organ donor, and when she died of a brain haemhorrage the doctors were able to use her organs to save the lives of other people. It helped to know that at least something good could come of this for someone, somewhere.
As someone who lost both parents in an unexpected, violent manner when I was 20, I have quite a lot to say on this topic. (Also: delurking! Hello! Love the blog!)
I’m going to start with what not to say: “let me know if you need anything!” I heard that from everyone and their mother in the first month or so after my parents’ death. It’s meaningless bullshit; it’s hard enough for me to reach out to close friends when I’m having an especially difficult time dealing with grief. I’m certainly not going to call acquaintances, but it’s great that they get to feel better about themselves. (I realize this is probably a needlessly angry reaction to a platitude, but I cannot express just how much I hate that phrase.)
What did help? Any acknowledgement that losing someone is awful (nthing everyone who already said “dude, that fucking sucks!”). If someone could relate, I really, really appreciated it if they were willing to open up a little bit about that (someone once said “My mom’s dead too. Let’s bond over death!” We did, and it helped so much).
I really appreciated concrete offers (like “let me help you sort through your parents’ things”). And obviously, I appreciated hugs, food, house cleaning, etc. I once completely freaked out (this was about… 2 months after). I called a friend, and she didn’t know what to say, but she took me to Starbucks, bought me a vanilla steamed milk, and sewed a button back onto my coat. This calmed me down a lot and let me know she cared, even though she couldn’t fix the problem.
The practical things always mean far more to me than just mere words, because there is nothing anyone can say that will make my parents any less dead.
Another thing? Everyone asked how I was holding up the first week, the first month. A couple of years later, only a few, select people ask me that, and it means a hell of a lot more now than it did then, because it’s an acknowledgment that losing my family still sucks. In fact, now that it’s been some time since they died, I appreciate anyone who can mention my parents in a conversation when relevant without turning the conversation serious and depressing.
Finally, only a very small number of people are able to get away with this, but I’m ok with dark, morbid humour. It’s a reminder that my parents, you know, existed, without (again) turning the conversation serious.
I’m going to stop myself now. Sorry for the novel.
If you say something like: “what a bummer!” will do just fine.
Another thing might be: “it’s the circle of life”, and then you might sing segment of the song from the Lion King by Elton John. Then you can try to stay with the person and try to cheer them up. A puppet show works marvels some times.
cheers!
Ciro.
1. Don’t recite platitudes that are meant to minimize or “give meaning” to the death. Just don’t. Philosophizing can feel shallow, distant, or like an attempt to move on to another topic.
2. Understand that grieving is a process with blurry, mucky, confusing stages. Sometimes talking about it helps, and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the grieving person might not know how to label what they’re feeling or how to communicate it. Don’t put on pressure. Just be there.
3. Don’t disappear just because you don’t know what to do or say.
4. Being empathetically honest is usually a good way to go. If you don’t know what it’s like or what to say to help, just say that.
5. Read. For suicide, I really recommend Silent Grief: Living in the Wake of Suicide. I bought the book for myself after a close friend of mine ended her life, and it really helped me cope when I was feeling overwhelmed. I think it would have helped others understand what I was going through.
We just buried my grandmother yesterday, and I spoke at her funeral. I opened with a quote from this blog’s author!
http://gretachristina.typepad.com/greta_christinas_weblog/2010/01/atheism-death-pessimism-realism.html
By understanding how a non-believer understands death, I think you can better know what to say. The words that comforted me were the ones that talked about who grandma WAS. Past-tense. “She was a wonderful woman”, “She will be missed”, “Sorry for your loss”.
If it’s plausibly true, I say “S/he had a beautiful life.”
As others have said above, and as I found myself when my grandmother died this year, ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ is always entirely appropriate – or just ‘I’m so sorry’ for someone you’re seeing rather than writing to or someone you know well. Adding ‘Is there anything I can do to help you? Please let me know’ is always a decent thing to do, too.
Then, if they want it, you can sit with the person for a while and holding their hand/offering them tissues/listening to them talk about the person they’re grieving for. Or if you’re writing to them, tell them you’re happy to listen if they need to talk. And mean it.
None of the above means anything if you’re just saying it like a formula.
When I lost a family member, what I needed most was for my friends to be there and act like they normally would, to help take my mind off the pain. I don’t want to generalize too much onto other people, but for me at least, the right thing to say (after the initial “I’m sorry for your loss” or similar) was: “Do you want to go rent a couple movies?”
As far as stock phrases go, you really can’t go wrong with “I’m so sorry to hear about X’s passing”/ “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Like others have said above, one of the main things that really helps is *listening*, and then acting from there – sharing stories about your experiences with the person, letting the grieving person rant/reminisce/talk about mundane things, etc. There are so many different facets to grief, and so many changes between and amidst them, that just being there helps.
The other advice I’d give is to call or check in on people after the memorial service, and keep doing it over the course of the first year, when all of the ‘first snowfall without ___’ moments will hit.
My grandmother was a humanist and had a humanist funeral. That helped a lot. Even the title of the officiator was a help ‘Celebrant’. We were there to celebrate her life, not to mourn it. We were there to remember her as she was. We shared stories and anecdotes, acknowledged the role she’d played in our lives and we remembered her and that’s the best thing, I think. To be positive, to remember the good (and bad) and to know that the person had an influence on our lives.
When my mother died, the absolute least helpful thing I got was, “Oh I know exactly how you feel because my dog just died.”
No, I am not making that up.
For anyone who doesn’t get it, I’m extremely fond of my pets, but losing my mother was in a very different category.
As others have said, listening is usually more important than what you say. But if it’s the first time they’ve lost someone close, someone has to say that it’s normal to be a bit stupid and forgetful for a while. Give yourself time.
When my father died, my Mom arranged a catholic funeral for the relatives’ sake, and because he himself was religious, too. I was actually surprised how much the ceremony upset me (my grieving was constantly being disturbed because I was upset with the religious bullshit about afterlife and god; it was very exhausting emotionally).
A few weeks later an acquaintance (a ‘spiritual’ person) tried to console me by saying something like ‘he’s still around you and watching you’. I wasn’t having a fit of grief or something and wasn’t in need of instant consolation, and I politely said I didn’t believe in afterlife, but she went on, which I found very selfish of her (since her ‘consolation’ didn’t care about me but about herself). I don’t bear her a grudge because she didn’t mean to hurt, but I somehow never felt like meeting her again. I mean, what could be more disrespectful than using a person’s grief as an opportunity for ranting about your personal spiritual beliefs? It’s totally patronising.
The best you can say is ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, even just ‘my condolences’-the message gets through the platitude if you mean it. I think it’s even easier for the bereaved because the message is clear and you don’t have to think about the content and about what to reply. The ‘Tell me if I can help you’ is of course useless as an offer, but it at least expresses your concern.
Personally, I find offers of getting me food or cleaning not helpful at all, because routine activities (like doing the washing up and mourning) are a good break from just sitting and mourning.
The most moving thing I got when my father died was at my workplace, when the big boss, an elderly, friendly but otherwise somewhat stiff gentleman came straight into my office after he heard it from my boss and gave me a hug.
Also, after a 1-2 weeks, start actively inviting the mourning person over for a glass of wine and a chat, or for going together for a swim, or whatever quiet activity you used to do once in a while together (especially if they lost their spouse or someone they were sharing their life with on a daily basis). Don’t be offended if they say no because it’s too early, and don’t insist by saying ‘But you have to get back to normal’, but keep calling once in a while.
I few years back a close family friend of ours was killed: a sweet 18-year-old boy who got involved with the wrong sort of people and activities, a reckless friend in the driver’s seat, and a freak accident. I remember feeling somewhat comforted by the fact that by that point, I no longer believed in a god. I wasn’t asking “Why God, why?” or appealing to understand some sort of master plan that this young death was a part of.
Bad things happen to bad people. Good things happen to good people. Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people.
Actions have effects. I don’t believe in fate; things don’t happen *for* a reason, but *because* of a reason. This cold hard logic was better than a convoluted idea of some “heavenly purpose.”
Don’t assume there’s only way to handle death. Don’t assume there’s something wrong if the person isn’t behaving as you expected.
At my bio-dad’s funeral, several obviously discomfited people kept prompting me to display grief: “It must be difficult to lose a parent so young”, “I can’t imagine the pain you’re going through”. One person even ordered me to think of happy memories of the deceased and got angry when I said I couldn’t think of any right then. Considering that my emotions were still in turmoil, having to deal with their expectations of me did not help.
The people I appreciated were the ones who let me change the subject and chatter on about movies or whatever. Life goes on after death; having space away from his death helped me realize that and deal with it. Just being there for me, even if it doesn’t look like it’s related.
I’ve found “How have you been doing?” to be a good question, both as mourner and as comforter. It allows the mourner to either segue into discussion of the death and their feelings, or to talk about the less personal activities of their daily lives, as they please.
Sorry for being late on this one, but I want to share. When my cat of 13 years died in August, the most comforting thing I heard was from one of my atheist friends. It’s corny, but it helped. He said something along the lines of: “Out of all the cats in the world, luck made him yours. He existed, he lived, and he changed your life. Even though he is gone, remember him, and remember how lucky you were to have him.” And then he gave me a hug. And it helped, and let me know someone understood.
In my experience, the best thing to do is to express your empathy for the loss.
If the deceased was a good person (and we do make that judgment when someone dies) I try to validate the deceased person’s life in terms of the positive influence s/he had on her/his friends and acquaintances. I strive to make it PERSONAL – giving a specific instance where the deceased influenced or inspired me or others in a good way, or an instance where the deceased did a generous or supportive deed.
Of course if the deceased was an asshole who was disliked by most, one can say something about the “good times” of laughter and fun – or merely leave it at the empathy for the loss.
Sadly, I have had recent experience with bereavement, and got to experience the range of ‘comforting’ commentary. For me, the most comforting was simple and along the lines of ‘I’m so sorry, that really sucks. I’m thinking about you.’ Acknowledge that the loss is sad and shitty, let me know you care and are thinking of me. Done. Don’t belabour it after that.
When in doubt, I’ve always appreciated people who could express sympathy, talk about the deceased kindly and honestly, and drop the subject when I was ready for it to be dropped. Sometimes just being with someone and not forcing them to talk about a painful subject is the kindest thing you can do, especially when you’re in a setting – wake, funeral, viewing – where they will be expected to do so for some time.
Say what’s true. Tell them firstly, that their loved one is no longer suffering. This is a true statement. Whey you are dead you are no longer in pain. Tell them that they are not alone. You are here and there are others out there who have gone through grief and will help them if they wish. Tell them that grief is a process and that it becomes less overwhelming with time. (I speak from experience when I say this.) Tell them that they won’t feel horrible forever.
I hate when people tell me dumb things like “You’ll see them again”, “It happened for a reason”. There’s no evidence that any of that is true.
By the Way you can also just listen. That’s important too.
I always use the phrase “I grieve for thee.”
The person who needs the consoling is the person who lost someone. The person who has died is beyond interest no matter who you believe. I grieve for the person who suddenly has an empty hole in their life.