What is it that you want to hear
when you share bad news with a friend? I’m working on an article that explores this very topic. Specifically, the worst things people have said to you when you have shared devastating news — not news of an “end” but of a tragedy that will require continuous moderation, care and vigilance. Drama that will continue on for days and months. Something along the brilliant lines of that callous minister I talked to after my Mom died, who said, “What if this had happened to your kids? You should be grateful!”
Sometimes, I think, people are just so anxious to fill those pregnant pauses after you share bad news, that they say the first thing that comes into their mind; without thinking. Silence can be good, but I think we are driven to want to do something, to say something that will ease the hurt. We all know that’s an impossible task.
What was the nicest thing you heard while in the midst of heartbreak? The first Christmas without my Mom was especially hard; I knew she wasn’t home making cookies anticipating the arrival of her grandchildren, and she wasn’t e-mailing me questions with links to Toys-R-Us with questions, “Do you think they’ll love this,” and me responding right back, “You’re spending way too much money.”
So a friend sent me a simple card, with a poem. She didn’t write it; but it was exactly what I needed to hear, and what I wanted to hear, at Christmas:
“Perhaps they are not stars in the sky…but openings for our loved ones to shine thru to let us know they are at peace.”
Great comfort came from those words, as I stared into the bleak, dark winter sky at the sky.
If you’d like to share your experience, but want it kept private, just e-mail me and I will “change the name” to protect the innocent.
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I don’t think I want to hear anything really. Maybe just an “l’m sorry” then leave me to my grief.
I don’t know if you can use this because it’s not about me but when my best friend didn’t get into grad school. She called one of her other friends and she said, “Oh, you didn’t get in that’s too bad. I just got the greatest pair of shoes on sale.” I tell you their friendship was never the same.
And I think the point of this story even though it’s an extreme version of it- is when someone tells you bad news about their life you stop yours and you listen. You may want to wiggle out of their bad moment or distract them or maybe you’re having the best day ever but you stop and be with your friend because in that bad moment they are so lonely.
The evening of my mother-in-law’s memorial service, a good friend came over to spend some time with us. I could tell my husband felt absolutely empty at that point - after a day filled with so much emotion, he simply couldn’t see beyond his grief. He made the comment that he doubted that anything good could come of this situation. This friend stated simply, “Trust me, you will be kinder and gentler to the next person you encounter who is in a similar situation.”
A few weeks later, after we’d returned to our “lives”, we learned that a good friend’s dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Even though his wounds were still fresh, my husband saw how important it was to pay it forward and be a source of comfort to him during that incredibly difficult time.
When my father died, too many people said, “I know just how you feel.” They didn’t. You never do know how someone else feels in the face of tragedy. It angered me to no end when someone would say it. I’m sure some of that anger was just a result of me being utterly bereft; however, even thinking of it so many years later, I find that to be one of the worst things someone can say to someone suffering a loss.
The best thing someone has said in the face of sadness? Not words. Action. My best friend flying down to be with me in the days following my dad’s death. The willingness of close friends to do anything and everything when my husband had his triple bypass earlier this year. The forcing of food on me and mine. The caring for my children. The simple act of helping carry a big ole chair up the many, many stairs in my house so he’d have somewhere to rest when he was released from the hospital.
Okay. Long enough comment. (And I promised I’d read my boy a few Jack Prelutsky poems before bed.)