Fieldnotes on what to say to a grieving person

When Vern passed away, a whole slew of condolences came my way. For each and every single one of them, I wholeheartedly appreciated their intent and their meaning. But some were more of a burden than a salve, and some I still feel very bitterly against in their usage.

Some things were just not what I wanted to hear.

The one thing I hated then and still hate now, more than any other platitude said to me, was a person claiming that he knew what I felt and what I was going through. I think this is said in an attempt to support the grieving person via a sense of camaraderie and empathy. But it's a complete lie. No one knew what I felt and no one could understand what I was going through. And I didn't need them to, nor did I especially want them to. Even if they had lost someone important to them, that doesn't mean they knew what was going through my mind during those nights when I cried for hours. I don't know what they went through. I cannot put into precise words their own pain and feelings because they were grieving the loss of a completely different person with whom comes a set of completely different memories. I cannot imitate their pain and grief. I only have my own unique configuration of sorrow, one wholly my own. This isn't meant to sound like a bitter competition between whose grief is stronger or more honest. It's just a basic recognition that a person's pain is his own and no one else's, inimitable and impossible to pin down with precision.

In a previous post, I discussed Proverbs 14:10, and I'm going to quote it again here because it puts my thoughts into a sentence so succinctly and perfectly: "Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can fully share its joy."

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A few nights after he passed away, a friend called me. She was kind and consoling, at least initially, but I think in her own grief she started to tearfully discuss how according to the Bible, Vern wouldn't be able to go to heaven. I don't remember how I responded to her, but I'm quite certain I only managed a weak "I don't know". There wasn't anything I could say to that sort of judgment. At least, there wasn't anything I felt I could say to that, not with how she was crying out loud and I weeping inside.

That conversation had me distraught for a long time. True or not, it's not something you should say or even think about. Or maybe it was just something that I didn't want to hear or think about then. Only after talking with Miss Catherine and Yvonne did the claws of that conversation start to withdraw from my skin.

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The things that I had really liked to hear and felt had really helped me were the ones that assured me that there was no structured process to grief and that I didn't need to force myself to get over it and forget him, or do things in a certain way, or think or act in a specific path. Whatever I did, it would be all right. To those who sympathetically told me to "take my time", thank you.

During that time, the ones who I found to be a pillar of great strength for me were the ones who, while also grieving, were still dependable, warm, and wise in controlling their own emotions. These are the people who maintain their own hope and faith and pair it with their senescent logic, and then use it as a driving force to press on forward even in the bleakest of times. I looked at them with awe and I tried to imitate their steps, and did so with imperfection and many mistakes. But I learned many things from them, things that they probably weren't aware they were teaching me, and for that I'm grateful.

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In the aftermath of the quietus, one way I handled matters was by trying to adopt a few of Vern's attitudes and mindsets. He sat at the very opposite end of the spectrum from me in many virtues, and one that I find more telling than any other: he thought and acted like he was invincible, like there would be no consequences for his actions and if there ever were, he didn't give a damn. So very often, he'd say things or do things out of utmost bravery and also complete stupidity. Halfway across that world was me, and I thought and acted like I was the most fragile piece of glass that'd shatter at the slightest thing, and I shied away from even the smallest of hardships. Over the past few years, I've been reversing my trajectory towards becoming a further outlier in trepidness, and have been instead heading towards where he once stood. I don't plan to engulf and become what he was. Not entirely. But I've been cultivating a thicker skin and a fearless face, one that he always wore in the face of everything.

From someone who thought too much and did too little, I hope to balance out and step into a midpoint, to close the distance that existed between me and him. I've a long way to go, and though every step comes with an added level of difficultly, a whole new realm of potential opens up with every inch I creep forward and conquer. And sometimes the harder it is to do something, the more fun it is in hindsight. Over time, I begin to understand how he gleaned so much joy out of his life, how he seemed to keep alive that wicked flame that I never bothered to ignite in my own life. But even then, I know that I'll never be able to hold that joy and flame in my own hands, and see it in its full glory with full understanding. His joy was his own, and it can never be mine.

I don't know how to put into words how much I miss him right now.