I'm Sorry for Your Loss

Image by ROBERT SŁOMA/ Pixabay

I’m a world-class expert on giving bad news. Not out of any particular innate skill, but through sheer practice. Telling family members that their loved ones were dead, dying, paralyzed, or in a coma was near-routine for me in my work as a neurosurgeon. But it wasn’t until the death of my father that I truly learned the power of acknowledging and addressing people's associated grief.

I got the call in the operating room—my father was in a hospital over in New Jersey, in bad shape. He had ruptured an aortic aneurysm and he was being prepared for surgery. Only, he never made it there.

We ran home and took care of all the necessities. Soon, I was back at work, treading the usual halls, making the usual rounds, performing the usual surgeries. Completely numb. Functioning solely on reflex, on motor memory.

And others steered well clear. Averting eye contact. Clearing their throats rather than choking out words of commiseration. It went on for what felt like months—the loneliness of my pain compounding itself, day to day.

We Tend to Isolate Those Suffering Loss

I get it, though. People were intimidated by the degree of my loss. I could see it in their faces. They looked panicked, and perhaps even embarrassed, when they encountered me. Panicked over what to do, what to say. Embarrassed by their presumed ineptitude at such things.

I certainly used to experience the same thing whenever I came upon someone who had sustained a terrible loss. I was terrified of saying the “wrong” thing or making the wrong gesture in such a fraught time. And yet, someone, anyone, making contact, connecting with me, acknowledging my situation, was exactly what I needed when my father died.

An unlikely agent of mercy sliced through the fog of my misery. A fellow physician, I had, frankly, previously held in little esteem. Yet, after hundreds of my colleagues and co-workers passed me by, he was the one who stepped into my path, fixed my gaze, and spoke to me, clearly and unequivocally.

“Hey, Gary, I heard your father died. That sucks, man. Mine died several years ago, and I’ll tell you, you never get over it. You move on. But you never get over it. So sorry, man. Call me any time if you want to talk about it.” A hand on the shoulder, another extended for a shake, and he was gone.

Simple, and certainly not Shakespearean, but it pierced the iron curtain that had gone up around my being. The one that wasn’t letting any feelings in. Or out. The one that was preventing me from thinking, feeling, grieving.

I so needed to truly grieve, and I did. Hard. Long. Painfully. Yet with healing powers enabling me to come to grips with what had happened. To refocus my energies. To reconnect with the world around me. To re-engage life and all that it had to offer. To love my family and friends. To once again laugh and play.

I don’t think my experience was unique. Those who are, for the moment, in good shape—no ongoing disasters, no recent avulsions of their happiness—develop almost an impatience with someone who is bereaved. Not, I think, out of unkindness, but out of unease. It’s uncomfortable to be around people who are grieving. So, we want them, to “buck up,” put on a “brave face, “move on”—or at least remain out of sight and out of mind until they do.

Grief is a Necessary Process

Grief doesn’t play by our rules or time schedules. It is a process, with fairly defined stages to it. We also know that it’s a natural, and potentially healthy, process. In times past, and in current societies that are more spiritual or less death-ignoring, associated rituals of grief are part of the process to help the aggrieved and allow them to vent their emotions and defuse their pain.

Such rituals are often observed by the whole community. To share the weight of the grief. To alleviate the overwhelming loneliness of loss. To assure that everyone will be there, well past the funeral. And to allow others in the community to work through their own pain.

We’ve lost much in jettisoning such rituals. We allow grief to be experienced individually, right when its victim is feeling most detached, most untethered, most alone. Right when they need to debrief their feelings, their thoughts, their anxieties. And we lose the intertwining of lives within the community—strengthening its bonds, deepening its roots.

Grief Essential Reads

What I Learned From a Week Contemplating My Death

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Acknowledging and Addressing Each Other’s Grief

Grieving doesn’t always involve the death of a family member or close friend. We grieve for many things—lost friendships, lost health, lost time, lost moments, lost ways of life. If we open our eyes, we’ll see that many around us are suffering in their own cocoons of misery.

So, ever since that day when my colleague came to my rescue, I personally make a bee-line for anyone I realize is going through a rough time. I present myself to them, acknowledge directly what they’re experiencing, and offer them my ear, my availability. No softening of the wording, no subtlety, no holding back, no embarrassment. Just my own version of “That sucks, man.”

I’m sure I’m not very Shakespearean, either. But I don’t think I need to be. I think it’s actually difficult to say the “wrong thing," because it isn’t the words that matter. It’s the acknowledgement, the connection, the access. And it seems to helpp break through the numbness, to let the person know that they aren’t alone, and that they don’t have to go through whatever they’re going through alone.