Follow Our Lead

Another essay from my perspective and experience, but not just about me. There’s no anger or blame here, just a sincere hope that we can normalize grief and maybe work toward a more compassionate, comfortable environment for anyone dealing with loss.

I was talking to a friend tonight about how awkward it is to join in group activities, in my case fitness classes. Because of Covid, I’ve mainly been around the same people each week–people at school and at church. I haven’t gone to parties or out to dinner with a group of friends. I’ve been in a bubble of social distancing, hand sanitizer, face masks, and grief. I mentioned to my friend that invariably there are people in the classes whom I haven’t seen in person since Cooper died in August. Some are friends, but most are acquaintances. They don’t know me well, but know Cooper died and probably how he died. When they see me, there’s a shared look on their faces; they want to say something, think they should say something, but they don’t know what to say or how to say it. If I make eye contact and speak, the faces take on a deer-in-headlights look. It’s awkward for everyone.

Joining these classes has been a big step for me on a number of levels. Even more than my physical shortcomings is the nervousness about being around “new” people. I don’t feel excluded; I’m more the elephant in the room. Maybe more accurately, my story–Cooper’s story–is the elephant in the room. I can join a conversation, tossing in my contribution from the fringes of the group, but if I mention Cooper’s name, it’s like I found the A/V mute button for the room. No response, no eye contact. The elephant in the room jumped in the pool.

I know it’s an awkward, uncomfortable situation. Trust me. I’m squirmy, too. Nothing is easy; these reactions are nobody’s fault. We react however we react. I get it. But I don’t know how we as a community or as a culture ever get past this response to open, everyday, honest grief — the only way I know to grieve–if we don’t talk about it (or write and then read about it). When I told my friend what happened, she could relate and said, “I heard that we teach people how to treat us because they don’t know what to do or say.” That seems about right. So, if you want to know what to do or say, here are some thoughts:

• Follow our lead. Maybe I could stop the list with one suggestion–follow our lead.
• We understand if our reality unnerves you, freaks you out, hits too close for comfort, but it is our reality. If you want to say something to us, go ahead. If you don’t know what to say, say “I don’t know what to say.” Avoidance hurts more than a clumsy condolence.
• When we try to do normal things, let us. Gently encourage us. Rejoining society, putting ourselves out there, exposing our vulnerabilities is tricky business. It takes bravery and constant effort, but we are gradually trying to open our lives and dilute the grief.
• Include us. At least give us the option of joining in. If we decline–and there are days when joining in is not emotionally possible–don’t take it personally.
• If we mention our person’s name, roll with it. Cooper will always inhabit my heart, have a starring role in my stories about ornery red-headed monsters, gentle giants, and mountain men. My son is dead but my love is very much alive. Speak his name. Speak their names.
• Stories are good. Just as you love to hear great stories of your kids, so do we. I crave stories of Coop’s life, and I think most bereaved parents feel the same about their own children. When you share your memories, we are reminded you knew them and loved them. We are reminded they made a difference. When you tell a new-to-us story, you bring our person back to life for a few moments.
• We might cry. We might break down. We might have a stretch of dark and twisty days. We are trying harder than you can imagine to get it together, but we are missing a piece of our puzzle. “Getting it together” no longer matches the puzzle box lid.
• We are aware that we make you uncomfortable. We make ourselves uncomfortable. We are trying to power through. Can you also try? We are learning to live a life we didn’t want, a life that seems more like the prize for some contest in hell than any life we ever imagined.
• We are caught in a tangle of past, present, and future. Untangling takes time and patience. We can’t move forward until we loosen the knots and free the tangles, but those knots and tangles may be keeping us together.
• You don’t need to try to fix us or cheer us up. Ours is not a fixable situation. Just be steady and accepting.
• Mostly, follow our lead. And when we find ourselves too lost to lead, just walk alongside us.