I Can’t Believe I Just Said That: How to Say the Right Thing to Someone Who is Ill or Experienced a Death
November 29, 2008 by carolodell
Filed under Alzheimers, Caregiver Stress, Carol O'Dell, Contributing Authors, Featured Articles, Grief and Loss, Uncategorized
A dear friend of mine has cancer is awaiting a double mastectomy. Her family and friends have all gathered and I see the love and connection she has surrounding her. There’s hugs and laughter and even a few tears. But we’re still human, every last one of us that and all those prayers and good thoughts don’t keep us from saying something really dumb.
Hey, I’m guilty too. I don’t mean it in a “I would never say something that stupid” way because trust me, I’ve been known to say a few blunders in my day.
But I heard someone say something that made me cringe:
“If this were going to happen to anyone, then God sure did pick a strong person because you have so much faith–it’s amazing.”
I wanted to smack that person on the side of the head like they do in those V-8 commercials.
I know what this person meant, but faith or lack of faith isn’t the point. You don’t get cancer because you’re strong enough to handle it. If that’s the case, then sign me up with the punies, wusses, and scaredy-cats while I duck all the terrible life bombs that get hurled at those “strong people.”
Still, my heart went out to this well-meaning person. We’ve all said less than helpful/cheerful things at just the wrong time.
Here’s a Helpful “What Not to Say” List:
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God knew you could handle it. (God ((and I don’t mean it, really)) was wrong)
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You’re so strong. (If I’m weak does that mean I don’t have to go through this?)
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Your baby/husband/child was so special that God took him (God gets blamed for a lot, apparently–no wonder we have issues with “Him.”
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I could never do what you do. (I had no choice)
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You’ll find love again. (Back off–I’m not ready to go there)
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It’s better this way. (Is it?)
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At least they’re out of pain. (But I’m not)
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He/She had a good long life–it was time. (Who gets to be the judge of that?)
So What Do You Say?
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- Sometimes nothing. Just a hello, maybe a gentle smile or hug–play it by ear and see if they’ve been bombarded all day.
- If it’s appropriate, say, ‘I’m sorry that Bill died.” Don’t be afraid of the word, “died.” Or go with a simple, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
- Let the bring up their loved one. Some people just can’t talk about it for awhile and others find it cathartic.
- Send a card–tell them you’re thinking of them, love them, holding them in your thoughts–something about them. If you’re close and want to be more personal, then share a good memory–something in writing they’ll be able to keep.
- Be sensitive. If there’s something you seeor they need, or find difficult doing, then volunteer to help them out–clean gutters, help them take items to the Goodwill, ride with them on errands–every one has something that’s hard for them to do alone.
- Be there in the weeks and months to follow–grieving is a long process–and even though they have to go on with their lives, return to work and activities doesn’t mean they’re “over it.”
Finally, be patient. A person who has experienced a death may act erratic at times. They may be testy, nervous, or anxious one minute–only to be followed by teary, hot-headed or depressed the next.
I heard one person describe grief as if they’re wearing their nerve endings on the inside-out. Don’t take their mood swings personal. Listen well and be their steady companion through this difficult journey.
What if you screw up and say something dumb?
Just apologize. A quick, “Hey, that didn’t come out right” will be quickly forgiven. Forgive yourself. Dealing with illness and death is really, really hard so cut yourself some slack. Treat yourself as good as your treat your best friend.
It’s more important to try and flub, than to avoid.
Aging and Fear: Choose a Different Path
November 25, 2008 by carolodell
Filed under Alzheimers, Caregiver Stress, Carol O'Dell, Contributing Authors, Featured Articles, Grief and Loss, Uncategorized
As I was caregiving my mother, I couldn’t help but observe my mother’s words and actions.
If you live with someone, talk and listen, you begin to notice patterns. The same old things get said day in and day out. We’re all such creatures of habit. As my mother continued to age, she lost her ability to filter her thoughts or hide her fears.
It got me thinking about where I am now…and who I will become.
What concerns will linger and play and replay like a needle stuck on a record?
What judgements will slip out when I am too tired or too sick to guard them?
I’ve decided that I better do a little “soul keeping” every day.
Like housekeeping, it’s best to take out the trash and do the dishes on a daily basis–
if not, the place begins to stink.
I doubt we’re much different.
From Part I of Mothering Mother.
I have this theory; I’ve decided Mother is like concentrated orange juice. We all are, really. We start out potent, tart and pure—right off the tree. When we’re babies we don’t care if you like us or if we’re pleasing you. We are uncontaminated, unfiltered, and unadorned, with no knowledge of what we should or should not do. In this concentrated version, we are a wild DNA cocktail of mama and daddy, ancestors and humanity, naked and wordless.
Instincts—eating, drinking and bodily functions—drive us. We search for satisfactory ways to please ourselves. We propel toward our uncertain futures with blind self-adoration, and for those first few months, maybe a year or two, we are our life in its most concentrated form.
During the next seven or eight decades we become diluted, filled up with waterous thoughts, language, expectations, and experiences. We gain the ability to somewhat satisfy ourselves in every arena from sex to career.
Our other goal is to avoid pain as much as possible. We wail at the slightest bit of emotional, spiritual or physical discomfort. We become bloated, self-aggrandized, and then, when we finally figure out how to make things go our way—most of the time—life takes its final turn, and we begin to deflate.
As our mates leave us, and our friends and family trickle into nursing homes or relatives’ homes, we realize that all we’ve built up is beginning to dissolve. We lose our water and distill, leaving concentrated versions of ourselves, only now we have memories, fears, hates and hurts thrown into the concoction.
Mother is at this final stage during which we all reduce to our own cosmic juice and revert back to some pretty potent pulp. She is no longer interested in betterment, learning or growing. She is tart, almost bitter, and that makes it hard to want to spend time with her. She doesn’t seem to have the ability or inclination to be nice. It’s all about her now, and it doesn’t matter whether I have a hangnail or a tumor; it wouldn’t register.
Whatever Mother has accumulated along the way is now strong and unpleasant to those of us who live in a watered-down world. I see the things that remain. She can recall a moment of jealousy or disappointment from forty years ago and gnaw on it for days. Most of the actual events, people, and moments she once held so tightly are now forgotten.
I now understand something: we are what we are; the only way we can add to ourselves is by experiencing something powerful enough to alter our belief system. If Mother were naturally trusting, she would continue to trust. But since fear has become so entwined, it’s now a part of her concentrated self and must play itself out to the end.
I’m Carol O’Dell.
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