People say...

...some dumb shit!

After the two family deaths in early 2020, supportive colleagues and amazing friends offered their support and condolences.

One of my colleagues, herself acquainted with the untimely and surprising death of a sibling, offered me probably the most best affirmation on this topic that I had ever received:

I saw her one day in the corridor. I met her gaze and nod toward me, saw her eyes, silently inquiring how I was doing.

I heaved a heavy sigh, and looked at her and said:

“You know…people say some really stupid things!”

She looked at me, eyed widened, nodded with emphasis and replied:

“Right?!?!?… Some. Dumb. Shit!” she added.

I laughed. Because she got it. And because it is oh-so-very true.

Since this moment, I’ve thought a lot about the dumb shit that people say when someone dies, the ridiculous nonsense that they spew.

As part of my mourning process, I have read about what other authors in mourning had to say on the subject.

The universal acknowledgement was this:

We—Americans, maybe even humans—don’t do real well with acknowledging and supporting each other through deaths and each others’ grieving.

Strange, isn’t it? Especially we’re all going to die; to be human is to die one day. From a very young age, we grow up with the knowledge that—for all of us—this will be our end of life on this planet—one day.

And most of us do not grow very old before we know someone, before we love someone, who dies. A grandparent, a neighbor, a classmate through an accident of some kind, an aunt with an illness like cancer.

So, why then do we do such a piss poor job of discussing death and offering support to the bereaved?

I don’t believe there is one single, solitary answer.

But, I think the following are components:

—We don’t like to face or address our own mortality.

—Despite personal convictions of faith, we don’t really have hard, scientific proof of what happens to us when we pass away. We don’t like to admit this, what we don’t know…full stop.

Some of us are really only comfortable talking about what we know, or pontificating, spewing shit, even when we don’t know anything about the topic at hand.

Quite frankly, I think a great many of us aren’t good at humbly admitting when this happens, allowing discussions about subjects that we don’t know a lot about to take place.

(And, of course, a lot of people don’t know, firsthand, about experiencing suicide(s) in the family. I am glad for this, truly. But it still make for very awkward conversations and social interactions.)

But, beyond that, in discussions of death at large, many of us are awkward (AF). People get fidgety and dart-y eyes. And offer these trite platitudes:

“They’re no longer suffering; they’re at peace now.”

“I’m sorry.”

(How insufficient is that? What are we supposed to say in response? “It’s okay, it’s not your fault!” I blame the English language on this one though.)

“They’re in a better place now.”

“It was just their time.”

“God never gives us more than we can handle.”

The darkly, sarcastic part of me wants to retort to the last two statements with something shnarky about how do they then explain the deaths of the two members of my family who died at their own hand.

Guess not really for them—they couldn’t hack the shit of life, so I guess were destined to blow their brains out.

Sigh.

I have long preferred the statement in Bahasa Indonesia: “Turut berduka cita” or I follow/join in your pain. It allows you to express that you are sympathizing, holding space for their grieving, to just …be… alongside the bereaved. But to say that in English, of course, sounds bizarre.

The takeaway? What I’ve learned, my lesson in all of this death is this:

Sometimes we need to just, STFU… just sit with people.

Indonesians are also much, much better at this then Americans. They will show up and just…be there, sitting with the survivors, drinking water and eating snacks (in view of the corpse, which is a big of a cultural difference and takes some accommodation, I admit), but the message of these practices is this:

“I can’t say anything. I can’t do anything for you now, so I’ll just be here. To let you know that I care. So you know that you are not alone. I am present and here to show support.”

It is a very different approach than the American approach—respecting people’s space and privacy at all costs. (Which isn’t to say that that isn’t important too. But I think far more pressing is the reality that we all grieve differently and need various things in the face of grief...even on different days or times throughout. Why not give options? Just ask what others need? They might know, but at least put the ball in their court to self-determine their own needs.)

But no, more often, we feel the need to say something, to do something. In this way, making meals is nice. I understand the urge to want to do something to help make life easier for the grieving.

But let the motivation and desire for this, to help, not be for our own fulfillment.

And do underestimate the importance of a silent, loving presence.

And let people have their stories. Many suck at this. Just letting people share their experiences without the need to respond/take over the narrative.

As Dr. Brene Brown points out in her newest book, Atlas of the Heart, many of us are not good stewards of one another’s story. She writes:

“Story stewardship means honoring the sacred nature of story—the ones we share and the ones we hear—and knowing that we’ve been entrusted with something valuable or that we have something valuable that we should treat with respect and care.”

She goes on to say:

“We are good stewards of the stories we hear by listening, being curious, affirming, and believing people when they tell us how they experienced something.”

By “story” here, I understand it to mean any sharing of a human experience, in their own body, in their own terms, without co-opting it.

We do that often, do not let others own their own stories without our commentary.

Instead, we all too commonly respond in one of two ways. We often either do “narrative takeover” or “narrative tapout” (Brown).

Narrative tap-outs range from subtle interest to complete shutdowns. Either way, it has the effect to diminish another’s story. (Brown)

Narrative takeover involves “hijack[ing] the story” to “center ourselves.” The manner of centering self can take many different shapes, including: “shifting the focus to us, questioning or not believing what someone is sharing because it’s different than our lived experience, or diminishing the importance of an experience because it makes us feel uncomfortable, or worse, complicit.” (Brown)

This. happens. all. the. time.

And it’s not just with death and grief. These responses often come after someone shares any experience of hardship, grief, or loss that makes the listener uncomfortable or they are unsure of how to respond to it.

I think we can do better. I know we can.

I even know that I can. I have areas to learn and grow in this regard. (Though I do listen well, I am also the person who gets awkward in social interactions and wants to fill silences.)

It is just from my own personal experiences with death and grieving that I can say this, echoing my colleague:

Yes, indeed: People do say some. real. dumb. shit!

Be better than most people.

At least, let’s all try.