Heather McLeod

What to say (and do) after a death

A friend’s father died a year ago. He told me the story over lunch at the pub, and I reached for a response. Some safe sentence to tell him I cared.

In the years of supporting my husband through his cancer, and now my two years as a widow, I’ve learned to be careful with this moment: there are so many WRONG things to say.

So I said the one safe sentence I’ve settled on:

HEATHER: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

I patted myself on the back for mastering this death-grief thing.

“Ugh,” he said. “I hate it when people say that. What does that even mean?”

Well, shit. I thought I was an expert at all this. If even I get it wrong sometimes, is there one right thing to say?

The Year of Magical Thinking

When my husband, Brock, was sick, I read all the books on grief and mourning I could find. At one point I picked up Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, a multi-award-winning book about the grieving process.

In the first part of the book, Didion surveys people about the responses they found helpful and unhelpful: are the cut flower bouquets thoughtful, or just a painful reminder of immortality and a chore to compost? Some said yes, some said no. I didn’t make it past the first few chapters: I was annoyed that her survey findings were all contradictory. I wanted concrete, useful advice as to how I could work through, and survive, my grief.

Then Brock got bed-bound sick, and then he died, and so many people reached out to us in such a variety of ways, all with loving intentions, and I had my big, two-part epiphany:

Every illness and death and grief experience is different.
People want and need different things.

(It appears Joan Didion was right.)

This is why I’ve always found “I’m sorry for your loss” to be a pleasant, loving, safe thing for people to say to me, while my friend had a negative reaction to those words. There is no single response that works for EVERYONE.

If someone you know is grieving (or dealing with a life crisis) and you want to show them you care, the number one best piece of advice I can offer is:

Customize your response

If you know the person well, you might know exactly what would help her, whether it’s meals or financial support or a hug.

One example of a customized, incredible gesture of love is the “Basket of Love” my friend Patti made for me when Brock was sick. It was a yellow container full of little items wrapped in yellow tissue paper, tied with yellow ribbons. (I love yellow. It makes me happy.) The little items included a yellow pencil crayon, yellow modelling clay, chocolate, trinkets from local stores, soap … Whenever I felt sad, I went to my basket and opened another little gift. The yellow plus the thoughtfulness of the tiny, surprise presents (and sometimes chocolate!) boosted me in those sad moments.

Over the year, I sometimes found a set of wrapped, “refill” items at my door to add to my basket. It’s been four years since Patti gave me that basket, and I still have some unopened gifts on-hand, to unwrap as needed.

If you don’t know your grieving person as well as Patti knew me, you can ask someone close to her what she (and her family) might need. Maybe it’s meals, maybe it’s financial help, maybe flower bouquets make her smile, or maybe she’s more of a potted plant kind of person.

If you feel comfortable just ASKING directly what she needs help with, that’s great, but she might not know herself. She might be too stricken to be able to respond properly. Asking one of her friends or family members is a nice workaround. Or: think of all the ways you are able to help, write a list, and give it to her so she can check the boxes.

Which brings us to:

Helpful responses vs. unhelpful responses

It’s our habit to respond in certain ways: we visit sick people, we drop off meals, we send flowers.

But sometimes people don’t want visitors, because visitors use up limited, precious energy and time, or because the person doesn’t want to be seen at their worst.

Maybe they’ve always been an introvert who likes their alone time: they haven’t magically transformed into a company-lover because of whatever they’re going through.

Sometimes meals aren’t eaten, maybe because of dietary restrictions, and get thrown out, and then the dishes have to be washed and returned.

Sometimes cut flowers litter the house with petals and pollen, or trigger allergies. Or they emphasize mortality and impermanence, and unsettle our blissful state of denial as we care for a dying loved one.

Projecting your own needs or desires onto the person you’re trying to help is interesting from a self-knowledge perspective, but it’s not always the most helpful response.

The most helpful response is one that is NEEDED and WANTED by the recipient. And the best way to identify these needs and wants is, as I’ve said, to ask someone close to the target family, or the person you want to help.

What can you give?

A gesture of love and support shouldn’t just be customized to the recipient: it should also be customized to you.

I was having a rough day emotionally one sunny day in 2015. It hit me all of a sudden when I was driving past our friends’ home. So I parked, rang the doorbell, and when John (the husband) answered I broke down.

John knew he was in difficult waters so he yelled upstairs to his wife: “Angie! We need you down here,” watching me the whole time, as if I were a wild animal at his door.

Even at the time, this made me laugh. John knew what he could give, and comforting a bawling woman at his front door was not his strength.

While John was not the guy to help with my temporary breakdown, he frequently visited my husband (who loved his visits and their conversations), and John’s landscaping company appeared every two weeks to mow our lawn for free. He wanted to help, and he gave what he could.

Lawn-care isn’t your typical response to a family in crisis, but wow — it was much appreciated.

Help outside the box

Sometimes you can help in unexpected ways.

Yes, maybe your person needs financial help (especially if they’ve lost an income-earner, or paused their own work), maybe they could use meals or food, maybe they want visitors or flowers.

But if your strength is cleaning houses, or handyman work, or landscaping, those skills might be exactly what they need/want to make their lives easier at this time.

If their kid(s) knows and trusts you, you can offer childcare, or chauffeur them to school or their activities, so the kid’s life isn’t disrupted even more.

Brock was very sick for Isaac’s 4th birthday. For the party, my sister-in-law brought the pizza and friends brought the cake, because I was a mess. (Brock died 8 days later.)

Helping can be as simple as sending a text: “I’m grocery shopping today. Send me a list of whatever you need and I’ll deliver it.” They’ll get cream for their coffee without having to face the public.

It’s the intention

For both the givers and the receivers, it should be the intention that counts. When someone drops off a meal of shepherd’s pie, and you’re vegetarian, it doesn’t matter: the point is, they wanted to help. It’s nice to know other people care.

Brock wasn’t, and I am not, spiritual in any way, but we still said yes when people asked for permission to pray for him. It was an emotional win-win.

The check-in

When someone dies, the gestures of support from the community fade away and eventually cease, although the family is still reeling from their loss. Grief can surface and cripple us months and years after the death.

You might want to check in on them, or send them a card, or leave another meal in a month or so, just to remind them that their community is still there for them. They might also have a better idea by then of what they need/want for support, and how you can help.

Maybe, by then, they’ll be ready to tell the story of what happened: they’ll have processed the death enough to be able to talk about it. You can say: “Would you like to talk to me about your husband? I can listen.” Listening quietly to their story, without judgement or interruption, is one of the best ways we can help grieving people. (Again, know yourself: you don’t have to offer this if listening and comforting sad people isn’t your super power.)

When does it end?

Two years later, I still get cards and messages from close friends and family on the anniversary of Brock’s death, his birthday, and when they’re reminded of Brock in some special way (e.g. elections). For me, these notes help keep him alive. It’s nice to know other people remember and love my husband, as I do.

Again, as I’ve learned, not everyone will feel like me. They might not want these reminders. It might be too painful. So use your best judgement, consider what your friend might most appreciate, and act with good intentions.

Even if you get it wrong, you’ve tried, and that’s what matters.

Brock, covered with love (i.e. cards and letters) from our friends and family on his last birthday, in 2017. People often worried about saying “the wrong thing” to my dying husband. I encouraged them to write whatever was in their hearts for these birthday notes, which I’ve kept to give to our son when he’s older.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have you found a helpful thing to say or do to friends going through a hard time? What have you found helpful or unhelpful when people try to help you? Please post a comment, share this post online or read more posts on this website.

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Once Upon a Time

It was early May and we were at the hot springs: steamy water, flowing from between 100-pound rocks into a series of pools. Lussier Hot Springs, one of many natural hot springs in the Columbia Valley, has been discovered but not yet developed, aside from the stone retaining wall and fenced path from gravel parking area to pools.

No admission fee, no lifeguards, no posted rules. Sometimes, no bathing suits.

We live less than an hour’s drive away from this little spot of paradise. It’s a must-do when guests have time for the drive.

In summer, these springs are so popular that a line can snake up the trail: urbanites and international tourists, towels in hand, await their turn to experience this natural phenomenon of sulphur-scented water trickling from the rocks through pools to a glacier-fed river.

Instagram tags have made these once-secret hot springs a popular, often over-run destination.

In early May we were there to revel in the hot water and alpine beauty before the tsunami of summer tourists and part-time residents engulfed our little community.

Despite the early season, we weren’t alone. We chatted with a couple from Alberta. Nodded to other locals.

A trio of young women arrived, stripped to bikinis and toques, and stepped carefully over the massive rocks. They squealed at the water’s heat, which is the temperature of a hot bath. They perched in the upper pool on folded legs, so as not to get their bikini tops wet, and took photos with their cell phones, as so many do.

It’s part of our job as parents to pass the traditions down, so my boyfriend and I lured his pre-teens and my five-year-old to the river.

I set an example: I waded into the icy current, then lay carefully on the slippery stones and leaned back. Not enough to float away. Enough for goose bumps to rise.

Then up and back to the river’s rocky edge.

A normal human being would immediately climb up to the hottest pool, to recover from the immersion in glacier run-off. But we’re parents and so we waited on the rocks, shivering and cheering on our kids, applauding their bravery as they too dunked in the river.

A rite of passage. Like rolling in the snow between soaks at the Fairmont Resort hot springs. Like walking through the shin-deep river at Marble Canyon, and back again, on numb feet. This is how we raise the next generation of mountain kids.

Finally the trial was over and we began picking our way carefully over the slippery stones, back up to the hottest pool. One extreme temperature to another.

We crossed paths with the young women, who were on their way to the river.

ME: “Are you going in too?”

WOMAN: “No. We’re just here for the pictures.”

What?

My heart broke for her then, and I’ve spent four months trying to articulate WHY her response made me feel so sad and disturbed that day.

“We’re just here for the pictures.”

After our exchange, I watched the women as they “experienced” the springs. They did not dip themselves in the icy river. They wandered upstream at one point and took turns doing classic Instagram poses: arms out. Backs to the camera. Sexy bikini poses with the forest as background. Toothy smiles for the selfies.

And then they left.

My Gut Reaction

I was sad for this woman and her friends. They’re young: they have a lifetime of possible adventures and experiences ahead of them. And yet, appearances seemed to matter more to them than their sense of adventure. If they were only there for the photos, were they really experiencing the natural hot springs?

If you stop to take a picture of you smelling a rose so you can post it on Facebook, and don’t even bother inhaling its scent, did you really stop to smell the roses?

It’s always an internal battle as to whether I bring the phone along when snowboarding.

So Many Questions

I wondered: if they’d driven the 37 minutes on the narrow gravel road to the hot springs, risking life and limb with the ever-present logging trucks around every sharp corner, and then discovered in the parking lot they’d left their phones behind, would they have simply turned back?

And: was their need for external validation something they would grow out of? Would these young women change when they matured?

But some people never grow out of this mindset. Consider the many, many subdivisions in Calgary (and other cities) where mansions rub elbows with mansions, their garages and off-site storage bays overflowing with speedboats, jet skis and other mechanical toys. For some of us, appearances and peer-defined success are what bring us meaning, direction and (we hope) happiness.

I wonder: when this woman at the pools said those words to me, did she startle herself? Could she hear how superficial and empty she sounded? Did she have a restless night, tormented by existential doubt? Or maybe she doesn’t see anything wrong with living a life merely for the images.

And maybe I was, and am, being judgemental. Maybe it’s fine to live as these young women do. Maybe a collection of photos and lots of Instagram followers and Facebook “likes” are valid goals, or at least just as valid as my own.

Ripples

Maybe this woman didn’t think twice about her words that day.

But they resonate with me.

Since that day, I’ve been more thoughtful about bringing my phone (which is my only camera) along on adventures, or not.

Sometimes, camera-less, I wish I could take a picture — like when we found that beach of gleaming mica dust south of Nakusp — and I have to settle for the memory.

I’ve found that, when we don’t have pictures to help us remember our adventures, stories and words become more important:

“Remember when the teenage magician emerged from the forest and healed cousin Matthew’s leg when he fell?”

“Remember how terrified we were on the log ride at Calaway Park? Remember how many bad words I said when we plummeted?”

And sometimes I test myself: right now, experiencing this super cool thing, do I NEED to take a picture? Do I NEED to share it on the Interwebs, to make this experience any more special?

It’s my new Stoic meditation. Regardless of the answer, I learn new things about myself. And, more often than before, I decide to leave my phone behind.

Obviously I NEEDED to get a photo of Optimus Prime, when we met him while in a line-up for the ferry.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Is a camera/phone essential for your adventures? Do you wrestle with how much to share via social media, or keep as a personal memory? How would you respond if someone said they were only there “for the pictures”? Please post a comment, share this post online or read more posts on this website.

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