Empty Chairs

Empty Chairs

Instead of saying, “I know what it feels like”, let’s say “I cannot imagine your heartbreak”.

Instead of saying, “You’re strong, you’ll get through this”, let’s say “You’ll hurt, and I’ll be here.”

Instead of saying, “You look like you’re doing well”, let’s say, “How are you holding up today?”

Instead of saying, “Healing takes time”, let’s say “Healing has no timeline”.

Instead of saying, “Everything happens for a reason”, let’s say “This must feel so terribly senseless right now”.

And when there are no words to say at all, you don’t need to try and find some. Love speaks in silences too.

– Ullie Kaye Poetry

The Festive Season is family time. A time to spend with our dearest friends and loved ones, to celebrate peace, joy and togetherness. A time of rituals and traditions. Traditions are often about togetherness.

Sadly, there are tables that will always have an empty chair. There are families that have empty spaces in their hearts and friends who will always be one short.

We’ve all experienced pain and loss, but we can never truly understand how loss affects someone else, how a time of gatherings and get-togethers can be the loneliest of times for them.

The truth is that most of us have no idea how to deal with grief, so most of us don’t handle it well. We try our best to be there for the bereaved, but all too often, our well-meaning gestures end up putting a wedge between us, leaving our grief-stricken loved ones feeling isolated, judged, misunderstood and alone. And though grief is deep and personal, it is not meant to be experienced all alone.

WHAT NOT TO DO:

Firstly, we don’t always need to say something.  When someone has experienced a major loss, nothing can or needs to be said.

Secondly, trite reassurances and clichés don’t usually help. “They’re in a better place,” “At least they’re no longer suffering,” or “Time heals all wounds,” though well-meant, are sometimes better left unsaid.

Thirdly, talking about our own experiences of loss is not a good option. Sharing our experiences with loss, saying “I know exactly how you feel,” or “I understand completely,” usually just makes the griever feel as if you are minimising their experience or pain.

WHAT TO DO:

Take the initiative and make contact.  Remember, the griever is in shock and not functioning very well.  They might not be able to respond to offers such as “Let me know if there’s anything I can do?”  They may not even know what they need! 

Just be there. Being with them is good enough. Let them talk and cry, and talk and cry without putting a time limit on it and without judging. Don’t worry about what you’re going to say or do. Just be yourself. The gift of your presence is most important to people in grief.

Listen. People need to talk, which means others need to listen. They need repeated opportunities to review and relive the person’s life and death.  So, don’t get tired of hearing them tell their story. Encourage expression of the facts, details and emotions related to the loss; it is a simple but profound method of healing.

Know when to close your mouth and when to open your ears.  Keeping eye contact, leaning in and nodding your head can encourage the griever to open up.  The unspoken message is, “You’re important, and what you are saying is important, and I want to hear everything you’re telling me.”

When you feel the urge to say something trite, like, “This too shall pass,” don’t. Telling someone not to cry when tears fill their eyes is to deny permission to grieve. To say that they must be strong, or that life must go on, or even to quickly change the subject to something more cheerful gives the message that grief and feelings are not acceptable to us. If we want to support them, they need to know that we don’t mind if they cry, rant, rave, or show anger.

Let people know that you accept their weakness and vulnerability as they are in this time. That you are not trying to “fix” them or think they should be doing better.

So, taking guidance from the poem at the beginning of this blog post,

Instead of assuming that we know the depths of another’s pain, let us acknowledge the unfathomable ache in their hearts with empathy.

Instead of offering false reassurances of strength, let us stand by their side, acknowledging their hurt and offering our unwavering presence.

Instead of glossing over the struggles with superficial observations, let us inquire about their well-being with genuine concern.

Instead of imposing a timetable on healing, let us recognise its nonlinear nature, allowing space for its organic process.

Instead of seeking explanations in empty platitudes, let us acknowledge the rawness of grief and the absence of sense.

Let love fill the void with its quiet, comforting presence in moments of wordless despair.

Sad is not bad. It’s just sad.