I feel powerless to comfort my grieving son

DEAR BEL

I AM 61 and have experienced the loss of relatives in my life from an early age. As we get older, we come to expect it. But I am writing to you to ask how we comfort, and what we can say, to our children when they are faced with the loss of their friends when so much younger.

I phoned my son for a catch-up and he told me that a friend of his collapsed a few days ago and is not likely to recover from a coma. No explanation yet as to the cause.

My son is 31, so his friend is a similar age. His friend’s parents are already being asked about organ donation.

I feel so sad for my son losing his friend and am at a loss as to what to say to him. We live many miles apart. I said: ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He replied: ‘There’s nothing you can say’, but in a sympathetic way.

Bel, how do we talk about death to others? How do we find words of comfort within ourselves in order to help others?

JAN

‘Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak Whispers the o’erfraught heart, and bids it break.’

Those lines from shakespeare’s Macbeth express the truth that grief must be spoken or else it turns in on itself and makes loss so much worse. Yet people are not being feeble when, faced with grief, they mumble: ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Philosophers and saints quail before the enormity of death, their rationalisations or beliefs sticking on the tongue.

how much worse when the dying or dead person is not elderly. We can’t help believing there is an allotted parcel of time — ‘four score years and ten.’

When a child dies, the anguish of those around (not just the grieving parents) is rooted in a sense of the unfulfilled potential of that life: all the experiences not had, all the joy not felt. When the young person is 31, the response is similar: ‘It’s too soon,’ we cry. Not for most of us the consolation of the Victorians: another angel has joined Jesus in heaven. In our secular age you are left with no life-raft in the black sea of grief.

so to the helpless words: ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Well, it would be better not to begin with ‘I’. This is not about your feelings, but (in this case) your son’s. Better to say: ‘how dreadful it must be for you to imagine him like that and I shiver to think what his parents are going through. God, I’m so sorry.’

That is what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Those are meaningful, sincere words.

When we try to give comfort to others, let all our thoughts and spoken words try to begin with the word ‘you’. It’s a helpful suggestion when faced with life’s huge rites of passage. This is not the accusatory ‘you’ of quarrels, because in that circumstance it is banned. This is the ‘you’ of reaching out and sharing.

When Jewish people ‘sit shiva’ (when the bereaved stay home, visited by those who care, often bringing food), the conversation is about the dead person, and can often turn to sad laughter when memories are shared. (‘You remember that time sam kicked a football through Uncle Abe’s greenhouse and ran away?’)

so you could say: ‘You must have so many memories of great times with him; it must be unbelievable to think of him now. Do drop a note to his parents. They’ll need that.’

The best way to start talking of death is to recognise it is something we all share. Therefore, we must find a common language; one that speaks to our own fear of grief as well as to the bereaved. speaking from the heart is the best start. The head may be tongue-tied, but the heart is overflowing with pity and terror.

There is no way to make sense of death to the young (or anyone), so murmur the truth: ‘You must feel it’s horribly unfair. so do I, love, honestly, it makes me want to howl.’

When someone is a long way away, it feels impossible to give comfort over the phone. But you can say: ‘oh, you sound so miserable. If only I could be there to give you a hug.’

And if you’re in the room with someone and feel helpless, you can say: ‘You look so tired. No wonder, it’s beyond awful. Let me make you a cup of tea.’