REFLECTIONS
REFLECTIONS
Wanda Reisinger
“Grief is not a disease. It is a journey that needs to be allowed to unfold.”
Wanda Reisinger
“Every time we love someone, we learn a new meaning of love.”
Wanda Reisinger
“Grievers need love and compassion, not medals and trophies.”
Wanda Reisinger
“Sometimes I talk about him and laugh. Sometimes I talk about him and cry. But I always need to talk about him.”
Grief is not a Competitive Sport
By Wanda Reisinger
Competition permeates our society and is a cornerstone of many aspects of daily life. There are times and places where competition is appropriate and brings about positive effects. It can motivate people to work harder, practice more, and be more dedicated. It can provide comradery and entertainment in sporting events and even in relationships.
While some people shy away from any type of competition, many people enjoy it, in themselves and in watching others. Competition is so engrained in our everyday lives, that its appearance often goes unnoticed. So I guess it shouldn’t be surprising to realize it occurs in the very personal and unique arena of grief.
Like many in this unbearable club of grief, we received the horrific early morning phone call from a police department. Our beloved son, Luke, age 19, had passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. Our lives, and the lives of our other children, were forever changed from that moment on. I had dealt with death before. Being a bedside nurse to critically ill patients, I had witnessed death, the actual moment and all the aftermath of suffering family and friends. At the time of Luke’s passing in 2013, three of his four grandparents had passed away. I had lost childhood friends, adult friends, and various extended family members. I had even lost a previous child years before to miscarriage at twelve weeks. And as I came to learn through my own personal experience and also through research, grief is very unique and personal not only to each person, but also for each individual loss. No one’s grief journey is the same. And within each person, the different losses they experience will each on their own provide different journeys.
And yet, people are determined to compare grief.
“I know how you feel.” No, you really do not.
I designed and created a 3-hour general education college course on death, dying, and bereavement. I share a story that reads: Two bereaved mothers were talking. One said she hated the word “lost.” She said her son was not lost to her; she knew exactly where he was. He was in heaven. She was strong in her faith, and she resented when people referred to her son as “lost.” The other mother was not so sure. She had beliefs, but they were more fragile, and she found herself confused. She liked the word lost when referring to her daughter. It described precisely how she felt. She could no longer see, hear, or touch her daughter. To her, her daughter was lost. She found herself constantly looking for her. She was struggling to process the idea that her daughter was gone.
People mean well, when they find themselves in the role of sympathizer. Often out of a desire to be helpful, they say things. Lots of things. But most of these words only add more hurt. In an effort to make someone feel better or to show solidarity with their emotions, they say horrible things.
You are so strong.
God has a plan.
They wouldn’t want you to be sad.
You’ll be a better person for this.
Instead of providing comfort, these words often only result in minimizing someone’s pain.
“At least”…..this is the worse one.
At least they didn’t suffer.
At least you got to say goodbye.
Again, these words minimize the enormity of someone’s grief. It leaves them feeling not valued, not heard, not loved. It causes them to retreat, to hide, to learn not to express their grief to others. At least says “Don’t Mourn.” This in turn complicates their grief and adds more pain to their already suffering heart. What grievers need is a safe place to express their emotions and not be judged. They need a safe place to be able to talk about their loved one. They need people to ask them for stories and memories. They need someone to just listen and Be With them.
I often heard, “Well, at least you have other children.”
Tell me, how does that help? How does that make my pain any less? A friend of mine who was mother to an only child, went on a long explanation to me as to how she would not be able to handle it if she lost her only child. How did this become a competition? My thoughts were, you have not lost your child-I have lost my child, so why are we talking about you? Also, I am NOT able to handle losing my child; what makes you think I am? I just looked at her, nodded my head, stayed silent, and kept my grief to myself.
When my four children were small, I had a friend who had an only child. She had been considering trying to have a second child, but she was concerned. She was talking with me one day, and she shared how she worried that if she had a second child, it would detract from her love for her firstborn. We were sitting on her sofa in her living room; there was a stack of blue marble coasters on her coffee table. I reached over and picked up two coasters and held them separately on my chest. I looked in her eyes and said, it’s not like you have one heart that gets divided each time you have a new child. For each child, you grow a completely new heart for them. Two children, two hearts, two coasters.
So for each child you lose, a complete heart gets ripped from your body and shattered. If you are a mother to other children, you have their grief to contend with also. Not that you can fix their grief; you cannot. It means you have the added pain of seeing them suffer in the loss of their sibling. And sometimes the pain of seeing your other children grieve surpasses your own pain of loss.
My children’s grief is just as valid as my own, but in early days they were sometimes told to be strong for my husband and me. While the intention was surely to help bolster them up and show support for them, the result was that their grief felt ranked below their parents. Competition.
In an effort to make others feel better, people say horrible things.
Time heals all wounds.
You have your whole life ahead of you.
Everything happens for a reason.
And in an effort to one lessen someone’s pain (or to up someone on a pain score), people say horrible things.
At least your mother didn’t suffer from cancer like my mother did.
You’re lucky you got 22 years with your son, I didn’t get any.
At least you have a supportive husband, unlike mine.
These phrases, even in the best of intentions, diminish the pain that the person experiences. Pain is not a competition; pain is not meant to be compared. Someone else’s pain does not lessen your own. In the world of nursing where I work, we teach that pain is what the patient says it is. It is completely subjective. I say in the world of grief, heartache is what the griever says it is. No one can ever truly know what each person’s unique grief journey entails.
Again, there are times and places for competition. But grief is not a time nor a place for all that. Competition in grief only seeks to alienate, which is the exact opposite of what grievers need. Grievers need love and compassion, not trophies and medals.