I’m guilty of it and so are you.  C’mon, we can admit it together - we’ve all been lazy, fearful or ignorant enough to sputter out a platitude to someone in pain.  I mean, nobody’s perfect, right?

We mean well.  When faced with another person’s suffering, grief, or sadness, we want to say something to make them feel better.  What’s said if sometimes less than helpful.  Imitations of the real thing, platitudes are empty words of wisdom filling the compassion gap.  Nathan J. Robinson said it best, “A platitude is even worse than a cliché. It’s a sanctimonious cliché, a statement that is not only old and overused but often moralistic and imperious.”  

No words can accomplish what the griever wants - to bring back the dead person.  But we’ve got to say something.  Platitudes inadvertently shut down painful conversations.  When we don’t know what to say, we close the spigot on the pain we sense.  He’s in a better place.  Because it serves your discomfort, a platitude helps you more than the other person.

Invalidating truth and offering no real advice, these phrases want to make the griever better.  Take the oft issued, ‘Time heals all wounds.’  Personally, I prefer, ‘Time wounds all heels,’ but unfortunately, neither offer particular insight or guidance.  The statement implies waiting will make pain go away. Necessary but insufficient, time itself has no inherent healing powers.  Especially in early grief, I didn’t want to be healed.  I wanted you to take a good look at the wound and say, “Oh my God, that’s fucking awful.”  See how that’s more validating in the moment?

One unintentionally hurtful comment I often heard after my wife died was, “I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now.”  It seems to convey care and if you’re reading this and said it to me, don’t sweat it.  However, think about the message - I can’t/won’t picture myself in your shoes.  The dark side of me wants to retort, “Can you try?  I mean, really focus and imagine it?  For me?”  Of course, I don’t wish this agony on anyone but it leaves me alone in the experience.  

One of the most meaningful exchanges was with my best friend of three decades.  He actually tried to understand what it’s like to lose a spouse and came up with some really validating stuff.  I expressed my reluctance to expose him to the raw pain and he replied, “It’s okay; I’m in a stronger place than you right now and can do it.”  It’s also what he didn’t say.  He stopped short of telling me he knows exactly how I feel.  True empathy combines your knowledge of the person with the current situation.  Keeping one foot in how you’d feel and stepping into the griever’s experience affords the most accurate prediction.  But it is only your best guess.  Don’t be afraid to be off or wrong.

One platitude I absolutely despise is, Someone has it worse off than you right now.  Did I get plopped into the misery olympics?  The Miss Universe Pageant of Grief?  Here’s how I’d sell myself for the contest:

Hi, I’m Laura and my wife just died by suicide. [audience clapping].

I know everything happens for a reason and I’m looking forward to finding the silver lining. [brief, controlled sobbing].

Because what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, my talent is resisting the urge to off myself to be with her.  Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem and that makes me hopeful.  I can’t see the light at the end of my tunnel but I know other people have longer, darker tunnels and that makes me feel better. [standing ovation].

Comparison is built into our human nature.  Allowing us to evaluate similarities, its best use is for determining how far you’re straying from the herd.  Like deciding if it’s appropriate to tell a dirty joke.  Size up your audience for depravity before spouting out, “They say make up sex is the best…Which is lucky, because all my sex is made up!”  [audience groans uncomfortably].  Comparison of suffering is rarely the balm it seems.  I can think of scenarios where my wife’s suicide could have played out worse or cringe at another’s terrible experience but then what?  These estimates only minimize my experience and create distance between us.  

For instance, imagine an elderly wife lost her husband of forty years after a long battle with cancer (you can do it).  It was a peaceful death, surrounded by family, and a relief of sorts because, “He’s no longer in pain and at peace now.”  If we rank pain on the grief measuring stick, there’s a limited amount of empathy to go around.   Losing my happy wife to suicide when I was only 45 surely means I win.  Except I also lose - the elderly widow has permission to separate from my larger than life grief.  And what comfort does she take from the downgrading of her pain?  Same with all other grievers - my sister-in-law lost her beloved sister.  Should she defer to me because I lost my wife?  I mean, there’s plenty of fish in the sea so I can replace my wife but it takes a lifetime of history to make a sister.  There are no comparisons, only differences.  Digging into a platitude reveals its fundamental ridiculousness.

What is there to say when someone is suffering?  All words are mere homeopathic remedies for a crippling migraine.  I know this is uncomfortable.  Instead of the pity face or sneezing out a platitude, it’s better to say nothing.  If you are truly compelled to offer something, I recommend replacements for the following phrases:

Replacement

• I don’t know why this happened.  I’m sorry.

• You couldn’t have known more then.

• Grief is a long process.

• Even when we know it’s coming, it still hurts.

• All death happens too soon.

• Grief has no set timeline.

• No one can replace your loss.

• It’s going to suck for a while.

Platitude

• Everything happens for a reason.

• If only you knew then what you know now.

• Don’t wallow in the past.

• It was just her time to go.

• He lived a long life.

• One day you’ll see things differently.

• You’ll find another love.

• It’ll get better in time.

Even though it doesn’t seem like enough, it is.  If nothing else, fall back on simple validation.  Legitimizing sadness does not makes it worse and is the same thinking that sex education makes teenagers promiscuous.  Grief is a whore but it eventually settles down.  In the moment, it’s comforting to know you see what I see.  Trust the brazen griever.  Here are my fav phrases from acquaintances:

• There are no words to bring your person back.  Know you are in my thoughts.

• I wish I could hug you and take the pain away. (I’m not a hugger but appreciate the sentiment.)

• We share in the sadness of your loss and will miss her smile.

• I hope you feel surrounded by love, now and always. 

• Just wanted to let you know you were on my mind.

• I don’t know why these things happen but I’m here if you need to talk.

Incidentally, don’t say that last one unless you’re willing to call or text me first.  I already have trouble asking for help and now I feel like a massive Debbie Downer.  Who wants to risk reaching out only to have your call declined?  I’m pretty free these days so it’s up to you.  Even a simple text to say you’re thinking of me is meaningful.  Please do not tell me you were just asking someone else about me.  Ugh.

When something bad happens, it’s natural to want an explanation.  Something to remember is that two (or more) aspects can be true at once.  My Dad died when he was 51 and I was 27 years old.  I’ve had nearly two decades to process and find perspective.  I’ve extracted my fair share of “silver linings” from it but prior to his death, I wasn’t thinking, I could really use some lemonade.  I wonder if it’s time to squeeze some sad lemons?  I’m grateful for the lessons in resilience and still sad he is gone. 

Many valuable insights demand a high price.  Frankly, ignorance can actually be bliss.  Since my knowledge is hard won, I’m ambivalent about exchanging it for my Dad or my wife.  An impossible choice I’m glad I can’t make.  It’s the difference between choosing my current self over a more vulnerable, extinct version.

Another one of my besties once posed an interesting question - would you trade out the past 10 years of your life or the next?  Contrasting an unknown future, we gravitate towards keeping our past selves.  In light of recent events, I’m tempted to trade for a world where my wife is still around.  Here’s where the circular processing path of grief kicks in - how far back would subvert this cruel end?  How do I reconcile that I won’t be given more than I can handle, it was meant to be, and God has a plan for me, with good things come to those who wait?  Life is a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book and fate writes the primary, inescapable narrative.

I’m just stuck feeling the grief with no real relief.  My only hope is the definition of insanity.  I’ll do the same things over and over but this time, practice makes perfect.  Small efforts keep me afloat.  I’ll pave this road with good intentions, trust the bitch of Karma, and live like I was dying.  In the immortal words of Gloria Gaynor, for now, “I will survive.”