First, let me say I generally believe all people are good and their hearts are in the right place. Now, let me say that many of these same people say the stupidest things. In my young widows’ group, we kept a running list for a while. For several months, I claimed the prize for the worst thing said (I’ll get to that later). I’m not sure why it’s so hard for people to find appropriate words to say to someone who’s grieving. A lack of empathy? Perhaps. But that implies purpose, which I tend to think is not the case.

Sometimes, I think, it’s a matter of one’s intentions not quite keeping up with their mouth as it opens and words spill out. That, mixed with an overwhelming sense of “there but by the grace of God go I” that prevents the right words from forming. Most times, words can’t come close to offering the comfort we hope they will. One of the most meaningful notes I received shortly after Kevin’s passing was one that said simply, “there are no words that will do. Just know that I am thinking of you.”  As communicators, we don’t want to believe this to be true. We want to find words that comfort, console, and convey to the recipient that we are caring, sympathetic souls, traveling the same road, comprehending, at least in part, how the other feels, and willing to share the load if needed. That, my friends, is easier thought than done.

I don’t remember much of the first few days after Kevin passed away. The visitation and service are a blur. Small moments stand out—seeing friends and family who had traveled long distances, or whom I hadn’t seen in years. Or the hardest parts: the first steps through the door of the funeral home or the church. I distinctly remember walking back into my house after the funeral—it felt as life changing as I knew it was.

I know for certain that many helpful words of condolence or memories of Kevin were said to comfort me during those days. Memories often provided the greatest consolation. But I've heard others who even encountered difficult situations during this time. The nurse at my doctor’s office, for instance, told the story of the young man at her husband’s funeral who visited for a few minutes with her daughter, then asked, "Watcha doin' tonight? Got any plans?"

I do remember, a few weeks after my husband’s funeral, running into a neighbor at the grocery store. He commented on how I looked. “You’re looking much better,” he said. “For a while there, you were looking so tired. You really look much more rested.”

I suppose I did look rested. I spent most of my time in bed. I slept with the aid of medication. And I was no longer awake around the clock being a caregiver. I had traded dark circles under my eyes for a hole in my heart and would gladly trade back if I could. But did I respond in this way? No. I could barely think. And the response would have caused my well-meaning neighbor to feel horrified.

There have been other comments that reside in a similar place—not rude, but just poorly thought-out. I would classify any “look on the bright side” comments into this category. Yes, I know that we had twenty-six years together, we had children, we traveled, we had a beautiful home. And yes, I believe that Kevin is no longer in pain. It just doesn’t make me feel better, or correct the deep wrongness of the situation to hear those things. Even Emily Post suggests staying away from the "blessing in disguise"suggestion.

The worst thing said to me (for which I claimed the prize in my group) was by a woman whom I didn’t even know. We met at a baby shower where we were both related by marriage to the mom-to-be (me through the grandmother, her through the grandfather). She had divorced her husband two years before and we were actually attending the shower in her ex-husband’s home. This woman was aware of my story. She came over, sat next to me and offered her condolences. She explained that she was the ex-wife of the man whose home we were in and angrily mentioned that he was displaying photos of their children throughout the home as though he had something to do with their upbringing. She looked at me and, with a very straight face, said, “at least you got sympathy when your husband died. I didn’t get anything when I walked out on my loser husband.”

She went on to explain how I would have men clamoring to dance with me at my daughter’s wedding, all in an effort to make up for the fact that my husband won’t be there. She, however, had to track down her brother and beg him to dance with her at her daughter’s wedding. Oh, it was awful.

I looked her in the eye and said, in my calmest voice, “at least your daughter had her father at her wedding. Mine will not.” I stood up on shaking legs, and walked away. Most people, when I relate this story, say I missed an opportunity to punch her in the face.

Maybe the worst things are said when there is a lack of empathy; when the potholes of our own sad situations prevent us from taking even a few steps down the road in another person’s shoes. I think that’s what happened here. I have been forever changed by my husband’s passing, but I haven’t become a bitter, self-indulgent whiner, which it only took divorce for this woman to become.

That’s certainly not to say, because I’ve decided to have a different, less angry or cynical view of my situation, that my life is easier or better than hers. It’s not. But how we handle our own particular losses does shape who we are and whether we are able to see something good inside the sorrow. And perhaps it allows us to know when to put our arms around someone who’s had a loss, hold them tight, and simply say nothing at all.