Beyond the Hallmark Aisle

I've written before about how difficult it can be to know what to say to someone who has lost a person they love. Most of us mean well. We stand in front of the sympathy cards at the store, read one after another, and hope we'll eventually find something that sounds reasonably human.

Unfortunately, a lot of them sound as though they were written by a committee that was afraid of saying anything too personal.

Recently, my friend Liz shared some writings from her own experience with widowhood. Liz lost her first husband, Jay, before they'd even celebrated their first wedding anniversary. She has lived a great deal of life since then, but among the things she remembers most clearly from those early days are the cards and letters people sent her.

I was particularly interested in something she'd written about the handwritten notes. She appreciated the cards, of course, but the ones that meant the most were those containing a personal memory of Jay.

Someone had taken the time to tell her something they remembered about her husband.

That may seem like a small thing to the person writing it. For the person receiving it, though, it can mean the world.

After Robert died, I found myself in the strange position of having to notify people and organizations that my husband was gone. I spent an astonishing amount of time explaining his death to people who needed the information for one reason or another. Insurance companies, financial institutions, utilities, and anyone else who required proof that our circumstances had changed.

There was paperwork for everything. Apparently, even death requires a surprisingly extensive administrative process.

What all that paperwork had in common was its complete lack of interest in who Robert actually was.

To those institutions, he was a name on an account. There was a process to follow, a form to complete, and a record to update. They needed to know that he had died. They didn't need to know that he'd lived.

That distinction becomes important when you've lost someone.

Robert was a man with a big personality. He could be loud, opinionated, and thoroughly convinced that his way of doing something was the correct way. He had an enormous laugh and an ability to fill a room with his presence. He could also be thoughtful in ways that caught me completely by surprise.

He was a husband, a father, a friend, and a man with an entire collection of habits and peculiarities that made him unmistakably Robert.

I wanted people to remember those things.

There is a particular loneliness in realizing that someone who was central to your daily life is gradually becoming a memory to everyone else. People have their own families and responsibilities, and of course their lives continue. I understood that, even when I didn't particularly like it.

Yet hearing someone mention Robert, especially in an ordinary conversation, could bring a little bit of that familiar world back into the room. It might be a funny story or something kind he did that I never knew about. It might be a memory of an ordinary afternoon that meant little at the time but suddenly seemed worth keeping.

Those stories reminded me that his life had reached beyond the walls of our home.

That's what struck me about Liz's notes. All these years later, she still remembers the kindness of people who shared their memories of Jay. Some of the details of those early weeks may have blurred with time, but the comfort of knowing other people remembered him stayed with her.

I think we sometimes hesitate to share memories because we're afraid we'll upset someone who's grieving. We worry that mentioning their loved one will remind them of the loss, perhaps causing tears or making an already difficult day worse.

I can tell you from experience that most widows don't need to be reminded that their husbands died. We're already quite familiar with that particular detail.

What we may need is the occasional reminder that other people remember they lived.

You don't have to come up with an extraordinary story, either. Ordinary memories are often the best ones. Tell her about something funny he said at work, a kindness you never forgot, or the time he made everyone laugh when they were supposed to be behaving themselves.

If you didn't know the person who died, that's all right too. Write something personal about the person you're sending the card to. Remind her that she's loved and that you intend to keep checking on her.

There's no need to find the perfect words, and there certainly isn't a requirement to sound profound.

Liz's experience has made me think differently about the humble sympathy card. A handwritten note can become something a grieving person keeps for decades, tucked into a box or drawer and brought out when they want to feel close to the person they lost.

Imagine that. Something you spend five minutes writing could bring comfort twenty years later.

The next time you're standing in the sympathy-card aisle, wondering whether the one with the flowers or the one with the sunset sounds less awkward, buy whichever you like.

Then open it and write something of your own... that's probably the part she'll remember.

With Grace for the Mess,

              ~Stef