Expressing condolences

My cousin's mother-in-law died suddenly a few weeks ago. My heart went out to him, their children, and especially his wife, Angela. I've never experienced the death of a parent, and I hope to enjoy my mother's presence for a few more decades. But I remember the feeling I had when Mom's supposedly routine open-heart surgery ran into complications a decade ago and the surgeons thought they might lose her on the table. I remember screaming in the backyard, as Sandy was pruning a rose bush. We were 2000 miles from the hospital, able only to wait for more information, and Sandy knew that the only comfort she could give me at the time was just to let me scream at the world. Mom came through the ordeal just fine (and unlike her children, she was not traumatized by it). But it was a close call, and I could see grief just over the horizon.

I am now well-acquainted with grief, of course. Losing a spouse is different from losing a parent, but never is a terrible burden for any griever. When I got the news about Angela's mother, I knew I'd send a card. I even thought for a few minutes that I might have some words of wisdom to offer, that something about this ordeal of mine might benefit someone else. And then I put off writing the card for a few days. Even selecting a card was difficult, and I had no idea what to say.

My grief has not made me an expert on grieving or on talking about death. If anything, I'm now all too aware that the experience is a deeply personal and individual one. I cannot begin to understand what another's loss feels like.

Still, I thought back to my reactions to all the cards, email, and phone calls that had come just after Sandy's death. Honestly, I don't remember the details of most of them. My brother's phone call stands out, because we don't talk often and we don't talk about difficult things much now that we're adults; that conversation was real and powerful, though, an extended hand that I gratefully grabbed. There are three cards whose contents I specifically remember: One was from a friend of Sandy's I'd never met, a woman who'd lost her husband to cancer a few years ago; she told me not to let anyone else tell me how to grieve, and I welcomed her advice and support at a time that I felt insane. Another was from Sandy's favorite nurse; she shared her memory about how Sandy's face lit up when I entered the room. The third was from my Great-Aunt Betty; she wrote that she had no idea what to say and so she'd unearthed the card I sent her when her husband, Richard, died, and she quoted my own words back to me.

Just as the condolence cards were meaningful for their
existence rather than their contents, the cards and gifts and
supportive online messages Sandy received when she first
went through treatment, when we learned the cancer had
metastasized, and as she was dying were all most important
because they existed, though many of the words and
specific gifts touched her (and my) heart as well. This
hat was a gift from a friend as she started chemo in 2006;
she wore it frequently that year and in the winters that
followed. I can't get away with wearing orange on my head,
but it's one of Belly's favorite things to carry around the house.

There were hundreds of other cards whose contents I don't recall offhand. None offended me, though some irked me with the sentiment that Sandy wasn't in pain anymore. (So help me, that is one thing I will never say to someone who is grieving.) But what was most meaningful about the cards was that they came. They were a physical reminder that people loved Sandy, people loved me, and more than that, that people — those I knew well, only slightly, or had never even met — understood that I, a fellow human being, was hurting. The fact that those cards came told me that I was not alone.

I didn't keep tabs on who sent cards, or deduct points for those who didn't. It's easy to put off sending condolences when you don't know what to say; I've done it myself more times than I care to count. Instead, I was surprised by and incredibly grateful for each envelope or email that arrived. Individually, they made specific days easier, lifting my despair just a bit. Collectively, they communicated a sense of community, the knowledge that people were out there in the world when I was ready to return to it.

So I wrote words on the card and mailed it. I don't know what I wrote, and I doubt my words will be memorable to Angela. But I trust that the card itself will convey that she and her family were (and are) in my thoughts. Just as the card they sent me after Sandy died did.