To a parent, the loss of a child is the ultimate catastrophe, no matter how old.
I just learned of such a passing -- a woman of my own age, mother of young children and beloved wife. She was the daughter of parents who grew up with my father. Familiar as children, we lost touch as adults. But I have known her family all my life, and I grieve with them, and with my father whose pain honors 60+ years of friendship, and mindfulness of shared lifetimes of ups and downs -- but never, until now, such a down.
It's natural to be speechless in the face of catastrophe, and this is all the more reason to practice mindfulness because say something we must -- even if only to share the silence. Isolation offers no comfort to the mourning and permits no healing; in contrast, the mix of presence and caring provides a balm for the breaking heart.
So here's what we will do:
- Call (and then write) to the survivors, acknowledging that there's nothing we can do to change the reality of their pain. But we will stand with them, in that pain, and witness their loss, and honor their grieving -- for as long as it takes, and with no need for thanks.
- Keep calling, if only to say that we stay with them in our hearts. We'll talk if they want to, listen should they speak and stay present no matter what. If there's something to be done, we'll do it. And if there's nothing to be done, we'll continue showing up anyway as tribute.
- Offer love, and compassion and kindness -- not answers or explanations, and certainly not advice. Ultimately generating and extending a deep sense of caring is all there is, and it's all that matters. Her parents, husband and children, friends and extended family must all travel their own paths to healing. At the periphery of that web, all we can do is offer energy to ease their way.
As a culture, we shift uncomfortably when faced with the subject of death, especially when that death is close and overflowing with grief. By default, we often keep a distance due to our own discomfort and a genuine fear of trespassing on mourners' privacy. But our fear of making things worse is a distraction -- after all what could be worse? And, our intention to support others through upholding their privacy can have unintended consequences. Giving people space can easily lead to withholding the human nourishment that we all crave.
Without the presence of friends and family, those closest to the loss often drift in time and space. Of course mourning is about drifting -- when the anchor of the loved one is lost. But the drifting need not be in isolation, and others boats can provide a safety net through mindfulness and compassion. By caring for our friends, we travel the same seas. Yes, we'll keep a comfortable distance but, yes, we'll remain present on a close horizon.
There is dignity and comfort in offering and receiving tribute. And, there is comfort and strength in witnessing other people's acknowledgment of mortality.
Of course, there is -- and will remain -- the family's seemingly endless pain. But hearts and minds that can fathom such pain, without turning aside, are equally capable of infinite love and compassion. This is all we can strive for, and in our turn, all we can hope to receive.