Silence is Not an Answer in the Time of Grief

                      by Elizabeth Cross McDonald
                             

        This summer I survived the two most devastating realities I have 
experienced since my father's death in 1980. The first was anguishing in 
its inevitability: my 31 year old brother's death from the cancer that 
stalked him for seven years.  The second was worsened by its utter 
uselessness and avoidability: the deliberate way virtually every friend 
and acquaintance, save my very closest, has avoided and ignored me 
during this time of grief.

        I do not believe that those who knew about Al's death did not 
worry about me and my family.  It is likely that many were concerned.  
But I know that most of my friends are young, and have not yet had a 
close family member die.  Death is scary or unreal, and few can envision 
themselves in the position I have been in twice.  In a word, they are 
ignorant about my feelings and how to react to them.

        A few of the braver approached me with hearty, superficial 
greetings that suggested my absence but not its cause:  "Well hello, 
nice to see you back" or "So school's about to start, are you ready?" 
This was, for all its well meaning, very painful for me.  I felt these 
people were using trivialities as a way of saying, "These things are 
more important than his death, and I'm more concerned about today's 
weather than how terrible you feel."  With uneasy smiles on their faces, 
these people made me feel like a fool.

        To a few, I said, "Perhaps you didn't know my brother died." The 
response was a muffled, "Oh, yes... I'm sorry."  I stopped volunteering 
this information: it was awful to realize that these people, through all 
the banality, knew about Albert, and said nothing.  Some people 
undoubtedly kept silent in the hopes that I would approach them to talk 
and they could then be duly supportive.  This was a gross error of
judgment.  I needed to have friends voluntarily open their hearts in
sympathy, as I was feeling vulnerable and afraid that those I turned to 
might turn me away.  To me, the silence said, "Leave me alone, I don't 
care."

Still others made efforts to engage me in conversation, as long as I was 
able to be cheerful and not talk about Albert.  To these people, my 
casual comment like, "Oh, I remember when Albert and I visited that 
person" was nervously ignored and met by an embarrassed silence.  I 
needed to be able to remember my brother reflectively, without self-
consciousness or shame. And even close friends could not understand that 
waves of grief, anger and depression affected me in ways I myself could 
not understand.  How I needed their patience and support, their faith 
that I was angry at Death, and not at them.

        My grief is now settling into the long depression that is a 
necessary step to healing.  But every week, people on campus - maybe 
your friend or roommate - also face the unthinkable tragedy in a place 
where youth can lead people to feel immortal.  These people need your 
support, and it's not hard to give it to them.  If someone you know, 
whether closely or just vaguely, is bereaved, please don't be shy or 
afraid. Take the initiative, walk up, look into his or her eyes and say, 
"I am so sorry to hear about the death." (Only one person did this to 
me.  Though I was not particularly close to him, his generosity moved
me to tears.)

        You need not give your philosophy on tragedy in life or your 
favorite remedy for depression.  The bereaved person does not expect or 
want this. And if you consider yourself to be a close friend of the 
bereaved person, now is your chance to prove it.  Listening - not 
avoiding the bereaved's sadness or being afraid to have the friend cry 
to you - is essential.  If your friend does cry, consider yourself lucky 
that he or she is comfortable enough to share these deep emotions with 
you.  

        And don't try to stop the tears - they are also a step to healing 
and must flow freely.  If you feel anger or hostility directed at you, 
take comfort that anger and grief are interconnected. The friend is not 
angry at you, it is simply his desperate attempt to justify or focus the 
waves of anger and desolation that surge uncontrollably through him.
If the bereaved are surrounded by people who care, the grieving process 
is made less bitter and devastating.  Yet caring and concern for your 
friend is meaningless unless you directly tell her that you do care.

        I understand that Dad and Albert had no intention of abandoning 
me, that they left me through no power of their own.  The intentions of 
my silent friends are much less clear.  Remember this: Just say, "I 
heard, and I'm sorry."

                                                            - Chicago, 1987

            

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