Words Of Comfort For Death

Ask Amy: Words of comfort make orphan feel worse

DEAR AMY: As I have worked over the last several days to clear out my parents’ home and settle their affairs since their passing, I have been hearing over and over, “Now you’re all alone in this.” In fact, at the funeral, several people stated this.

They fail to finish their thought, which is, “... and I’m sure glad I’m not you.” It’s exhausting to come up with graceful responses to the statement when I really want to say, “We’re all alone, Toots.”

Every now and then you provide a little public service reminder about manners, so could you do so now?

To be kind, all that’s really needed is, “Boy that’s a lot for anyone to handle.”

Really, folks, just a little empathy helps most of us feel less alone in this world. -- Grieving

DEAR GRIEVING: Losing a parent can feel like being plunged into an emotional whirlpool.

Your irritation over these statements about your solitary status, for instance, says much more about your emotional state than about the people who are trying, in their clunky way, to comfort you.

When people say, “Now you’re all alone in this,” you assume they are being condescending. But let me suggest that when people say this, they are empathizing with you. They are acknowledging that they realize this is a hard, lonely journey, and it’s a journey no one can take for you.

Don’t be too hard on people who show up for a funeral and who try to say something -- anything -- in the moment. Very few people get this right. Death throws everyone into a bit of a tailspin.

I am currently reading “The Orphaned Adult: Understanding and Coping With Grief and Change After the Death of Our Parents,” by Alexander Levy (1999, Da Capo Press).

Levy says that there is no particular, correct or stage-driven way to manage this loss. Grieving is a messy, irrational, painful process. And yes, it is lonely, and so one way to respond to a statement like this would be to acknowledge this and ask for some help.

DEAR AMY: I was married to a wonderful man for many years. It was generally a good relationship and we have an amazing child together.

The alcoholism gene in my family reared its ugly head and I found myself in a selfish and self-centered haze. I blamed my husband for my unhappiness and left him for another man, a tragic mistake on so many levels.

food + words. » mini peanut butter pies.

Isn’t it strange how your heart can break for someone you barely know?

when i heard the news that Jennifer Perillo’s husband had suddenly passed away from a heart attack, it really shook me. violently, to the core.

i’ve never met Jennifer, nor her husband Mikey in person. i read her beautiful blog, where she shares her wonderful recipes and stories about her life. i’ve read about her childhood, about her two beautiful daughters, and the wonderful love she shares with her husband.

i feel so sad. i feel so helpless. a wonderful women and her daughters lost the most important man in their world. in an instant, their lives changed completely.

i’m not good with death. no one is, i guess. it’s a hard subject for me to talk about, to think about, to write about. Jennifer’s loss makes my heart ache. her heartache has made me reflect on my own experiences with death and loss.

i think about people in my life who have passed away, who i can never talk to or laugh with again. these deaths, these losses hit me hard. they left me feeling empty and open and vacuous. i have cried until my face is raw from wiping away tears with scratchy, sandpaper tissues.

i think about my grandmother, whose recipe books and jadeite mixing bowls i inherited. every time i flip the pages of those books looking for inspiration, or when i blend batter for a cake using those bowls, i get a little teary; flooded with memories and sadness. i think of my parents, who are still both very much alive, whose deaths and the pain and hollowness that accompanies them i cannot possibly fathom.

mostly, i think about the man i’m about to marry, my husband-to-be. the man who i want to build a beautiful life with, full of children and laughter and memories and wonderful things. i cannot imagine life without him, and when i try, i’m a bundle of hurt and sadness and sobbing.

it seems that as we get older, we lose more and more people that we love, people we’ve connected with, people we’ve made lives with. it’s awful and disheartening and depressing. it hurts to think about.

it’s difficult for me to find the right words to comfort and aid those grieving that don’t sound trite, overused or insincere.

when there’s a death, or a breakup, or even just a bad day, the best way i can think to offer my support is through food. a simple cake, or a lasagna, earnestly prepared from scratch with love, so much love.

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