So sorry for your loss...

Lessons learnt from bereavements, new and old

There is something about death that makes us exceedingly uncomfortable. We don’t want to imagine a time when our parents will no longer be around. We don’t want to dwell on the prospect of our own deaths. And we don’t even want to think about the possibility that some of us may survive our own children.

As a result, we are completely unprepared when death comes visiting in our vicinity. We can only guess how our parents would have liked their funeral arrangements to go, having never discussed anything quite so unpleasant with them. So, we flounder around, half-mad with grief, trying to work out how best to send them off. We don’t write our wills or put our affairs in order, because, you know, that would be tempting fate. And all too often we leave an almighty mess behind for our heirs to sort out – yes, the ones we are sure will live on long after we are dead and gone.

And such is our unexpressed but deeply-felt horror of death, that we don’t quite know how to deal with those who are newly bereaved. We want to express our condolences, we would like to be sensitive to their loss, and we certainly empathize with their pain (especially if we have experienced it ourselves). But there is something about death that leaves us all a bit tongue-tied. We simply can’t summon up the vocabulary to vocalize our thoughts. And so, we fall back on platitudes, cringing within ourselves even as we mutter them, knowing that we are bringing no comfort to those grieving.

Or maybe that’s just me. I still remember the acute discomfort I felt when I called upon a young mother in my neighbourhood who had lost her young son to cancer. I had seen the child grow up before my eyes, seen him waste away as the disease took hold of him, spent time by his hospital bed, holding hands with his hollow-eyed mother. I even managed to endure the funeral, heartbreaking as it was.

It was when I called on the mother the next day that I ran mysteriously dry on words. What does one say to someone who has suffered a loss like that? Words seem so inadequate in situations like this. But I still tried, telling her how much he was loved, how he was in a better place, that he was no longer in pain, and that he would always live in our hearts.

Platitudes. Every single one that I could think of, trotted out so that I didn’t have to deal with the real emotions that the woman in front of me was experiencing. Platitudes. That distanced myself from her pain and suffering. Platitudes. That allowed me to reduce her unimaginable grief to proportions that I could deal with.

I went back home, feeling ashamed of myself.

Ever since then, whenever I have had to deal with death and bereavement, I have tried to do a little better. And over years of mourning the loss of those I loved and those loved by them, this is what I have learnt.

• Sometimes it is okay to not say anything at all: If you can’t think of anything appropriate to say, stay silent. It is for times like this that hugs were invented. Just hold the grieving person close, letting them know that there is still love in their world. If they cry uncontrollably, don’t ask them to stop. Allow them to let their grief out by way of their tears. If you are crying too by then, it’s fine; don’t be embarrassed. Tears are probably the best way for you to communicate your feelings, until you are strong enough to find words.

• Allow everyone to grieve in their own particular way: There are some who can’t stop talking about the passing of a loved one. It is almost as if they are trying to desensitize themselves to what happened by telling the story over and over again. Just listen to them. That’s all they want. And then there are those who can’t bring themselves to talk about the one they lost. Respect their reticence. Recognize their fragility. And talk about something else. 

• Don’t avoid people who have suffered a bereavement simply because their grief makes you uncomfortable. It may be hard going sustaining a conversation with them. They may not be much fun for a long, long time. But stay the course. Don’t cross the road to avoid them because you can’t stand to see the sadness lurking in their eyes.

• Remember, grieving is a process. Don’t try to hurry it. Or ask people to start resuming their normal lives after a couple of months, as though there isn’t a person-shaped hole in their hearts. Allow them the time and space to come to terms with their loss, no matter how long it takes. 

• Acknowledge the fact that time does not heal; it just anaesthetizes. That when you lose a loved one, there is a tiny part of you that is always grieving. And that’s the way it should be. Because that’s the way we carry those we loved and lost in our hearts forever. 

Tears in heaven

Since when did we start deriding people for crying at funerals?

You couldn’t possibly have missed the brouhaha that erupted when George Osborne, British Chancellor of the Exchequer, let one solitary tear escape down his cheek at the funeral of Margaret Thatcher.

The Internet went into instant meltdown. Some derided him for this show of ‘weakness’ (you know how ‘real’ men ‘never’ cry, right?). Others dismissed his tearing up as a cynical ploy to show just how good a Thatcherite he was (after all, what was he weeping about, given that he had met the Iron Lady on less than a dozen occasions?). There were those who agreed that yes, the tears were not genuine, but put them down to the Tory leader trying to create a more ‘caring’ image for himself (remember, this was a man who was booed at such a feel-good event as the London Olympics). Amidst all the jokes, jabs and jeering, there were only a few who said what I was feeling: what is the world coming to if you can’t even cry at a funeral?

Full disclosure here: I am one of the blubbers of the world. And yes, I cry at funerals. It doesn’t really matter how well I have known the deceased, or how many times I have met them. There is something about funerals that brings out the tears – well mine, at any rate. Sometimes it is a particular bhajan being sung as part of the service; sometimes a tiny detail that evokes memories of funerals past (of those I was particularly close to); sometimes it is the thought of how I would feel coping with a loss like this one; and sometimes it is just the sight of close family members of the deceased trying to pull themselves together even though they are clearly falling apart.

At a time like this, sympathy segues seamlessly into empathy, and you can’t help but cry for the universal sorrow that is bereavement. This is not something any of us can escape. At some time or another, we will have to mourn our grandparents, bid farewell to our parents, experience the loss of a sibling, see a close friend succumb to illness. If we are very lucky, we will never know the gut-wrenching sorrow of losing someone of the next generation, who should by rights have been the one to mourn us. But no matter how life pans out, bereavement that is something that all of us will have to bear, sooner or later.

As the saying goes, grief is the price you pay for love.

But what is the acceptable face of grief when you lose someone you loved, or even just admired from afar? And has it changed over the years?

In India, at least, I would have to say yes. Growing up in a traditional joint family, as a child I was witness to the spectacular outpouring of grief that everyone indulged in when there was a death in the extended clan. There was weeping; there was wailing; on some occasions, there was even some beating of breasts. It was loud, it was disturbing, it was even melodramatic at times. But everything said and done, it was undoubtedly cleansing.

After such an outburst of grief, you felt that you had really mourned someone. There was no buttoning up of your feelings. There was no concession made to sparing the feelings of others. There was no embarrassment about letting it all hang out. In a sense, you were given permission to grieve as publically as you saw fit; as loudly as you wanted to. And nobody judged you or condemned you as an incontinent so-and-so.

In the old days, certain Indian states like Rajasthan even had professional mourners, called Rudaalis (the subject of an eponymous movie that earned lead actress Dimple Kapadia a National award). These were lower-caste women hired to mourn (as loudly as possible) in an explosive public display of grief. This worked at two levels. One, to express the sorrow that the family may have been shy of exhibiting in public and two, to goad them into have a proper cry. Because sometimes there really is no better catharsis than tears.

But that was then. Now, tears at funerals are seen as bad taste. It is considered somewhat repellent to make a public exhibition of your grief. If you must cry, then cry in private. You must not shed tears in public in case you make other people uncomfortable. So, chin up please (and make sure it’s not quivering). And let’s see what the British so delightfully describe as a ‘stiff upper lip’.

Well, I don’t know about you, but I am tired of being told that a display of emotions or the appearance of tears at a funeral (or anywhere else, for that matter) is something to be ashamed of. That we must present a stoic façade at all times, or stand condemned – as George Osborne was – of everything ranging from emotional incontinence to hypocritical cynicism.  

Honestly, it’s enough to make a grown man – or woman – cry.