The Holiest Thing

My friends Lisa, Will, and I are talking about writing a book about what not to say to people experiencing hardship of whatever kind. Chapters include Cancer, Miscarriage/Infertility, Divorce. I want to call the book STFU...Please, but Will and Lisa are holier people than I so I'm sure it will have a nicer title. As a little preview, here are some of my favorite examples of what not to say to a person dealing with pregnancy loss:

There was probably something wrong with the baby; this is nature's way of taking care of things; it's better to have a miscarriage than a disabled child:  Yes, the nurse at my doctor's office honestly said the last one to me. First of all, I know many parents of children with disabilities who would be tempted to punch you in the face for something like that. And second, like my friend Betty said to me just last night, "what about my life or my character has indicated to you that I will only accept perfection in my children?"

Now you have a guardian angel baby (or three): This one gets my friend Beth all worked up because the Bible does not say that people (or fetuses) become angels when they die. I'm less annoyed by the bad theology as I am by the thought that my babies are guarding me. That was my job at which I feel like a miserable failure. Don't remind me please that I couldn't protect my baby. Also, "angel babies," really? Are you trying to kill me with cheese?

There is a reason for everything; this is part of God's plan: I love a good debate about theology, so someday, when I don't feel like curling up on the floor clutching a bottle of Sauv Blanc every moment of the day, let's have a healthy discussion about predestination, free will, God's relation to time and space. It'll be entertaining and educational. Right now, however, it just makes me want to say things like "God's plan sucks," which tends to make nice people uncomfortable.

I miss the old Kim: Someone said this to me five days after I found out I was going to lose this last baby. I realize that grief-stricken Kim is far less entertaining/pleasant/accommodating than regular Kim, but seriously. I don't even have to explain why this is awful. You all know it's awful. Right?

I had ten miscarriages before I had my children: Um, awesome? Look, sharing our stories is so important and has been in so many ways my saving grace through all of this. Women who have been there and are now on the other side holding their children are my heroes and my hope. But I just had my third and sometimes I've felt like it might very well kill me. Seven more times? Are you freaking kidding me?

Let me know if I can help: I'm probably the only person in the world bothered by this. I say it to people all the time. Really, I said it to someone last night. And then to someone else two days before that. I meant it with the sincerest intentions. I really would love to help! Here's the thing. No one has ever taken me up on that offer. There are maybe only four people in the world I'd feel comfortable honestly responding to this kind statement and three of them are related to me. Asking for help is incredibly hard and requires tremendous courage for most of us. Putting the burden on the grieving person to summon the courage to ask seems strange. It's even stranger to show up to someone's house to wash their dishes or whatever, so I don't have the answer except to pray for courage and creativity when I want to help and when I need help.

So now that I've scared you and you're all making vows to never speak to me or any grieving person ever again, I'm going to drop the hard part. The worst, most hurtful thing any one has ever said to me in my grief?

Nothing.


There is nothing more hurtful than saying nothing. These other things that people say, 99.99 percent of the time I roll my eyes or chuckle and file it away for my chapters of our book. Because even if people say the wrong thing, it takes courage to speak. It takes courage and kindness to offer words in the face of grief, even if they are the wrong words. If you've offered me one of these platitudes or found yourself with your foot in your mouth to someone in grief, here's your absolution: you said something. Thank you.

I know how scary it can be to say something. None of us wants to say the wrong thing. After my first miscarriage when I finally learned how hurtful saying nothing is, I was devastated by the memories of all the times I had said nothing. Good friends of mine lost their very nearly full term baby several years ago. I went to the funeral, I sent a card, I cared deeply. But a year later we were sitting with them at a Red Robin and I so badly wanted to ask how they were and I chickened out. I didn't say anything. I let my friends think that I had forgotten their baby. My friend has since offered me gracious forgiveness because the truth is? I didn't know. I didn't know then that asking how they were wasn't going to remind them that their baby was gone. Another friend of mine lost her mom recently. She had people who were hesitant to wish her a happy mother's day (she is a mother herself) because they were afraid they'd remind her that her mom wasn't here. I promise. She remembered.

I read just last week that holiest thing you can say to someone hurting is I am so very sorry. 


May we all learn the courage to speak, the wisdom to speak only the healing things, and the grace to laugh at ourselves and each other when we speak the wrong things.