“I’m not strong enough to deal with their pain and try to deal with mine as well.”
She had lost her son just a few months before, but she didn’t want to share that knowledge with anyone. Why? Because every time she tried to, they managed to turn the conversation away from her son’s death and toward their own problems. The first time she tried to talk about his death . . . because she needed to talk about his death . . . her good friend began telling her about all the ailments her husband was experiencing and how nothing seemed to help . . .
She tried again, not so much as an intentional effort but more like walking through an open conversational door. Again, the listening ear she had chosen deemed it more appropriate to begin talking about all of her problems which, honestly, paled in comparison to the loss with which she was trying to cope.
And she didn’t understand why. Why was it that everyone seemed intent on one-upping her in what seemed to be a game of Whose Grief Is Greater? As I read her story it reminded me of the scene from “Jaws” where they were all more than slightly inebriated, sitting around a table below deck, comparing their scars to see who had the worst one and the best story to go with it. Theirs was a harmless game eventually interrupted by an angry shark. Hers was to be her life from the moment of his death until her own, and the people around her didn’t realize they weren’t being helpful.
Perhaps they believed by sharing their own stories of woe they would show her she wasn’t alone in her suffering, but guess what? She already knew that, and the old saying “misery loves company” did not hold true for her in that moment. Perhaps they believed their troubles would distract her from her own, but if that was the end goal it was a terrible choice. Their pain only magnified hers and then made her feel guilty for trying to share it, and distraught that she was not in a mental and emotional place where she could help. And perhaps they just needed a safe place to give voice to their own struggles, but again, she could not handle both. You can say turn about is fair play and if she expected them to listen to her then she should be willing to listen to them, but there’s only so much the human mind and heart can take, and she had reached her limit with her own child’s death.
I have a set of characters I used in the Wednesday night class I once taught at the church I attended. The kids were five and six years old and the whole point of these giant posters was to remind them of how they should act in class and during church services. I had drawn them myself (so you know they were artistically amazing [and a sarcasm font would be really handy right about now]) and at the beginning of each year—and occasionally in the middle of, should the need arise—we’d go over each one and decide who we wanted to be like and who maybe not so much. There was Nellie Not-Nice and Timmy Tattletale and Caroline Color Hog, but there was also Sammy Sharing and Sally Singer . . . and Lester Listener. Lester had really big ears—and his mouth was closed. I always pointed it out to the class, telling them there was a reason for that. Your ears don’t work if your mouth is open. The message was that talking during our lesson should be minimized, but it’s even more important when someone is broken and hurting. When they open their mouth in an effort to share the burden they are struggling to carry, the first thing we should do is close ours.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
