JUST LISTEN

The house went still a few days after Jimmy died as our family and dearest friends returned home. They checked in frequently by text and email, but I had no energy to respond. My son was dead. What was there to say? 

A week later, when winter break ended, Jimmy’s younger sister returned to high school, craving a routine and the distraction of friends and softball practice. With Molly out of the house, my husband Dan and I struggled to fill the quiet. The silence felt dark and oppressive. Loud as a scream and impossible to bear. A constant, brutal reminder of who was no longer here. 

I refused to leave the house except for long afternoon walks on the deserted horse trails near our house. I was raw, exposed, turned inside out. The thought of seeing someone I knew was more than I could bear. The possibility of running into someone who hadn’t yet heard the news was terrifying.

The pain of Jimmy’s absence was excruciating, but so was the guilt and shame I carried. Parents are supposed to protect their children, to keep them from harm. That I was no match for the aggressive metastatic brain cancer that killed my firstborn hardly mattered. 

Yet, we were some of the lucky ones whose loved ones were willing to say Jimmy’s name and share stories or memories. They felt like precious offerings, especially those we hadn’t heard before.

I could show up as I was, dazed and angry and engulfed by grief. I could cry or sit dry-eyed in a strange state of frozen relief. I could show up late or not at all. I could be grateful that Jimmy had lived for eight years after his diagnosis or bitter that he had died before he graduated from college.

Only one of my closest friends had lost a child. Yet along with my family, they showed up, leaned in, and refused to look away.  

As time went on, I realized that I needed more. Parents who had walked in my shoes, faced the unimaginable, emerged from the darkness and found a way to live on. Other grievers who could reassure me that I was neither losing my grip nor destined to spend the rest of my life angry and embittered. People who weren’t interested in ranking, comparing or diminishing each other’s losses. Those who would share their stories, warts and all, and say, “Me, too. Me, too. Me, too.”

I turned to the internet in search of websites, connections, and communities of support. When I couldn’t find the right balance of believing but questioning, struggling yet kind, broken and brave, I created my own called Salt Water (https://findyourharbor.com). 

Salt Water is a safe harbor for people grieving the death of someone they didn’t think they could live without. A place where everyone is welcome, regardless of the type of loss they’ve experienced, what they believe, where they are in the grief process or how they’re feeling. Where each person’s loss, regardless of location on the family tree, whether feathered or furry, is honored without comparison or diminishment. 

I sailed into the world of blogging and community building around grief and loss, convinced that I had plenty to say. Ideas about what grieving souls need and don’t need. Opinions on what helps and what doesn’t. Experience with the deaths of both of my parents, a dear friend, our beloved yellow lab. Lessons learned in a trial by fire. Real in their own way, but not nearly as universal as I imagined. 

I quickly discovered how much I didn’t know, thanks to the gentle grace of other grievers and their willingness to teach me. We were broken in some of the same ways, many mourning the same kinds of losses.

Although we were all struggling to navigate the world after the death of a beloved, I learned how different the experience was for each of us. That there is no one size fits all. No universal advice, no magic words that can soothe every hurting heart.

The age of the deceased, cause of death, the presence of mental illness, the involvement of drugs, loss by suicide, family dynamics, socio-economic status, estrangements and so many other factors can increase the pain, alter the path, and determine how many (or how few) people are willing to stand by you. 

As much as I needed to talk, I learned that I needed to listen, too. That it was a privilege to be invited to the table for a conversation. I discovered that my family was neither special nor singled out, that the unthinkable happens to people all the time.

It reminded me of a time I asked Jimmy why he never asked, “Why me?” He had smiled sweetly and said, “This could happen to anyone, Mom. Why not me? Why not us?”

I often think of the phrases people toss out after a loved one dies,

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“Stay strong.”

“It could be worse.”

How unhelpful words alone can be.

We offer words instead of action to insulate ourselves from the unimaginable or to try to paper over the damage by bright-siding it. It’s hard to sit with someone who’s broken and not look away. So instead, we fix, repair or bandage without acknowledging or understanding that pain must be seen and witnessed. 

Grief is so often silenced or ignored. It’s easy to stumble or say the wrong thing, even if you’re a card-carrying member of this terrible club.

“I’m sure you’ll get pregnant again.”

“Your mom had a long, full life.”

Whenever I trip up, say something stupid, offer the wrong help or am no help at all, I remember how much value there is in listening. That it’s in that quiet space where we learn what we most need from each other.

Listening requires facing our most primal fears, admitting how little we know, how fresh out of ideas we are and showing up anyway. It means being willing to sit with our own discomfort and not try to grab the other person’s pain. To trust that the wisdom is there in the silence, waiting for us to find it, if only we are patient enough to wait for the words to emerge. 

Margo Fowkes is the founder and president of OnTarget Consultinginc., a firm specializing in helping organizations and individuals act strategically, improve their performance and achieve their business goals. After the death of her son Jimmy in 2014, Margo created Salt Water, an online community providing a safe harbor for those who are grieving the death of someone dear to them.