MY friend lost her grandfather late last year.
Her Papa was old, hospitalized and fading away. She knew that the end was near. She had prepared for any eventuality, but, really, no person could ever be ready to lose a loved one. When he passed on, the pain hit my friend all the same, perhaps even worse. Her mental preparedness was no match against the emotional agony the reality of the loss brought. She was devastated.
I immediately extended my deepest condolences upon hearing the news. With our apartments only a few blocks apart, I also told her that I’d visit at a moment’s notice in case she needed someone to talk to, as she lived alone.
It wasn’t months after the fact, however, that I realized what I said was wrong.
In a recent encounter, she and I caught up and talked about life. And as most conversations with old friends go, ours went from the what’s-up-with-you updates to the looser nostalgia deep dives to, eventually, the real talk.
She said the current predicament of our common friend over her grandmother’s health issues reminded her of her own dark days, when she saw her Papa at his weakest. She drew parallels between the two cases, saying how hard it was to have a dagger hanging over one’s head, and yet act as if nothing’s wrong, to still appear strong and in control.
My friend grew up without both of her parents and her Papa was among the little family she has ever known. She said during our conversation that dealing with his loss, together with the road that led to it and the unknown path ahead, left her with the feeling of isolation.
“Feeling ko mag-isa lang ako,” she said.
Her statement caught me off-guard. “Pero ’di ba sabi ko kap—,” I muttered, failing to finish the sentence as I realized mid-talk the stupidity of my response.
I was supposed to restate the 24/7 help line I offered, precisely for moments when she felt alone, which, upon further thought, would only come out as blaming her for not thinking of reaching out when her mind was clearly all over the place and nowhere at the same time.
I realized that the gravity of such situations eliminates the need for permissions or invitations. As a good friend, it’s upon you to lend a helping hand, not just extend it. Talk to them when you can. Better yet, be there when you can. Check on them on a regular basis, because you’ll never know how badly they need someone by their side.
During that momentary pause, I was also reminded of the time when I was on the other side of the fence, when my mom passed away.
Losing a loved one cues a multisensory silence. “Multisensory,” because we’re not just talking about the absence of noise, but the dearth of everything else. The sorrow is too consuming that it relegates a person to a state where there are no other colors, only gray, and there are no other feelings, only void. Grief, in all its crippling effects, renders comforting words futile.
Sure, sending “condolences” and concerns worded differently to show care is great, but granting company is definitely the better option. No word, spoken or written, no matter how sincere, will ever be enough. The most a concerned individual can do to a person dealing with unimaginable pain, from my personal experience, is to be there whenever there’s a chance to. For the bereaved, presence is the language of comfort.
This was only made clear to me after the dust had settled following the death of my mom. My friends and family tried to do their best to comfort me with words, but at that time I was too zoned out to hear anything. I would give them a nod to acknowledge their concerns, and maybe try my best to crack a smile, but that was that.
When I started coming into my senses, however, what stuck with me were not the words, but the faces of those who took the time out to check how I was doing. That meant, and still means, a lot to me.
Months after the passing of my friend’s grandfather, I’m only starting to realize the things I could’ve done more. I shouldn’t have waited for her to tell me to visit. I should’ve dropped by voluntarily instead.
Most people say they find it hard to find the right words to comfort the grieving. Now I’m starting to believe that searching for those words is ultimately not only an unnerving exercise but a pointless one too. For the most meaningful thing one can give to the grieving are not words, but simple presence… voluntary and wholehearted.
REALLY?
(I would like to keep this short to continue fanning myself.)
This week I would like to crown global warming as the drawer of my ire. The heat outside is just ridiculous. I mean, really?