Acknowledging grief (or don’t undershoot communication)

An old school friend of Mary’s came over to visit about a month after Mary died. I hadn’t seen her since Mary died. She had probably last seen Mary a few months before Mary died. They had been close when Harry was younger, particularly around the time when Cara was born. Kids the same age. A shared understanding and connection with motherhood. There were other people in my house when she arrived. They had connections with Mary’s friend from primary and high school days. That’s where the conversation went. Who’s doing what. Do you remember her? What ever happened to? How’s his mother? That’s where the conversation stayed until she left.

After the first 10 minutes of the conversation I wondered when she was going to mention Mary. People bring up the topic in different ways. Some offer condolences, some disbelief, some advice, some just ask and listen. I’m indifferent now, and I don’t mean in a resigned, fed-up sort of way. I really mean I don’t mind. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I like to talk about Mary should it?

What I like is acknowledgement. Acknowledgement that Mary lived a life worth living, that her life was meaningful. Acknowledgement that she’s now gone and things are not the same.

After 20 minutes I grew frustrated. Was she going to say something? Surely you don’t travel across town to visit someone after their partner passed and say nothing? Do you?

After 30 minutes I just felt angry and withdrew from the conversations. Knock yourselves out talking about people I largely don’t know. I’m just over here thinking.

After 45 minutes she was gone. The word “Mary” was not mentioned. At least not in any way of consequence.

I look back on this and wish I’d said something early on. I’m pretty sure she probably wanted to say something but didn’t know what or how to say it. Filling silence with word putty is easier than letting that silence sit, settle and spread in a room with just thoughts. The silence does speak. I’ve heard it many times. “I don’t know what to say” it whispers. It would have taken courage on either side of the sofa after the half way mark of her visit had passed.

I have another friend who has gone out of his way to try and help me. He introduced me to someone who’d also lost his partner. His words of introduction were awkward. I remember feeling his discomfort. I can’t remember his words, only that us two widowers, being introduced for the first time, were reasonably quick to put him out of his misery by saying it’s OK, we understand what you’re trying to say, and it’s all right. He was filling silence, but with an intent to find the right words, to put sound around the emotions. He was trying to understand, to help us understand. He was acknowledging us and I think it took courage on his part. It was also a rarity in my experience of people talking to me about Mary (outside family and close friends anyway). Here was someone who was prepared to err on the side of saying to much (rather than too little) in an effort to get the words right.

…because I like graphs

I have an idea around these sorts of conversations where an element of courage is required, where there is fear of an uncertain communication outcome. Imagine there is a theoretical optimum quantity of communication (see I really am an engineer). Read communication here across multiple dimensions. You could measure it by the number of words, the enthusiasm of the engager, or the depth to which the engager is willing to explore or listen. You can imagine such a model as a curve, quantity of communication along the x-axis and positivity of the outcome along the y-axis. The curve peaks at a point where the conversation yields the best outcome for the griever (or the relationship). Getting the optimum quantity of communication is really hard. Firstly, it’s a function of the griever’s own personality – different for each person. Secondly, it’s a moving target over time with the changing moods of the individual.

However, if this model is close to being right, then I should see and hear equal numbers of people overshooting and undershooting the optimum quantity. But I don’t. The vast majority of the time people undershoot. Why? (I’m no communication genius, so I don’t know exactly where the optimum is in any conversation, however it is clear to me that people underestimate the right amount, and generally by quite a margin).

I have a theory on this too, and it’s to do with risk (kind of a Prospect Theory applied to personal interactions). I think people overestimate the downside risk of spoiling relationships with over communication, because the risk in that case is largely personal embarrassment and lies with the engager. Then, on the right side of the curve, they underestimate the downside risk of under communication, because the risk, generally speaking, is viewed less as lying with the engager (since they do nothing) and more with the griever (who fails to feel fulfilled). However, the net result in both instances is exactly the same; the relationships are not as strong as they would otherwise have been.  When I worked in business development I saw this all the time. Consultants working for my firm were more fearful of over communication, than under communication, even though both could produce exactly the same result: no work from client.

So what’s my point? Don’t be afraid to overshoot the optimum. Or at least, be no more afraid of overshooting than you are of undershooting.

Perhaps I’m overcomplicating things. It can be so much simpler. After writing all this I remembered a quote on a friend’s website, where this is all summed up much more succinctly:

If you know someone who has lost a child, [partner, parent, friend…] and you’re afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died–you’re not reminding them. They didn’t forget they died. What you’re reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and…that is a great gift.

The funny thing is I’m aware how indignant some people who are dealing with loss can be when other people try to talk about it and get their foot stuck in their mouth. My model is likely highly flawed by my very small sample size of experience. Or perhaps it’s just that the majority of people I know are introverts.

It does make it hard to know what to say, but I’d so much rather people talking with both feet in their mouth if necessary – we’ll laugh about it later – than when the reality isn’t acknowledged at all. If there’s no attempt to to understand each other, the connection can stretch to the point of breaking.