Sympathy vs Empathy: What Not to Say

"Oh, Sweetie.  You lost your baby?  I'm so sorry.  I lost my dog.  I know how you feel."

Really?  REALLY?  No, sorry, you don't know how I feel.  You feel sorry for me, and that's fine.  But comparing my baby to your dog?

Believe it or not, the above phrase is said more than you'd think.  The person speaking is well meaning, but they are blurring the line between sympathy and empathy.  That is a line that should never be blurred.

People sometimes get confused between sympathy and empathy, I believe.  Deffin.com does a good job of delineating between the two (here is the link complete with examples and times to use either  http://www.diffen.com/difference/Empathy_vs_Sympathy).

According to Deffin, sympathy is acknowledging another's emotional hardship and providing comfort and assurance.  Empathy is understanding another's hardship because you've been there yourself or can put yourself in their shoes.   The problem is that some people think that they can emphasize when they really can't.

Take the example above, for example.  What if the situation were reversed?  "I'm sorry you lost your dog, Sweetie.  I know how you feel.  I lost my baby once."  I think that once the words were out of your mouth, both the speaker and the listener would realize the ludicrous nature of the comfort.  How can you possibly compare the loss of a dog, beloved though it might be, to the loss of a child?  What possible connection  can you make?  A person who lost a child may empathize, yes, but would they voice their empathy in this way?  I doubt it.  Well, if you reverse this picture, think of the jolt that the person grieving their child would feel.  Not only has the person just lost someone who she had carried inside her body, not only has she lost a cherished member of the family, but now you have just compared her baby, her son or daughter, to a dog.  I understand that you were trying to empathize, but you can't.  It's not the same.  And I guarantee you that she won't be comforted. At best, she'll see the attempt and appreciate it.  At worst, it will enlarge her grief to include anger at you.

Here is a better way to say it.  "I'm so sorry you lost your baby, Sweetie.  It's so hard to lose someone you love."  The simple sentence may seem empty to you but it's not.  You have acknowledged her grief and affirmed her right to the grief she feels.  Words are going to be empty, really, no matter what you say.  This way, she knows you care and she knows you're thinking.

Let's try another one.  "I'm so sorry you lost your baby.  But remember, you can always get pregnant again."

At first glance, this one seems like a great example of the sympathy definition.  It provides comfort (sorry) and assurance (you can get pregnant again).  But what else does it do?  It brushes past the all-encompassing fact that this mother is full of grief in order to point to a future time when this "mistake" will be rectified and result in the successful birth of a baby.  But again, the response (usually unspoken) on the part of the grieving mother will be REALLY?? I can guarantee you that your words will be unwelcome.  The mother doesn't want to think about some future baby.  She wants--NEEDS--to grieve the baby that she has just lost.  And please realize--that baby does not have to have been stillborn or have lived for a few days.  A mother will grieve the loss of any baby.  As a funeral director once said, "I have conducted services over babies that were so small that the caskets that had nothing in them."  The parents needed to grieve.  The fact that the child was a miscarriage, not a full-term stillbirth, is irrelevant.  If parents need to grieve, they should be allowed that right.  And by the way, how do you know that the mother can get pregnant again?  Aren't you making some pretty big assumptions?  I can only imagine the hurt felt by a mother who has tried and tried to get pregnant and finally conceived, only to lose the baby.  Your well-meaning words are striking another blow, not relieving the pain.

So what can you do to help the mother?  Well, that's the problem.  Our society is a "fix-it" society.  We have come to believe that if we work at something hard enough, we surely will find a way to fix it.  But this will not be fixed.  This will have to be walked through, step after painful step.  Words will do nothing more than be a temporary support--one that might not last much longer than the fragmenting air that supports it.  But--words can be beautiful, if they mean something. For example, Saying that you're sorry is fine, but saying that you're praying--it means something, especially if you follow your words with actions.  It's great to say that you'll pray, but if you text in a few days just to say that you're thinking and praying for her--that shows that you care in a way that is concrete.  You are showing her that you mean what you say.  Why text?  Well, I'm going by my own experience.  I was not able to deal with words very well.  Texting or talking will depend on your relationship and also on the woman's makeup.  You also help her if she needs anything.  But don't say it that way.  Before you visit her, decide what you can do for her and then offer to do it.  Don't say, "If you don't feel like cooking, call me and I'll be happy to cook."  She won't call.  She's in pain.  Just make up a casserole or two.  Bring them over and tell her that you'd like to bring over a meal or two a week, if that's okay.  If she seems inviting, ask if she would like some company.  Otherwise, give her the meal, tell her you're praying, and leave.  You have to realize that sometimes the grief is too great to take alone, but sometimes the grief is too great to be shared.  Everyone differs.

I've said a lot about sympathy.  Next time--empathy.

"Whose little boy..."

The middle-aged man strode down the boulevard.  He was in a particularly good mood.  Viv had been pretty chipper today.  Some days were better than others, of course, and on this day she seemed almost normal.  Almost.

As he proceeded on his walk, a child caught his eye.  No older than three, perhaps, he was nevertheless all alone.  He did not seem lost or afraid; in fact, he seemed to be waiting for someone.  He sat by himself on a retaining wall, and as the man approached, he raised his head.  He had the most beautiful blue eyes that the man had ever seen.

"Why, hello, Son!"  the gentleman said.  "Whose little boy are you?"

The boy didn't answer the question.  He said, "Play wit me!" and raised up pudgy hands.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

"Play wit me!"

So right there on the sidewalk, the man took the boy's hand.  They sang songs, the little boy starting. "Twinkle Twinkle", "Muffin Man", and "Deep and Wide".  Then they played clapping games.  "Pat-a-Cake" and "Ram Sam Sam".  Then they just joined hands and walked in a circle together.  A lightness began to fill him that he hadn't felt for years.  The boy said, "Lift me up!!"  He did as he was told.  The boy gave him an enormous hug and a kiss that smelled of milk and cookies.  "Bye bye!" he cried and ran off down the street.  The man watched him until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

Many years passed.  The middle-aged man was no longer middle aged.  Viv was no longer pretty chipper.  Viv was constantly on the verge of disaster.  One day she was drunk, the next she was sunk deep in depression, and another day saw her preparing her will.  She rarely spoke to him.  It was obvious that she blamed him for their misfortune, although he couldn't see how it could possibly have been his fault.

He walked down the lane, barely conscious of his surroundings.  To be honest, he was afraid of what he'd find when he came back home.  He nearly bumped into the boy before he realized there was someone else with him.

"Well, hello, young man!  Whose little boy are you?"  The boy, probably 10 years old, looked at him sternly.  "You asked me that same thing before!"  His blue eyes were piercing.  Somehow the man made the connection--that child he had seen so many years before.  He remembered those eyes.  What he hadn't noticed before was that his eyes were beautifully complimented by hair the color of an autumn forest.

"Are you from around here?"  asked the man.  He wasn't sure, really, what to say.  Viv had never been able to have children--not after that first disaster.  With no little hands to hold, he had filled his days with grown up pleasures.  Speaking with this child now was uncomfortable.

The boy ignored the question.  "You're sad, aren't you?  Why?"

He didn't know why he answered.  "My wife is very sick.  She's very sad, and it makes me sad that I can't help her get better."

"Give her this,"  the little boy said.  He handed the man a small package with a yellow bow.

"What's this?"  asked the man.

"Just give it to her.  She will like it."  The boy walked away without another word.

The man continued home, He couldn't get over it.  How could that boy have remembered him?  How could he have never seen him since that time so many years before?  It was so unreal.  He entered his house, looking for his wife.  It was not hard to find her.  Simply go to the couch, and if nobody was there, head for the bedroom.  He found her in the bed, huddled on her side.  It was obvious that she had been there all day.  "Viv, are you all right?  Vivian?"

His wife, once so beautiful and loving, looked at him and the hopelessness in her eyes broke his heart.  He reached out to stroke her hair, and the present caught her eye. "For me?  Do you really think that anything you could give me would help?"

He had totally forgotten that he was still carrying the boy's gift.  He said, "The strangest thing happened today.  I bumped into a boy while I was walking home.  Viv, he had the most amazing eyes!  They were so blue, so beautiful..."

"Jason had blue eyes, remember?"

Jason.  The son they'd named for him.  How could he not remember?  He had seemed normal and healthy when he was born, and he had a fuzz of red hair and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.  Nobody could explain how it happened.  He was healthy and normal at birth, and then six hours later he was gone.  It defied explanation.

He was devastated, of course, but life continued for him.  He had his job, his life that took him to the office and adult companionship every day.  Viv never recovered.  She never went back to work.  She spent the first weeks after Jason's death in a confusion of denial, anger, vindictiveness, and pain.  It spiraled out of control, and it all ended with her being committed to an asylum for several months.  Finally, she managed to convince her psychiatrist that she would be able to deal with everyday life, and he was thankful to take her home.  At first, she seemed better.  The hospital had given them a tiny lock of their son's red hair and a picture, and Jason had gone to the jeweler's, bought a locket, and gave it to Vivian.  It had seemed to help, for a while.  But after several years, the chain broke and the locket disappeared.  Without it, she seemed to have lost what little connection she'd had with life.  She began to spiral downward again.  But they both knew that she wouldn't go back to the mental ward.  He would take care of her as long as he could.  After that...

"Yes, he did, Vivian.  The bluest eyes I'd ever seen.  So beautiful..."

Vivian reached out, and for a moment he thought she would take his hand.  But no, she took the present.  "You say a boy gave this to me?  Do we know him?"

"No, he just said to give this to you, that you would like it."

"How strange.  What did he look like?"

He described the boy to her, but no light went off in her eyes.  He was a stranger to her as well.  She took the box and opened it.  A locket fell out.  And a note.  And a photo.  She picked up the photo--a beautiful boy with autumn-red hair and piercing blue eyes smiled at her, daring her to come out and play.  She picked up the note,

"Mommy, please don't be sad.  I am so alive here!  There are lots of other boys and girls to play with, and Grandpa and Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa love me and tell me funny stories about you.  Please stop blaming yourself, and please don't blame Daddy.  I love you, and I want you to find a little boy and give him the love you wanted to give me.  You should know how special you are--not every little boy gets to come from Heaven and give his mommy a present, but Jesus knows you need this back.  You lost it at the mall.  I love you bunches and bunches, Mommy, and I promise that I will be the first thing you see when you get to Heaven.  But please, find my brother before you see me.  He is waiting for you, too!  Love, Jason"

Tears streaming, Viv opened the locket.  The lock of hair and the photo were perfect--just as she'd left them.  The chain had been repaired, too, and was like new.  She put the locket around her neck and reached out for him.  He lay on the bed with her and they simply held each other.

Later that year, Viv and Jason were on a walk, down that same boulevard.  "Right here, Sweetheart,"  he said.  This is where I saw him.  Wait, what's this?"

There was a pamphlet on the ground.  They picked it up.  It was a pamphlet stating the need for foster families, that there were many children right here in their own communities that needed parents to love them.  Jason looked at Viv, and they ran home.  A new chapter in their lives was about to begin.  They knew that it would end with a new son to love--perhaps not a baby, but definitely a brother for Jason.