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.

Are you grieving this Christmas?

My husband was born on December 5.  Christmas and birthdays were always very entwined for us, especially with a daughter and a son with December birthdays, the son's on Christmas itself.  When Val was taken from us, it seemed like Christmas was taken as well.  I tried hard to make it not be that way, but I know that we all felt it.

Christmas when you're grieving is so very hard.  You might be grieving a loved one's death, but it might be a divorce, a job loss, or one of a million other things.  Grief is always serious and should never be overlooked.  But how can you balance grief and normalcy on the holidays?

First of all, don't feel that you have to.  My husband died in February.  He'd been gone almost a year in December.  I really don't even remember that first Christmas.  But in the years that have come since, I find that I still think of him more, still remember his excitement, still wish with all my heart that he was here.  My husband was part of my life for 13 years and gave me 4 children--I will never leave his memory out of Christmas.  I choose not to.

But you have to learn to go on, and you can't wallow in pain every year, can you?  You can keep your memories alive, but you also need to make new ones.  If it's possible, you could go someplace you really love for the holiday.  You might have single friends far from family that you could gather together with.  You can always arrange for something as a memorial--maybe you and some (understanding) friends or family can watch a movie your loved one really loved in his memory.  But at the same time, the gathering can become a new memory, one that will slowly replace the agony of being without him.  For a time, my family and I went to the Sharing Parents Christmas memorial, where we put up ribbons in honor of our baby and then also Val.

If your parting was not amicable, that has to be dealt with as well.  Maybe you feel guilty that you actually are happy (in part of your soul) that he's gone.  Maybe you have the day-to-day reminder that he's with someone else now--you grieve divorce every bit as much as death (maybe more, since there's no finality, only a daily reminder of a love that went off the tracks).  Either way, if you need to, please don't feel ashamed or worthless if you need to seek outside help.  It is the steps that you take that make you who you are.  Counseling is a necessary step for many.  I know that I would not be whole if it wasn't for the counseling that I received.

As you continue to walk through this season, accept small victories and admit small defeats.  If you try something and it worked for you, rejoice in that.  Maybe you could buy or find a small memento to remind yourself.  If you try something and it falls flat or makes you feel worse, then realize that and go on.  Please don't think that if you try and miss you should stop trying.  It's the failures that help us realize that we need to go in a different direction.

If you are walking in the desert this Christmas, God bless you.  I understand and would love to pray for you.  Drop me a line at meggiev7777@gmail.com if you'd like--I promise to uplift you in prayer this Christmas season.

write what you know

I went to a day-long (if you consider 8:30-2:00 day long!!) training for Stephen Ministries today.  It was cloudy and rainy, grey skies, and inside the training was on grief, suicide, and depression.  I was fascinated by what I heard.  The women who led the training sessions had all experienced the things that they were talking about, and they spoke from the heart.  I was especially struck by the second woman, who spoke on suicide.

Her name was Vicki, and she was preceded by another very knowledgable woman who told us about mental health issues.  She was very interesting--at a professional level.  I was interested but not absorbed.  Then Vicki spoke.  This brave woman lost her 21-year-old son to suicide four years ago, and her story was riveting.  She very forthrightly spoke about the mistakes that she made, the signs that she missed, and the grief that she was still experiencing.  One thing that she said struck me to my very core.  It was by no means the meat of the lecture, but it was life-changing for me. Forgive the paraphrase--it didn't occur to me to write it down.  But it's fairly accurate.

"There are others around now who can also speak, and at first I thought I would pass the responsibility on to her,  (but) I have assimilated the experience within myself.  This is what I know.  This is what I do."

Yes.  Finally I understand my own calling.  For years I have hesitated to write overly much about grief, death, suffering, but they are who I am.  I have dealt with loss from before I can remember.  I am 55, and in that time I have experienced the hospitalization of my mother numerous times, her stroke, heart failure and eventual death.  I have dealt with depression and mental health issues in my own life and in the life of my family.  I lost my mother at 15, lost one child through miscarriage and another through premature birth and eventual death, lost all my uncles and aunts and some cousins.  My father died when I was 34 (not out of time for him--he was 81).  My niece died when she was 20 and I was around 26.  On and on it goes.  But the most powerful loss that I experienced was the death of my husband when I was 35.  I did not recover from that for many many years.  You might say that I never will recover--you don't "get well" from grief.  You learn to live with it and move on, but it never entirely goes away.  Nor would I want it to.  He was my husband, and I loved him.

So what does all this mean?  Well, what it does not mean is that I go around with a cloud over my head all day every day.  Most days, especially now, are pretty good.  I can live from day to day with joy, because I understand that God is on the throne and I will see my loved ones again.  But it also means that I am different than many of you.  I come from a different place.  And I would not trade places.

When I lost little Tommy, I started going to a support group, "Sharing Parents".  This group was a godsend, not just for me, but for my entire family.  We all went, starting with Tommy's death and going through Val's.  One meeting in particular stood out for me.  We spoke of infant loss in general, with the speaker talking about doing funeral services for babies that were so young--miscarriages, really--that there was nothing to put in the coffin.  The speaker went on to say that the parents have been forever changed, but they would never go back.  It's the difference between being a virgin and getting married--you will never have the innocence again, but you would never want to go back to that naivete.

That's me.  I have learned many lessons in my life, and I don't regret a single one.  Not a single one.  If it were possible, yes, I would prefer to have my husband and son with me, but I don't regret the experience.  God became real to me in the pain.  I felt this from an early age, and it has just increased over time.  It was especially true in times of greatest need. For example, one day I was admitted to the hospital and it was determined that I needed to go in for gall bladder surgery.  Nobody was able to come and be with me, and I was very alone and very scared.  I keenly felt the loss of my husband.  As the gurney came to carry me to surgery, I called out for God to be with me, and I felt his presence beside me, holding my hand as I went down the hallway.  As I waited, it turned out that there was a complicating factor and I didn't get the surgery after all, but that sensation didn't go away.  It stayed with me as long as I needed a friend, and then it eventually dissipated.  Years later, my sister and my daughter were both at my side for my corneal transplant.  I was happy because they were with me, but of course, they can't go with me into surgery.  I was expecting God's hand to be there as I went down the hallway, and I was disappointed that I didn't feel it.  I questioned it as I went, and I heard God's voice, "I will be there for you when you need it."  Down we went to the operating room.  I saw the door open, the blinding lights of the room--and there was God's hand, right at the moment of my need.

When I moved from Bakersfield to Tucson, this relationship suffered.  For the first time since my youth, I was hurt and angry with God.  I moved because I knew it was the right thing to do, but there was no human companionship, either at church, at school, or in my community.  I realize now that I was very depressed and unable to reach out, but that was not something I could have helped at the time.  I'm grateful for my son, David's, presence.  But I've never felt so alone.

Slowly, gently, God took my hand once again.  As the years passed, I realized that there was one person that I needed to get reacquainted with--myself.  Through trial and error, with many steps backward and even more steps forward, I have been brought back to myself.  I'm thankful for that.  And as I've become more driven to write, I keep thinking, 'You have to write what you know.'  And what I know is pain and loss.  So I will not be afraid to write about pain and loss.

That doesn't mean that I will stop writing about other things.  God has given me a brain, and quite an analytical one at that.  I enjoy dissecting things.  I enjoy the idea of lectio divina, reading through scripture many times, with different intent each time.  I love exploring ideas.  All these things are fun for me, and I will definitely blog about them.

But I do believe that my first published works will probably deal with loss, with pain, with grief, with emotional trauma.  Write what you know.  But why write about this doom-and-gloom stuff?  Not to be maudlin, not to sink into the pit of despair.  No, to paraphrase the verse, I suffered and I was comforted.  And now I hope to write (and minister) to those who are suffering so that they can receive that same comfort that God gave me.

Going back to my training, when we finished and were preparing to go outside, one of the trainees remarked that the sun had come out.  We walked out of the building into the still-wet street, and the sun was breaking through the clouds.  I see both my writing and my ministry as that:  staying with others and sharing the walk through the rain and darkness until the sun finally comes out and it is once again possible for them to walk alone.  That's my goal. And I think it's a good one.

on sharing grief

My sister lost her best friend today.  Her name was Esther Peterson.  I'm not sure when she and my sister got to know each other, but I'm sure that  they were friends when they were living on Pioneer Drive in Bakersfield, CA, as teens.  I know that they went to school together, and miraculously, they didn't lose touch when my sister moved with my family, first to another house in Bakersfield and then to Taft.  I imagine that they were in each others' weddings, though I'm not sure of that, either.  Esther married a great guy named Ken Coleman.  I don't know much about the years in between, but I know that they eventually moved to Glendale, CA, (I think) and bought a beautiful two-story house.

You might wonder why my story is so spotty.  I am 17 years younger than Charnell, so I know only what I was told.  Esther was so close that the story was just understood, for the most part.  I'm sure my brother was old enough to remember the gist, but not me.  I have my own memories, but they are much later.  Esther came into my life when my sister suggested that we live with them while we were with our son, Tommy, during his eleven days of life.  I will never forget their kindness to us.  I particularly remember Ken sitting reading his paper and talking to my husband, Val, about business.  I was so grateful that he spoke to Val man to man, not as a much older businessman talking to a blue-collar worker.  I know that it gave Val a lift to know that someone actually listened to him and cared about his ideas.  Esther was there, too, and was invaluable to both of us after we lost Tommy.  I remember coming back, numb with shock, and saying that I was glad that this was over.  Now we could get on with our lives.  She listened quietly and gently informed me that there would be days ahead that would be much more difficult.  Later, she and Ken allowed us to share their home before and after our trip to DC after my husband's death.  Still later, she allowed my friend Vicki and I to stay in her house when we were there for some trip or other.  But nothing that I can remember comes close to what my sister felt for her.

I can't imagine what it's like to have a friendship that lasts throughout your life.  I can't imagine what it is to go through life and love and gains and losses together.  The love that they had, I'm sure, was more like the love between sisters.  I'm sure that Charnell was as much a sister to Esther as she was to me, and the thought doesn't wound at all.  I'm thankful that my sister had a friend who was her own age and shared so much.  I love my sister and our relationship, but I know that as deep as our love is, it's very different.

Esther had cancer.  She had been diagnosed years ago, struggled with it and came through it.  I think she lived free of cancer for some years, and then it came back.  She was a fighter, though, and continued the fight to the very end.  Charnell told me that she went to a family gathering the day before, and she had a great time, She came home with her daughter and went to bed.  And that was it.  It was a blessing, I'm sure.  My sister is thankful that she'd had a chance to speak with her a few days before she died.

When someone you love loses someone they love, it is probably the most helpless feeling that you can have.  I have been worried about this future loss ever since the cancer came back, and I knew today when I saw my sister's call (voice message) that it had happened.  Hearing her voice on the phone ripped my heart out.  She was so absolutely in grief.  My sister--my whole family--has gone through so much loss.  I so didn't want her to have to go through any more.  But that's the way of the world.  As we get older, our loved ones die.  Sometimes they die out of season; sometimes they go in the fullness of time.  But if they are truly loved, they will be missed.  And mourned.

What can we do when we are walking with a loved one through grief?  Well, I know for sure some things I wish people wouldn't do.  Don't try to say things to make it better. "Well, they're out of pain now.  Well, they're with their family again.  They're with God."  Sure they are, and that's wonderful.  But if you loved them, their passing will hurt.  And that hurt is honest and good.  Let them go through it.

Don't try to put a time limit on grief.  Don't assume that it will get easier for them as time passes and they get older.  Losing your friend is losing your friend, no matter what age you are.  If you were close it will hurt.  And don't put a time limit on the grief.  Some people stop showing outward grief after a day, a week, a month, while others seem to "wallow" for months or years.  They're not wallowing.  They're grieving. If they show you their grief, assume it's because they trust you as a friend.  As much as you can, just be there for them.

Don't bring up God--or be very careful when you do.  If you know me, you know how spiritual I am.  But I can tell you that I am not comforted when I hear others say "God needed another angel."  "It was him time."  "He's home now." "God needed him, so he called him home."  Aside from the angel remark (angels are not dead people), it might be true, but it is not helpful.  We're not talking about our normal friend or loved one here. We're talking about someone who is hurting.  They don't need to feel guilty because they can't trust God (that's not even the question), and they certainly don't need to be told that God needed them in Heaven more than he wanted them on Earth with us.  What does that make God?  People who are grieving don't need to sort out theological issues.  They need comfort.

So how do you comfort someone in grief?  Listen.  Be there.  Keep the line open.  If they need to talk, tell them that you're available.  And then be available.  They might be angry, hurt, full of tears, talking and not making sense.  That's okay.  Be there.  My sister's daughter, Peggy, died when she was 20.  I didn't have a phone and got the message, "Miss Piggy died."  My mother-in-law misunderstood and thought that it was a family pet.  I understood immediately.  I don't remember much, but I remember my husband staying home with the kids while I drove with my friend Ann.  I remember screaming and crying, so angry and full of grief I could barely hold myself together.  I don't remember a single word that Ann said, and I know that she dealt with grief very differently that do I.  But she was there.  She understood my need, and she was there for me in a way that only a friend can be.  Thank God for her.

And thank God for you if you walk beside a friend in grief. You are there to help them, and God will walk with the two of you.  Just listen for his voice.