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.

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.