The Blessing of Sorrow Read online

  I almost always hear an especially expressed relief and thankfulness when a family member tells me, “We were all there with her. It was very peaceful.” This is a fortuitous situation (not always attainable) but survivors are encouraged to be present, if at all manageable. With modern medicine it is possible to have a general idea when someone who has been terminally ill will expire. It is a bittersweet, hands-on conclusion that gives us a unique insight as we begin the trek across the bridge of grief. There is nothing quite like feeling the departure of a human soul. Many people have told me that it can actually be felt. The profound quietude of this departure envelops and softens the inescapable anguish and sorrow that floods the room when we see someone leave this earth. It doesn’t just happen at home. This kind of tender passage is also possible if the death occurs in a hospital, retirement home, or hospice environment. It is more about who is there than where it occurs.

  The difficult issue in a home death has to do more with practicalities. Sooner rather than later, the body has to be removed. Certainly, an interlude with the deceased is necessary. There is no set or “correct” protocol that comes with this pause. Some people need to wail, others to touch and kiss their beloved, and still others must utter some further departing words in the direction of the body. This is a moment unlike any other in our lives. We are, at once, bearing feelings of helplessness, inspiration, confession, abandonment, relief, and frightfulness. All this is mixed with devotion and longing and a searing awareness of our own mortality. If so moved, someone may wish to close the eyes of the deceased. It is not necessary to immediately cover his or her face under the blanket or sheet, unless people are uncomfortable otherwise.

  This moment is a milestone of incalculable proportions and will be retained in your heart and mind with uncompromising clarity. It imprints your soul.

  Nevertheless, action is required. There have been times I was with a family at home when their beloved died. They needed other professionals besides me at that point. In many cases, the family had established a relationship with a funeral home. Perhaps the now-deceased and family members had made arrangements in advance—an extremely prudent idea. In the American funeral industry, this is called “pre-needs,” and it spares the survivors a great deal of indecision and unnecessary costs at such a moment. The family has had the memorial preplanned with direct input from their beloved one. They do not have to second-guess what he or she wanted to have done, what kind of casket to choose, where exactly will be the burial spot, who will speak, and what will be the religious component, if any. It was all declared and contracted, even years prior, by the person now being mourned.

  Without these earlier provisions, people are forced to make painful decisions under great duress—an almost certain avenue to in-family disputes and conflicts. Of course, it is not always possible for someone to make his or her arrangements in advance. Some people are reluctant to do so and some people die suddenly or just don’t live long enough to really think about it. When someone dies, we work with what we have. But, candidly, the mortuaries, cemeteries, and cremation societies are in business. They generally charge a lot more for their services if there isn’t a pre-needs contract and the freshly grieving are considerably more susceptible to their financial demands than they would have been in a calm, reflective atmosphere long before this terrible day.

  Either way, a mortuary needs to be phoned within an hour or so of a person’s death at home. If hospice workers are present, they make all the calls and arrangements. If not, and no one has the number of a mortuary, then 911 can be dialed. A team will arrive and properly retrieve the body. Someone over eighteen years of age must complete a Pronouncement of Death form. The date and time on the form will become the official time of death. One has to be prepared for the fact that this whole process in the house takes awhile. A police officer may sometimes be present to ascertain that the death was natural and does not require an investigation.11

  If the death occurs in a hospital, the law generally requires the person completing the Pronouncement of Death form to notify the hospital’s organ procurement staff. That staff will then talk with the family about the opportunity to donate organs or tissue. Obviously, it’s easier to know the answers if the decedent left behind a directive in writing or on a driver’s license.

  In many cases, there are religious rituals that must be honored (wrapping the body in cotton or linen sheets, for example, if this is a Jewish or Islamic situation). This is out of respect and to prevent the leakage of body fluids during transport. However, the civil paperwork serves as the official Death Certificate that is pending. Regardless of the circumstances, the county coroner has technical requirements that must be followed. Depending upon the way a person died, the removal team has to undertake biohazard checks and controls. If there are any suspicious, traumatic, or ambiguous elements to the death, the body will first be turned over to the coroner’s officer for an examination and autopsy. In all cases, a death registration form must be filed with the county. Again, the living are confronted by the bureaucracy of mortality. It can be agonizing for a family still numb from the shock of death. But no life insurance company, for example, will release funds to beneficiaries without an official Death Certificate. In short, there are a lot of necessary strangers involved in handling that most precious of things—the body of a dear deceased.

  But not so for the soul. I believe a loved one’s soul is known only to those closest to the deceased and resists all functional intruders. I’ve been around death for too long not to sense and know this. When I watch people say goodbye to someone, or tenderly place a religious shawl or symbol on or around them; when I witness them affectionately arrange special objects, jewelry, photos, or letters in the casket; when they lean over and kiss their loved one, I actually feel the flow and cycle of human life emanating from the scene. It has made me believe, unequivocally, that there is something greater than what I see in this universe of humankind.

  I have spent many years studying and writing about the life and work of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I’ve been told by someone who was present when the intimate and grieving colleagues of Dr. King came to see his body at St. Joseph Hospital just after his assassination in Memphis on April 4, 1968, they comforted each other by saying, “That’s not all of him.”12

  The body is simply the temporary housing, the interim shell of the spirit. When the spirit is freed by physical death then the body has completed its purpose in this world. But the soul has an eternity that transcends both theology and science. It is the ladder that links heaven and earth. How is this process initiated? By simply remembering someone you give his soul wings; you can practically hear her voice, see his face, recall the shape of her hands. Memory leavens grief and allows the soul of a loved one to live close to you. It’s only when no one remembers someone any longer that the person dies. So, ultimately, it doesn’t matter how people are transported away from us. What matters is how they stay with us.

  Listening with Love

  Meanwhile, how does one talk to the grieving? Let’s start with this idea: less is more. It is often difficult to simply listen; you may feel uneasy and want to fill an awkward gap with chatter. But listening can offer solace to those in sorrow. They need to express themselves, and too much talk or clichés can cramp their ability to do so—it can even backfire.

  “I’m sorry your father passed.” I heard a visitor use this common expression with a mournful son during a condolence call. It was well intended and genuine, but it lacked the desired effect. Certain words sometimes come off as banal and trigger a negative reaction.

  Moments later, with the earnest visitor out of earshot, the mourner said to me, “What did my father pass? The bar exam? His driver’s license test? My father’s dead. The fellow could have just said he’s sorry my father died. He’s having a harder time talking about my father than I am.”

  There are many ways to talk about someone’s death or to emotionally reference our overriding mortality. Most people trul
y do the best they can. But when somebody else dies, it’s almost guaranteed that we will think of our own inevitable death. Phrases such as “passed away,” “no longer with us,” “been called to God,” and the like transmit a message that cloaks our own apprehensions.

  These are gentle euphemisms for the hard truth and they can blur the therapy of grief. They are not harmful or sinful, but they do occasionally sound like rationalizations. We Americans are usually straightforward and do not use metaphors, about, say, our bank accounts. Yet we are strangely solicitous about our mortality. The latter is more certain and has a firmer bottom line than the former.

  Sheryl Sandberg, the Facebook COO, lost her forty-seven-year-old husband David Goldberg suddenly in 2015. She has published and spoken extensively about her excruciating journey in the aftermath. In 2017, she wrote about the challenge of dialogue during fresh mourning:

  You have to find ways to break the isolation. I found it very hard to tell people that I wanted to talk. It felt like I was imposing my sadness on them. When someone asked, “How are you?” I kept saying, “I’m fine,” and then people wouldn’t ask me any questions. But I learned to say, “I’m actually not doing that well.” One of the most common things about grief, about loss, about adversity, is silence. So what happen is, you go through this adversity or trauma, and then what piles on top of that is the isolation of no one talking about it.13

  When talking about death, we are talking about one of the sure things in life. We should be compassionate, judicious with our words, caring—but not equivocal. We should not dance around the topic. We should be gentle but not indirect, even if the customs of language seem to obscure the realities. Regardless of whatever afterlife may or may not exist, the fact is someone is gone from this world and that person will never be seen again in the flesh. When attending to a family at the time of a funeral, I don’t impose a lot of practices, because I think people all grieve differently. Yet one thing I do require is that the survivors see the casket lowered into the ground. I invite them to use a shovel or their own hands to throw some dirt onto the lowered container. The thud of the earth on the box is shattering but it conveys finality. Understanding the finality of the situation, in words, rituals, and actions is painful, but it is all critical for each one of us to grasp it as we grasp onto the bridge of grief and the healing on the other side.

  Norman

  I was faced with a real communication challenge years ago. Norman Blake, a bright but forlorn musician in his forties, killed himself in Los Angeles. Even before this tragedy, his aged parents hardly ever left their apartment in Cleveland because they had never quite recovered from their daughter Frederica’s suicide several years prior. There was some sort of spiritual dysfunction in this ill-fated family. Two out of their three children ended their lives deliberately. How was I going to tell the Blakes that Norman had replicated Frederica’s awful act?

  I received word about Norman from his other sister, Marla, who also lived on the West Coast. Brave, suffering, yet somehow unstopped by this development, Marla expressed one overriding concern to me on the telephone. “Rabbi, you’ve got to go tell my parents. I can’t do it over the phone. Please go let them know and I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  I contacted a few members of the extended family in town; they all knew and were paralyzed with sorrow and uncertain how to approach Norman’s parents. We had to work and coordinate quickly. I worked up enough courage to drive over to the apartment house. Several relatives would wait in the lobby until I rang down to them. I had called Mr. Blake before coming over and told him I wanted to stop by for a visit. “Fine, Rabbi,” he said, sounding resigned to something. Later, the bereaved father would tell me that he suspected a solicitation from me on behalf of our synagogue.

  I walked in and sat down. The couple, gray and already weary from life, politely asked me the reason for my appointment. I opened my mouth and told them.

  “It’s about Norman. I’m afraid Norman is dead.”

  “What?” The two parents recoiled in horror. I kneeled on the carpet near them and held out both arms in support to each of them.

  Mrs. Blake’s eyes rolled in shock. “Norman? Dead? Was it an accident?”

  Mr. Blake seemed to discern what was coming. I said, “No it wasn’t an accident. I’m sorry to say that Norman took his own life. It happened in his apartment in Los Angeles. Marla called me. She’s fine. She’s flying home right now. I’m so sorry to come over and share such news. You don’t deserve this. But Norman is dead.”

  “Normy!”

  The mother’s shriek filled the tiny room. Mr. Blake, in a stony state, nodded at me. He understood. He had been there before. His suffering was palpable.

  Meanwhile, the mother was inconsolable. “I understand that Freddie had to do it. But Normy? Why, Normy, why?” She rocked in pain, falling into her husband’s limp arms. I held onto them a little longer, and then drew back. I was certain they comprehended. I went over to the telephone and called down to the lobby. Soon the apartment was filled with family members.

  People tried to comfort one another. Slowly, plans were made as the hideous reality settled in. I eventually withdrew from the scene and went out to sit in my car. I struggled to put the key into the ignition slot and realized that my hands were trembling. I felt my throat tightening. I saw Norman’s departed sister, Frederica, lying in her coffin just a few short years earlier. I gasped for some air, wiping tears from my eyes. I drove off, satisfied that I had told the Blakes exactly what they had to hear.

  “I Don’t Know What to Say.”

  So how does one talk to the dying? I have been asked this an incalculable number of times; it is a natural question that arises from the most authentic of concerns. I always emphasize the first thing to do when visiting a terminally ill person—be it at home, in hospice, or in any setting—is to remember that a person who is dying is still a person who is living. This person wants you to be yourself just as he or she remains him- or herself, physical condition notwithstanding. Of course, this may not be applicable in cases of dementia or other debilitating situations. Those visiting are certainly encumbered when they attempt to comfort or just listen to someone who, in one way or another, is “not there.” However, it is clear to me—and scientific evidence corroborates this—that even those in a coma may very well be aware of our presence and do absorb our words, as well as a gentle touch on their hands or forehead.

  The renowned Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, the pioneer of death and dying research, once affirmed, “I say to people who care for people who are dying, if you really love that person and want to help them, be with them when their end comes close. Sit with them—you don’t even have to talk. You don’t have to do anything but really be there with them.”14

  When you visit someone at the end of his life, do not, if at all possible, stand or loom above him. Take a seated position level with and close to your loved one. Again, it is always good to physically reach out to him. Perhaps if it is a family member, or just someone very dear to you, offer a kiss on the forehead. In the course of the visit, extend or lay down your hand on one of his hands from time to time. Your instincts will guide you. No tactile contact at all might make the person feel contaminated or undesirable. Offer the first words.

  “How are you feeling today?” is not necessarily the best thing to ask up front. And it also is not the finest idea to lunge forward verbally with such cants as “I know you are going to be all right,” or “Keep your spirits up.” Such clichés rarely help or are simply unconvincing, and they reveal your own insecurities or apprehensions about being with a person who is going to die soon.

  What I say to someone soon to die is simply, “I’ve been thinking a lot about you.” That’s my opening. There’s no real need to offer anything else, certainly nothing formulaic. This tends to acknowledge the situation and frees the moment from much of the painful uneasiness. You’re not starting with pity. The person knows you feel badly for him or her. You are entering with empa
thy and you are not telegraphing your own fears. That person has enough of his or her own at this edge of eternity and doesn’t need to add the burden of yours.

  This encounter is about the individual, not the setting. More often than not, if the person is still communicative, he or she will respond to “I’ve been thinking a lot about you” with some kind of statement, lament, or even just a sigh. It opens the way to a conversation that he or she is leading. Follow the individual’s lead even though you may not have a specific reply to some statements or questions.

  You might be asked, “Why me? Why is this happening to me?” You probably don’t have an answer to this question and shouldn’t pretend that you do. A sympathetic nod might be sufficient; you are helping the person by simply acknowledging the anguished query. When I sensed an individual truly wanted some explanation, I have often replied, “I don’t know,” and spoken their name. “I don’t know, Dan. But what I do know is that I care deeply about you and want to spend time with you.”

  If the person is in any way spiritual or is turning back to his faith now, it can be helpful to quietly suggest, “It might just be that God thinks you are special.” This statement can actually be comforting to the dying. They are really afraid and your suggestion that God is specifically interested in their plight is not disingenuous. It can be a balm for their terrifying loneliness. But, again, choose your words sparingly. Remember that whenever you are clearly listening, you are definitively not saying the wrong thing.

  Don’t make the mistake I once made years ago when I was a much less experienced rabbi. A relatively young woman in my congregation at the time had been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. She was married to one of the synagogue lay leaders and they made an appealing, energetic, and very philanthropic couple. Everyone loved Lynn and was aggrieved about her ominous diagnosis at the age of forty-two.

  During a visit with her in the hospital, Lynn asked me what I thought of her prospects. Eager to promote optimism, I answered, “You know, I believe you will be okay.” (Once again, the American tendency toward reflexive cheerfulness—even in mortality situations—prevailed.) Lynn smiled faintly, but I sensed she wasn’t convinced.