This sentiment was one I would soon hear from countless people who reflected on Amy and the impact she made everywhere she went.
Of course, not everyone responds like the Margarets of the world. In fact, the variety of ways people react to a personal crisis like ours makes for a remarkable study of human nature. There’s no doubt about it, it’s a time when no one really knows what to do. Some instinctively get it. Others, out of either awkwardness or a complete lack of empathy, don’t get it at all.
Family, of course, is everything; and this was their impending loss too. They were remarkable every step of the way. From my four-year-old nieces to my father-in-law, Amy and I could not have felt more support. To a person, they all knew what to say, how to behave, when to gather around us, and when to give us space.
You know how in life you have those few true friends, that handful of special people you can tell anything to, they can do the same with you, and no matter what, you’ll always be there for each other? If you’re lucky, you have one or two. Amy and I were really lucky—we had several.
Then there are those good friends you see and/or talk to regularly. You enjoy each other’s company. You have long, chatty phone conversations, you make social plans, and you reminisce about the shared experiences that brought you together in the first place.
There are also those friends you’ll always feel fond of and connected to, even if, for no other reason than the busyness of life, years go by when you’re out of touch.
And with very rare exceptions they all, in every category, found a way to step up, just be there, and teach me valuable, lifelong lessons about the inherent goodness of the human race.
One of those exceptions happened on one of the rare occasions when I went to my downtown office to check in. As I was crossing the street, I saw an acquaintance coming straight at me. I’d known him for years. His wife had known Amy since childhood. Our kids went to grade school and summer camp together. It was immediately clear from the look on his face that he desperately wanted to say something to me, but as we got close enough to engage in a bro hug or a handshake, the most amazing thing happened: nothing. Not a word. Not a gesture. Instead, we stopped for a brief moment, he gave me a blank stare, and we were both on our way again in a flash. A word of advice if you have a friend whose loved one is dying: SAY SOMETHING. ANYTHING. It doesn’t have to be that hard. “Man, I am so sorry” is good. “I am thinking about you” works. But total silence and darting away as fast as you can is what I’ll politely call poor form, and your friend (in this case, me) won’t forget it.
I’d also strongly dissuade you from saying things like “Give me a call” or “Let’s get together,” especially without following up. That puts the responsibility for the first move on the person who’s already grieving and on total overload, and no matter how well-intentioned, it ends up feeling like one more burden. It’s a much better idea to call with an already-set plan. “Dinner. My place. 7:00 p.m. Saturday.” Maybe an added, “I’ll pick you up.” Even if the response is “No, thanks,” you can count on it that the gesture mattered and was appreciated.
What is a legitimate offer to help a person who’s grieving? Certainly that is difficult to say, and depends upon your relationship to the person who has experienced a loss. For example, many people wanted to reach out to me and meant well in doing so. However, “Hey, man, let’s get a beer some time” is not, in my mind, a real offer. It puts the onus on the person who is going through way too much to be the one to make plans. My mind was clogged with impossible thoughts of sadness, loss, loneliness, and a variety of other emotions. I was in no place to make social plans. Something along the lines of “Jason, I know you are going through so much, let’s meet for a beer at Union Pizzeria on Chicago Ave Thursday at 6:00 after work. I’ll be at the bar with a beer. If you are up for it, great, you can count on my being there” sounds solid. Clear. A specific time and place. Listen, the worst thing that can happen is that I don’t show up. Try again. Maybe “Hey, bro, I will be at your place with a six-pack of Gumballhead Monday night. If you don’t feel like hanging out, I totally understand—still, take the brews. I hope you will feel up for a quick visit.” Again, the worst-case scenario is that I don’t even answer the door! No biggie. Leave the beverages. And keep trying.
Oh, and also, that tilt of the head with a furrowed brow, or a slight frown with a little headshake—uh-uh. Please don’t do that. I know you’re sad. I know you feel badly for me and Amy and our family. But pity is the last thing we need.
One close friend of mine texted Grateful Dead lyrics to me every week, all of them on the theme of the eternal nature of deep love. “You know my love will not fade away” was a regular. Such a simple, powerful way to connect with a friend who just needs the feel of a familiar hand on their shoulder.
A high school friend wrote me a note in which he confessed that he had no idea what to say, and yet said it beautifully: “Know that I don’t write this kind of letter often. But I have learned not to doubt myself (or buy schmaltzy Hallmark sympathy cards). I think people worry about what to say to someone when they have lost someone dear in their life. . . . Amy seems like she would have said just write what you want to and be real. That’s what I hope I’ve done here.” Amen, brother, you definitely did. I could go on, but I think you get it.
One of our friends, Brian, showed up every Saturday morning while Amy was in hospice, always just to drop off three yellow items. Amy’s connection to the color yellow was especially illustrated in The Beckoning of Lovely, a project of community and connectedness you can find on YouTube, where Amy entered Millennium Park carrying a yellow umbrella, which became her legacy symbol. Brian’s weekly yellow gifts ranged from blow-up plastic duckies to balloons to mustard to anything else he could find on a thoughtful search through the dollar store. He never expected any kind of reciprocation. He never asked to see Amy, or expected to, but I was always the beneficiary of a bear hug if I was available when he stopped by.
One of my sweet nieces sent me simple postcards every once in a while, just to stay connected through our mutual heartbreak and let me know she was thinking about me.
And here’s a really easy, affordable way to offer comfort and support to a friend who’s in the process of losing a loved one, and maybe even give them a little smile. I recently attended a conference where a woman named Emily McDowell spoke about her company, which, among other things, really fills a void in the greeting card industry. They create cards for those moments when you don’t have the first clue what to say but don’t want to thoroughly nauseate yourself and the person receiving it. “There is no good card for this. I am so sorry” and “Please let me be the first to punch the next person who tells you everything happens for a reason” are two of my favorites.
Now that’s more like it.
Whatever tough moments and reactions we encountered along the way, there was no doubt that in-home hospice was the right decision for us, particularly because of how we were able to create a warm and comfortable space for Amy. No one has ever used the simile “as beautiful as a hospital room,” which is why we chose to make the home hospice experience as beautiful as it could possibly be. If you ever find yourself in the same position, take it from me, it makes a difference. Knowing the story is ending soon makes every word on those final pages that much more important, after all.