There are a lot of things never to say to a widow. This is one of them.
“You were lucky to have him.”
If someone were run over and lying in the street with their legs crushed, would you say to them, before the ambulance had even arrived, “You were lucky to have walked” ?
“You were lucky to have him.”
I know, you didn’t mean to be unfeeling. I know, you didn’t know what to say. I know, you were doing the best you could. But is it really my job to teach you how to comfort me, at this time?
“You were lucky to have him.”
And unlucky: I face a life in which I no longer ‘have’ him.
“You were lucky to have him.”
But his death was painful and long drawn out. Or unexpected. Or he died young. Or he didn’t leave life insurance. Or I suddenly have three young, now-fatherless children to support on one part-time income. Or I have no children, and he was my only actual family. Or we ran a business together and I have no idea how to do his part of it. Or our last conversation happened to be a fight.
Tell me, where’s the luck?
“You were lucky to have him.”
That’s exactly why, even though I’m standing here saying to you politely ,”Yes, I was,” I’m actually lying on the floor now screaming, pounding my fists, sobbing, screaming.
“You were lucky to have him.”
Yes, and he was lucky to have me, and we worked our asses off to have the relationship we had, and now he is gone from this earth and I can never get him back and my life as I knew it is over, so how is reminding me of what I already know helpful?
“You were lucky to have him.”
… excuse me, not feeling lucky right now. I have to plan the memorial and figure out how to get Quicken to de-encrypt the passwords so I can find out how much money we, I mean I, even have, and I’m going on very little sleep though I wish I could sleep, though when I wake up and he is still dead, it’s…. Yes, I was lucky.
“You were lucky to have him.”
No. Fucking. Kidding. That’s why I’m grieving, you numbskull! How can you not know this?
“You were lucky to have him.”
I was, but even though I knew that, something’s starting to dawn on me. The way he would automatically, unasked, take the dried chiles I like and crumble them onto pasta for me, because I wear contacts and he was sparing me later pain , from chile-fingers, when I took my lenses out. I think about that, and you know what? No one will ever crumble chiles like that for me again.
And I am just now starting to realize not just how much I lost but how much I took for granted, and, honey, that is its own horror.
“You were lucky to have him.”
You are telling me something to which there is no wholly true, honest answer. Yes, of course I was “lucky.” Not to reply “yes” would demean him, be inaccurate. It would seem (especially to you, who were not so “lucky” as to ever have a good relationship with someone you were justifiably crazy about, as he was with you, and with whom you built a life) ungrateful.
But replying “yes” denies what I feel right now: desperate, bottomless grief, thorough disorientation.
“You were lucky to have him.”
So I should feel guilty and ungrateful for grieving?
“You were lucky to have him.”
You think I don’t not only know that, but remind myself of that daily? You think it does one damn bit of good?
Next Wednesday: YOU WERE LUCKY TO HAVE HIM”: GENTLER REFLECTIONS
Wonderful stuff!
I have heard this so many times, along with you will see him again in the next life- neither are comforting- I lost my husband very unexpectedly 2 1/2 years ago. Yes, I am lucky- I HAD a wonderful life, my children HAD a wonderful father- we put one foot in front of the other everyday- it is an emotional struggle everyday- this is not the luck I wish for anyone- Thank you for your posts. You say the things we are feeling.
Thank you, Kathy. I am trying hard to say trhe things we feel — I have come to feel, all these years on, that I must. May be a way to make use of all this. Thank you.
Thdere are so many wrong-headed things to say. I will write about others of them over time, I think. Still finding my way with WWs — this is my fourth.
Thank you, Crescent! What wonderful, REAL responses that you’ve written. And yes, I feel lucky for hundreds of other reasons as well BUT, I too would so desperately like to respond to someone that said such a thing with, “Lucky, yes, I WAS lucky … not feeling so at present … NOW I have to figure out how the hell I’m going to live the next 30 to 40 years without my loving husband and VERY best friend … ” 💔 I’ve had to smile and nod a lot when quite a few people have said to me, “At least he’s not in pain anymore.” Luckily for them, I know they mean well, so I refrained from any hurtful responses… even though it feels like a physical blow when they say things like that.
I think it’s important that we stop acquiescing when we get condolences that do not condole but “feel like a physical blow.” Not saying we should ever be rude, but how will the well-meaning but unintentionally cruel ever learn unless we stop smiling and nodding when we are in agony? Of course HOW we tell the truth, and tell it kindly, when we are in such a difficult and fraught state, is another question… I just believe we must.
I am working up to a “start the conversation about widowhood” video, with a call-in to follow it, for anyone who wants to jump in and participate. I think in the first one I may try to explore this issue… speaking the unspeakable … what to say that really is of comfort (especially for friends of widows) and how to respond when something is spoken to you that is patently false and unhelpful (for widows themselves).
xxxxoooo — I know you are living this now. So hard, my dear. So hard. I wish you still had your dear hunnyman.
First, I am so sorry for your loss, Crescent. very sorry, but words are inadequete in this. I have your books, and love them, escpecially Bean bt Bean. I just happened upon your blog today and feel horrible learning you lost your life mate. But thank you for your openness and candor in sharing this post and others about your painful journey. We often say dumb ineffective things when confronted with someone’s loss. It is not an excuse, far from it. We need to learn as a society to not say trite, insensitive things and I am grateful you are starting this conversation. It may seem awkward to some but I think it is a step in the right direction to point out to others that their stand by ‘comfort’ statements do not offer the comfort they believe it does, but in fact causes more hurt, however unintentional it may be. Hugs to you, dear lady. And even that is not much considering the huge loss in your life.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Lily. My hope is, my sense is, that EVERYONE needs to participate in this conversation, because one way or another (either by needing to comfort and console others, or, ourselves, be in need of comfort and consolation) this impacts all of us. Few not yet impacted directly are brave enough to start thinking about something so difficult a subject (and so awkward a topic to speak of, as you say). It truly makes gladdens me when non-widows show the kind of courage and compassion you exhibit here.
Thank you, too, for your condolence. Wordsworth said of poetry that it was “emotion recollected in tranquility.” I could not write about this topic were I still in the agitation and agony of the early stages. My candor comes from 1, having been on this path for awhile and 2, seeing other friends losing their dear partners and being crashed on the rocks of grief. I wish to say, as I titled one of these, it’s not insanity, it’s grief. All by way of saying, yes, I had a lot of loss, and some of it horrendous. BUT in the immediate, right-now sense (it is 17 years since I lost my husband) I am happy and well snuggled into life.
And I hope you are too! Again, my thanks.
Thank you for speaking out.
Thank you, Rosie. It’s taken me 17 years to feel fully clear enough! I hope more of us speak out: truthfully but kindly. The more of us who do, then, incrementally, the better it will be for widows down the road… maybe less of a harsh wasteland.
whoo