“Sir, I’m sorry my grief is disappointing you, but please don’t tell me it’s time to get over it. It’s been too long. Don’t Compare my child’s death to the death of your 92-year-old mother. Please don’t.”
People often, unknowingly, attempt to tell grieving parents how to grieve. They may mean well, but ultimately, it’s best to simply walk beside the grieving.
To Whom It May Concern,
Please don’t tell me how to grieve. Don’t tell me I need to think about the “good memories“. Don’t tell me how my son wants me to be happy. Don’t tell me God wants me to be joyful.
Please, don’t tell me how to grieve.
Dear Friendly Mom, please don’t compare the death of my child to the “heartbreak” you felt when your child went away to college. Don’t tell me how devastated you were when your dog or goldfish died.
Please, don’t tell me how to grieve.
Sir, I’m sorry my grief is disappointing you, but please don’t tell me it’s time to get over it. It’s been too long. Don’t compare my child’s death to the death of your 92-year-old mother. Please don’t.
Please, don’t tell me how to grieve.
Dear friend, don’t tell me that I should be happy because my child’s in heaven. Don’t try to convince me that God needed my son to die for something magnificent in this world to occur, or that he was needed in heaven for some grandiose task. Please don’t do that.
Don’t tell me how to grieve.
Co-worker, please don’t tell me that my sales should be back to normal. Boss, please don’t expect something magical to happen at the one-year mark.
Don’t tell me how to grieve.
Aunts and Uncles, please don’t tell me I should be thankful at Thanksgiving, as we gather around the table and listen to all your living children say what they’re thankful for.
Please, don’t tell me how to grieve.
Don’t tell me there’s nothing I could have done differently. I could have drank coffee, instead of tea. I could have worn purple, instead of blue.
Don’t tell me I cry too much. Don’t tell me I smile too much. Just let me be.
Let me be a grieving mom for however long I need to be. It’s the last thing I get to do for my boy.
It’s the last hug.
The last tear.
Grieving is an immensely personal experience. And though I must do it openly, it’s very much between me and my son. Though I need you, I need you to BE and not do.
Be the friend who can be there.
Be there as I cry. Be there as I question. Be there to sit and listen, and allow me to say goodbye… for however long it takes.
© Rachel Blado www.OnTheWayToWhereYoureGoing.com All rights reserved.
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