Who Has Dried Your Tears?

Healed by Words or Deeds?

Say “Thank You”—Out Loud

When Rabbi Kushner Opened His Mouth to Speak,

All Frailty Was Gone

He is large man, well over six feet tall, but for all his height, he seemed frail. His steps were slow and measured as he walked across the stage and took his seat. When it was his turn to speak, he again used deliberate steps to move to the podium. All frailty was gone, however, when Rabbi Harold Kushner, age eighty, began talking. The rich powerful tones of his voice dispelled any notion of weakness and instead radiated strength.

I’m not Jewish and I’ve never seen the inside of a synagogue, but Rabbi Kushner and I have a history. He didn’t know about our history until Sunday, November 22, when he finished his talk at the Miami Book Fair. Rabbi Kushner has written a new book, ­­­­­­­­­­Nine Essential Things I’ve Learned About Life, and he was speaking at the Book Fair to tell people about that book, but also to speak of God, the God he knows, the God he got to know more deeply after his son died at age fourteen from progeria, a rapidly aging disease. When Kushner spoke of God, it was almost like being in church, which was appropriate, because it was Sunday morning: “God does not send the problem. God sends strength to cope with the problem.” In Kushner’s view, the one he shared in his book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, God is neither the cause of nor the cure for the aches, pains, and sometimes-agonizing experiences that tend to break us. As Rabbi Kushner shared again Sunday, God gives us the strength to carry on after such experiences challenge us. Each of us will continue to meet sometimes-heartbreaking situations as long as we live. According to Kushner, asking “why” when we are faced with heartbreak “is not a question. It’s a cry of pain.” I felt better about God after listening to Rabbi Kushner speak earlier today. I felt better about life. I also was reminded of my history with Rabbi Kushner.

When Rabbi Kushner completed his talk, the microphone in the Chapman Center at Miami-Dade College was open for audience questions. I’m not one to jump up in a conference room of several hundred people and speak in a spontaneous manner, but I did. I was first to step up to the microphone:

“I have a comment for Rabbi Kushner,” I said.

“In 1986, my daughter died from brain cancer. Her name was Alexa Provo and she was seven and a half years old. After Alexa’s death, many people said some things to me that made me sad and angry. I also read many things about death and child death. Some of the things I read made me sad. Others made me angry. It was your book that began my healing. Through my healing, I have been able to reach out to others and help them heal. I never dreamed I would have the opportunity to thank you in person. Thank you…”

My voice started breaking, so, to the sound of applause, I returned to my seat. The woman sitting next to me wiped tears from her face. Rabbi Kushner thanked me for my comment and spoke of the many, many parents and other grieving people who have told him that his words have helped them in their grief journeys.

* * * * *

I remember my days of being steeped in grief and how Dr. Kushner’s book was one of the life rafts that held me afloat. When I once had so many questions of why God would let such a thing happen and I received only glib, useless, or painful answers, Why Bad Things Happen to Good People gave me permission to stop asking questions and accept that bad things sometimes just happen. Much as we want to believe that our lives, our world, our universe, have order, often they do not. Receiving the gift of strength to keep walking through that chaos and find joy in life is where we often find help from God.

I have purchased more than a few copies of When Bad Things Happen to Good People. At one time, I kept them on hand to give or send to people who were hurting because I knew that Kushner’s words would not further their hurt. I hoped that, as they did for me, Kushner’s words would help them heal.

Thanking Rabbi Kushner was an honor. My gratitude was and is heartfelt. Gratitude is the watchword this month and especially this week. I am grateful for the chance to thank Rabbi Kushner for helping put me on the path to healing. As Rabbi Kushner said on Sunday, you can “find God in the willingness of people to hold your hands and dry your tears.” Who in your life has held your hand? Who has dried your tears? Who has helped you heal? Whose words or actions have made the path toward healing an easier one for you to walk? If you have such a person in your life, thank them—not in a text message or an e-mail, unless you have no other way to reach them. If you can, speak to that person. Use your voice to let them know their voice mattered, that their voice healed, just as Rabbi Kushner’s voice healed and continues to heal.

What Not to Say When a Child Dies

Dear Cretins/Bottom Feeders

What Not to Say When a Child Dies

Dear Cretin/Bottom Feeder at the Barber Street Park in Sebastian, Florida (or anyone who does this): Do not ever, in your gross insensitivity and supreme ignorance, tell a parent what they could have or should have done to prevent their child’s death. Just say you’re sorry, and shut up.

* * * * *

I shut up myself rather than respond to the cretin I encountered on a recent Sunday in the park. While pushing my granddaughter on a swing, a couple brought their two-year-old son over and the father began pushing him. I said how much I liked the park, especially the shaded walking trail.

The dad, I’ll call him Cretin, agreed and said that a friend of his, although having terminal cancer, walks to the park daily, walks the trail, and then walks home. Cretin added that his friend is participating in an experimental drug trial. Cretin said that, nonetheless, his friend’s chance of a cure was near zero.

I had recently heard a Radio Lab program titled “Tumor Talk” on NPR and told Cretin his friend might want to check it out.

“In fact,” I said, “I e-mailed a doctor on the show. My little girl died of cancer 28 years ago, and I asked him some questions and we discussed how cancer cells mutate and become resistant to chemotherapy.”

Cretin said, “We only do alternative medicine. We focus on diet and avoid chemicals.”

Cretin’s comment surprised me for a few reasons: I just told him and his wife that I had a child who died, and neither of them acknowledged that. It was the first time in twenty-eight years that someone ignored me when I noted my loss.

Also, after not expressing any sympathy about my child’s death, Cretin shared his cancer-prevention philosophy.

I was stung by them brushing aside my child’s death, but I knew I had to say that diet and avoiding chemicals provide no guarantees.

“Sometimes, nothing prevents or cures cancer. Cancer cells are rogue cells. That’s why it’s so hard to treat,” I said. “I fed Alexa a wholesome vegetarian diet. We avoided sugar and processed foods and she still got cancer.

Cretin shook his head: “Oh, no. You can’t do vegetarian.”

The weight of Cretin’s words compressed my spirit. “You can’t” parked on my left shoulder, and “do vegetarian” parked on my right—concrete blocks of pain numbing me into silence.

I kept that silence for the sake of the two innocent children on the swings. I staunched the angry retorts in my mind. I kept calm and focused on my hand’s gentle push on my granddaughter’s swing.

My unsaid words creaked with the movement of the WD-40-starved swings. In a few minutes, Cretin, his wife, and child left. I don’t remember saying goodbye. I recall only the words, “You can’t do vegetarian” ricocheting in my psyche.

I felt searing pain at Cretin’s words. In his know-it-all stance on disease, he pointed an accusing finger: “You can’t do vegetarian.” Unsaid were the words, “You did vegetarian, thus, you’re responsible.”

My grief and my healing process have been ongoing for twenty-eight years. I know why people say (and presume) certain things: They believe if they do X, Y, and Z, they/their child/spouse/whomever they cherish will not die. I understand their fear-based efforts, so my anguish from such comments as Cretin’s doesn’t derail me for long.

My heart aches for bereaved parents who haven’t had significant time to process and heal from their grief. The insensitivity of questions such as the following crushes them:

•     The parents of a teen killed in an automobile accident are asked if alcohol was involved.

•     The parents of a drowned toddler are asked if they had a pool alarm.

•     The parents of a murdered college student are asked why she went to a party alone.

•     The parents of a bicyclist killed by a drunk driver are asked if their child was wearing a helmet.

•     Parents of a baby who lives only a few days because of devastating birth defects are asked what caused the birth defects.

•     The parents of a stillborn are told they can “try again.”

•     The parents of a suicide victim are asked if they knew their child was depressed.

•     The woman whose baby dies of SIDS is asked if the baby was sleeping on his back.

•     The parents of an overdose victim are asked if their child ever received drug treatment or counseling.

•     The father of a little girl who died as a result of a bizarre seatbelt malfunction is asked if his other children still wear seatbelts.

Most people are well meaning and are not insensitive on purpose. But those questions and comments still hurt. It’s important that people know that other than consoling, heartfelt words, it’s best to ask no questions, offer no answers, and especially never ever advise a bereaved parent what they could have or should have done.

Most bereaved parents suffer the infinite loop of “could have/should have/wish I would have.” No one should add to that distress. Only after processing and beginning to heal from their loss—and even then it’s hard—do bereaved parents know the futility of “could have/should have/wish I would have” thought progressions.

Bereaved parents know we cannot change what happened. We know we will live the balance of our lives without our child.

It’s a heartbreak living without a loved child (no matter if that child was six months gestation or sixty-seven years), but in spite of that, many of us have succeeded in having lives that are rich—lives that have great joy.

Help us cultivate joy. Help us be more compassionate and empathetic in spite of and even because of our loss. Be more compassionate yourself. When you hear of child loss (or any loss), just say you’re sorry. If you must ask a question, let it be this one: How can I help?