13 Things Not to Say to Someone Whose Child Has Died

And a Couple of Things You Can Say

First of all, let me acknowledge right up front that it is never easy to know the right thing to say — or not to say — to someone who is in mourning. Words fail us.

In fact, one of the best things I have found to say is, “ I just don’t know what to say.” It has the advantage of being true, and it acknowledges just how difficult the circumstances are and how words are unequal to the task. Acknowledging how much something hurts, how much it sucks, is a Good Thing. But reasonably bright people, even bright and articulate people, and even bright, articulate, sensitive people struggle to know what to do and say when faced with the end of a life, especially the end of a young life.

I should also say this is not theoretical for me: In 1995, my first son, Kevin, died as the result of brain cancer, at the age of two years and two months. I heard some of the awkward, ridiculous, and even hurtful things listed below. And at the time, I was not always in a position to be open-minded about it. I am pretty sure that I let some people have it with both barrels. One of the things that we can do for people who are in extremis is to give them a break. If your friend, normally the picture of equanimity and kindness, bluntly tells you that what you just said was insensitive and stupid, understand that your friend is not entirely herself. Also, what you just said was probably insensitive and stupid.

Let’s see what we can do about that.

Thirteen Things Not to Say:

1. ♫ God must’ve needed another angel. ♫

First of all, if God needs another angel, then God can bloody well make one. If God was able to create the entire universe by command, then another angel should be the work of a fraction of a second. God doesn’t need to kill my kid to beef up his entourage.

I know that people are “just trying to be nice,” but it’s crappy theology. Even if you believe in Angels (and I don’t care one way or the other if you do), you have to know that they’re not dead babies.

Q: What’s funnier than a dead baby?
A: A dead baby with wings.

Oh, shut up. I have a license to tell dead baby jokes.

2. Are you going to try again?/You can always have more.

Seriously? My child, whom I just buried, was not a “try.” He was the light of my life. He was the deepest expression of my love for my wife, the living embodiment of my hope for the future.

And. He. Died.

Do I want another “try”? This is not the carnival midway. I did not pay 25¢ for three shots.

Also, maybe right now — while your bereaved friend practically still has the loam of their child’s grave on the soles of their shoes — is not the time to be inquiring about their future reproductive plans.

The following comes under the heading of Things Never to Say to Anyone, Ever: If a bereaved parent does decide to have another child, which might be the most difficult decision they’ve ever made, do not ask, “How do you know that this kid won’t have brain cancer, too?” Seriously? Just fuck you.

Yes. Someone really asked us that. The mind boggles.

3. Do you have any other kids?

No.

Well, now what?

Maybe this isn’t the best way to find out about the world in which the bereaved person now lives. Because believe me, it is a new world. So much so that there’s even a term for it: “The New Normal.” It’s not necessarily worse, but it’s difficult — especially in the raw months (and sometimes years) after the death of a loved one — for it to be better.

Still, this is a gnarly one. The intent is to remind you that all is not lost: there is still some joy in your life. But it’s a tone-deaf way to do it, and it’s really, really not your job to tell your friend that it’s time to see the good in their life. They might, and probably will. Eventually. But this question, with this intent, is an impertinent demand that they heal on your schedule.

4. If you have another (boy/girl), are you going to give (him/her) the same name?

Yes, I know that people used to do this back in the times when every family lost at least one child. But I have a calendar — hell, I have a computer — and it says that it’s the 21st century, and this is no longer done.

True story: when I was a kid, we had a dog named “Baron.” Actually, “Baron von Allendale,” after the street where we lived. Baron liked to chase cars. Unfortunately, the cars did not notice the small brown dog by the rear wheel, and soon enough, we all got our first taste of grief. When a new puppy arrived, we all agreed that he would be “Baron von Allendale II.”

So I understand the impulse.

But he was a dog.
And we were children.
We didn’t know any better.

True story: when I was an adult, I had a son named “Kevin.” Actually, “Kevin Takashi Kikoshima Land,” a little boy with a big, big name. A few months short of his 2nd birthday, we discovered that he had a particularly nasty form of brain cancer that took about six months to take his life. Afterwards, a (well-meaning, I’m sure) relative, who grew up in the Southern USA, asked, “If you have another boy, are you going to name him Kevin?”

Thus it is that my second child — my only, but not first child — is not named Kevin. He is not a replacement part, he is a person. A human being with his own name and identity.

5. Everything happens for a reason.

I’m pretty sure that this sentence is, itself, a form of cancer.

What would the reason be for a toddler to die from brain cancer? What would be the reason for a teenager to step in front of a train? What would be the reason for a kid to be murdered by another kid, perhaps over a drug deal gone bad, or even for no reason at all?

6. [Your child]’s death was so hard for me…

There are roughly 7 billion people on earth. And of all those people, you thought that I should be the one to support you as you grieve the death of my child?

I. Don’t. Think. So.

I am certain that my child’s death was traumatic for others. For some, it may have brought to mind the death of a sibling, a cousin, or a friend at school. Such folks need all the love and care they can get: just not from the bereaved parent.

7. I read that 80% of all couples who lose a child end up divorced.

Another true story: I heard this statistic from the parent of a friend. “You have to understand, ‘John’ is a very bright person. He did a lot of research, and he’s very concerned for you.”

If you happen to know some dreadful fact about people who lose children, please keep it to yourself. Go write about it on your blog. Pray about it, if that helps you. Talk to your own wife about it. But please don’t dump it on your bereaved friends. They know you care, and they really, really, don’t care how much research you did.

8. God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.

I know that it’s sorta from Scripture:

“God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.”
— Corinthians 10:13.

It does not mean that God will see to it that you don’t suffer trouble beyond your capacity to deal with it. It refers, as so much of Scripture does, to a specific situation affecting first-century Palestinian Jews. I am pretty sure that Paul didn’t mean it to say, “If it’s happening to you, then God knows you can handle it.”

By the way: If it does mean that, then God thinks I’m some kind of bad-ass.

9. It’s been ____ (months/years)… Aren’t you over it yet?

Ugh. This one. No. I’m not over it yet, and I won’t be. My world was changed. The person around whom much of my life revolved has been ripped away from me. Losing a child is something like I imagine it must be like to lose a limb, or an eye, or a vital organ: your life is not the same afterwards. It may not be dramatically worse, and, with appropriate care from yourself and others, it may be quite nice, but it’s not the same.

There’s no such thing as “over it.” So get over it.

10. I know just how you feel: I remember when my dog was sick…

OK, I get it. You’re trying to empathize. That’s sweet. But losing a child is not like finding that your dog has cataplexy. I mean, it’s similar in kind, but not in scale. Those of us who have gone over the precipice and into the abyss do not lack for empathy for the sufferings of others, but please don’t compare your dog’s polyps to our child’s death.

11. When I’m down, I find that doing things for other people helps.
So … can you pick up my mom at the airport?

I don’t think that this is a common one, but we actually got this one from a former coworker (who also happens to be she of the dog with the polyps). While it’s hard to imagine that she could be so selfish that she tried to use our son’s death to trick us into doing her a favor, it’s also not impossible.

Yes, sometimes doing things for others helps us process our grief. We’ll figure that out on our own, if we need to.

12. You should have … [whatever they think would have prevented your child’s death].

Do. Not. Blame. Me. My child died, and I am grieving.

Still, maybe you think that I should have …, so let me repeat:

Do. Not. Blame. Me. My child died, and I am grieving.

Generally speaking, if you are thinking about starting a sentence with the words “You should,” maybe you shouldn’t.

Also, I do not “absolutely have to read this amazing book!”

Yes, I let my child play with battery-operated toys and eat food with gluten and drink from a plastic bottle that may have been manufactured with whatever chemical you happen to believe is the Cause of All Death in the World Today. Maybe you happen to know of a cancer center that has a miracle treatment that might have saved my son’s life, and maybe we should have taken Kevin there…

Well, maybe I don’t need you second-guessing my decisions.

Maybe my son is dead because sometimes, that’s what happens.

13. You’re just in denial.

(And heaps of other psychobabble…)

As to this one in particular, my ability to laugh and enjoy life before you think I’m ready to do so is just how I am grieving. It’s not how you would do it? That’s fine: It’s how I’m doing it.

The one thing you can know for sure about another’s grief is that it is theirs, not yours.

About all the rest: could you just … not? If you have a degree, and the grieving parent has sought your counsel, then do your best. Otherwise, please don’t practice amateur psychology.

Things to say…

1. I’m on my way to the [supermarket/your favorite restaurant]. Can I bring you anything?

It’s nice to be remembered. As long as you don’t demand that the grieving family let you help them, you should be fine.

2. [Almost anything] that doesn’t demand a response.

After Kevin died, we were genuinely surprised by two things:

First, the sudden void in our lives that had been filled with constant 24/7 attention to medical stuff. It’s like we became home health care nurses for six months, then were summarily fired. You wouldn’t think that you’d miss round-the-clock care for a sick kid. Oddly enough, you do. More than once, we woke up in the middle of the night, suddenly completely awake and in a panic that we’d forgotten to do something.

Second, that bills kept coming to the house. The phone rang. The sun came up. As Herman’s Hermits once sang, “Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?”

Many grieving parents are not ready to respond to even the most rudimentary of requests: give ‘em space, and understand that it’s not about you, it’s about their kid.

3. Is there anything I can do for you?

I’ve seen this one on lists of things to never say to a bereaved parent, too, so it’s tricky.

With respect to the previous item, it’s best to offer to help without demanding a response. In the first days, even the first weeks, we return to the world in a kind of fog. Some of our friends asked more than once if there was anything they could do — their gentle persistence (not insistence) is a gift we still treasure almost 20 years later.

Knowing how to ask without insisting on an answer on your schedule is the trick. Learning to offer something specific that you know the family will appreciate, and understanding that they may just say, “no, thanks” (and mean it) is the other trick.

4. I’m sorry…

Whereupon the bereaved parent, if he is a smart-ass, will say something like, “It wasn’t your fault.”

Unless it was, in which case I am unprepared to give you advice, and will say only this: May the peace of whatever you rely on go with you.

Like the next two, “I’m sorry” has the blessing of brevity. It says, “my heart aches with you.” It implies, “If there was any way that I could change this for you, you know that I would.” What kinder words could there be?

5. I was just thinking about you…

Thanks.

6. I miss Kevin

Me, too.