What to Say

Digital art collage by Stella Kalaw

The 911 call, the coroner’s visit, and he was gone. I was numb, in shock, but tears did not come. Later, I felt like I was watching a scene out of a Corleone mob movie as the hearse carrying my husband’s body moved at a snail’s pace up the road, followed by two men dressed in dark suits to the funeral home, which just happened to be at the top of the street.

I had always thought it strange that a funeral home would be across the street from two busy coffee shops, right in the middle of this vibrant neighbourhood. Now I was their client.

As a widow, I found myself trying to cope with advice coming from every direction, every well-meaning friend, family member, casual acquaintance, everyone. Two months had not gone by, and I was expected to snap out of this thing called grief and move on.

Everyone seems to have a prescription for my grief as if sorrow were a common cold to be treated with their favourite home remedies. The suggestions ranged from the impractical to the absurd—each one delivered with the certainty of a doctor writing a prescription they’re sure will cure you.

I quickly master what I call “Academy Award Grieving.” It’s an easy performance: I simply smile, say thank you, I’m just fine, and swallow the truth about how my heart splinters anew each time they ask how I am.

The suggestions come in waves—tide after tide—washing up on the shore of my grief, leaving behind debris I’m expected to sort through. First comes the housing advice: “Why don’t you downsize to a condo in one of those tall apartment buildings?” Translation: surrender your home and memories for a sky-high box with a balcony just wide enough for contemplating the next piece of well-meaning advice.

When I deflect that, they pivot to geography: “Have you considered retiring to Vietnam? You’ll be treated like a queen!” My personal favourite: “Why not return to your homeland?”—seemingly forgetting that Hungary is the country my family fled from, not some retirement backup plan. Each suggestion carries the weight of its good intentions, heavy as the moving boxes I’m not ready to pack.

The activities they propose form a peculiar widow’s curriculum: line dancing (apparently the universal cure for grief), Tai Chi (where I watched two participants move so slowly I couldn’t tell if it was the exercise or rigor mortis), and computer classes (because apparently, my grieving brain should master new technology). Thank goodness for my 800-MY-APPLE helpline—the only advisor who never tells me to “move on.”

The job suggestions are equally entertaining. Working in airline reservations from home is presented as a golden ticket to free world travel—just me and 10,000 other new hires living the dream. Or perhaps I’d prefer a River Cruise through Europe? Nothing says healing like lounging alone on a deck chair while couples stroll past, hand in hand.

“Get a dog!” they say, in the same breath as “Travel the world!” The contradictions in their advice would be comical if they weren’t so exhausting. “Time heals,” they assure me, but none can tell me exactly how much time. A few months? A year? Five years?

In the end, I found my own solution. I will look after my children’s dogs when needed. These four-legged companions ask nothing of me except my presence and the occasional hug. They don’t care if I live in a house or a condo, if I’ve mastered computers or taken up line dancing. They wag their tails when they see me. In the end, dog-sitting for my children seems to be the easiest, guaranteed time-passing activity with no attachments.

There is no guidebook for grief, no prescribed paths through loss. Sometimes the best we can do is smile at all the advice and trust that we’ll find our own way forward, one day at a time.