About four weeks ago after picking Zachary up from his adult day program (which we affectionately refer to as college) he wanted to make a plan. Among his usual requests was a choice to point the car in the direction of Costco.
Zach is and always has been a shopper. He is less of a consumer. He just likes to be out in the community where he can see things, people and who knows what else. The ride to Costco from college is about 40 minutes since we avoid the one closest to us. That location is always crowded and chaotic, which are conditions that don’t bring out the best in either of us.
Up the highway we drove, looking for motorcycles, trucks, and car carriers as we often do. Zach cannot make small talk, but he likes to chat. So as usual, we talked about what we could see, sang our songs, and repeatedly reiterated that yes, indeed, we were going to Costco.
At some point I heard Zach say the word monster. He had to say it a few times because without context I wasn’t sure what he was trying to convey. But as is usually the case, he had the right word, it just took me a few times to get it. The conversation went something like this:
Zach: Monster.
Me: What about a monster? Did you talk about monsters at college?
Zach: Monster Costco.
Me: Monster Costco?
Zach: Monster Costco. Halloween.
Me: Oh sweetie, I don’t think there are monsters at Costco yet. It’s the first week of July. Halloween is more than three months away. But there are other things at Costco that we can check out. We will see monsters when we move into the Fall season.
Zach: Monster Costco.
Me: Let’s sing something!
Zach: Monster Mash. Listen Monster Mash.
And we did. We played the Monster Mash song and sang along. It was already in my “recents” queue on Spotify since we play this song regularly regardless of the season.
Fast forward, as we approached the back of the huge Costco warehouse, we see a dancing skeleton and a massive werewolf towering over us, amidst some of the other outdoor items like tents and swimming gear.
Me: Oh Zach! Look! It’s a dancing skeleton. And a werewolf! How cool!
Zach: Monster.
Me: The werewolf? (I can be a little slow on the uptake.)
Zach: Monster.
Me: Of course it is. Monster. You tried to tell me. You’re so smart buddy thanks for showing me, and look how huge he is!
Zach: Take a picture.
And we did. Once again, Zach was trying to share something that made no sense to me. But as is infallibly the case, time revealed his intelligence, and I humbly appreciated that he could not exactly throw it in my face by saying he told me so. But the look on his face was definitely one of “no shit, Mom.”
I love this story for two reasons: The first is that it demonstrates for the millionth time just how tuned in Zach is, despite his ability to communicate it verbally.
The second is that every time this happens, Zach is patient and shows me Grace. He waits, knowing that in time, his point will be elucidated, and he will once again confirm his awareness of all that is.
It is this second point that inspired me to write about it.
In many of the group grief sessions which I facilitate, a repeated theme arises which is that some people just don’t get it. People we know well, and people we don’t know well are always saying the wrong thing. And it feels terrible and makes us feel more alone.
We talk about the isolation of grief and how hard it is when people say the wrong things or worse, say nothing at all. Frustration and hurt can arise from feeling like no one understands.
This theme reveals all kinds of unrealistic expectations that we have when we are in pain, one of which is wishing people understood so they would stop saying hurtful things like, was in my case after Alexis died at 13 months: Oh honey, you are young, you can have another baby.
After all these years of grieving, I have a developed a deep understanding that people don’t mean to say the wrong thing. It is just that they don’t know what to say. They are not trying to be hurtful or aloof, they just don’t know what they don’t know. And if they haven’t had to learn to live with profound loss, they can’t possibly provide solace when we are suffering.
In group, I try to introduce the idea that we can take these comments less personally, and generously assume that they come from a place of concern, care and support. But this is a tough concept to grasp. Being generous with anything is laborious when our hearts are shattered.
But now! Alas! Thanks to Zach and his monster I have this awesome metaphor to share.
As I thought about it, Zach must have gone to Costco with someone other than me, in recent days leading up to our adventure. So he knew the monster was there. In the car, he was trying to tell me that we would see the Halloween decorations when we arrived.
But because I had no context, and no personal knowledge that those seasonal items would be for sale more than three months in advance of the holiday they’re associated with, I just didn’t understand. That must have made him feel unseen.
Zach’s repeated attempts to communicate this to me were met with a complete lack of understanding on my part. I tried to join the conversation. I wanted to affirm his intention to share something with me. But I didn’t get it. I couldn’t get it. Until I saw for myself.
And this is the way it is with grief. We can try to talk with others. We can describe our experience. But if the person listening has no context, no direct personal experience with grief, they can’t join the conversation.
They just can’t because no one gets it, until they do. And then the aha moment happens, like it did for me when the massive werewolf stood feet above us and I realized what I’d missed with Zach’s chat in the car.
So, what to do?
When we are grieving, we know others want to be supportive and we sure need them to be. But when our cries are met with flippant comments and there is no one to converse with, other than those who might offer disconnected and sometimes painful responses, what can we do other than feel worse?
Well, we can remember Zach and his monster. We can be reminded that the person who has said something wildly inappropriate or hurtful, just doesn’t get it. They don’t realize that Halloween decorations in early July are actually a thing.
So, we don’t need to take the wack-a-doodle comments from others personally, which is a relief for both of us. They don’t need to feel bad. We don’t need to feel bad. We can just wait it out, and when they see their own monster, they will get it. Unfortunately.
In addition to making generous assumptions about comments that feel unkind we can also intentionally spend time with people who DO get it. And we are everywhere.
We can also practice exercising the same patience as Zach did, when he didn’t throw a tantrum because I didn’t get it on our drive up the highway. He just waited.
For more on generous assumptions, check out this post from 2021 by clicking HERE.
If you are grieving and find that someone you want to connect with cannot connect with you, just accept it. Let both of you of the hook.
You can decide to share your experience or not based on your own stage of healing, but you can do so without your feelings hinging on how well the listener can respond. And if they do say something that seems ridiculous, just remember that without context they have no clue what you are talking about.
And pray that when they do, that you can show up for them, because now, whether you wanted to or not, you DO get it.