10 Things We Shouldn't Say to Someone Who's Lost a Loved One

by Beth Saadati

 

Holiday season cheer tends to intensify feelings of grief. So, what should we avoid saying to those who have experienced the death of a loved one? Based on the loss of Jenna, my teenage daughter, here’s what I would advise:

1. Time heals all wounds. Sure, grief changes with the passing of time, and a certain amount of healing comes. But I’ve heard from enough people to know that, twenty years later, there will be plenty of times when it still hurts.

2. You’ll get used to the new normal. I have to embrace the “new.” But will it ever feel “normal” to never see my daughter’s face or hear her voice again during the years that I’m alive? Or see her friends driving, attending dances, going to college, and someday establishing careers and families of their own, when Jenna’s not here? I don’t think so.

3. You’ll see her again soon. The last word poses a problem. Time is a funny thing. For example, even though it’s been twenty-five years since my college graduation, it seems more like five. So, when I finally see Jenna someday, the skipped years will probably feel like a hiccup. But, on this end, the thought of a four-decade separation doesn’t match my definition of “soon.”

4. She’s happy now. She’s in a better place. This one’s messy, because it’s true—she’s happy in heaven and I’ll see her again. I want to be reminded of that. It’s still hard to hear, however, because Jenna was fourteen. It wasn’t time for her to go, and I never got to say goodbye. Plus, like any parent, I naturally long to know what she’s seeing and experiencing. But there are no texts, no phone calls, no Facebook posts . . . nothing but a sometimes-unbearable silence.

 

5. Her death was worth it if it reaches even one person. When I was pitching Jenna’s book, a literary agent asked me this question. I wanted to give the noble—the godly—response and say “yes” . . . but I couldn’t. Because I’d give anything to have Jenna back. Since I can’t undo her choice, the price of capturing her life, and my grief, in words is worth the time, effort, and heartbreak it costs if it only speaks to one person. But that—no pun intended—is an entirely different story.

Life's Unanswered Questions, Thirteen Miles, and a Friend

by Beth Saadati

With another hour left in the race, my legs begin to tire. My calves start to cramp. The familiar burn sets in, but the South Carolina inclines still need to be ascended. Every time we go uphill, Rocky picks up speed.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid. You do it fast to get it over with.” He powers ahead in a challenge to follow then waits for me to catch up. In wonder, I shake my head . . . and keep on running.

* * *

Two years ago I’d run my first half marathon to push through grief after my teenage daughter’s death. Last year I’d run to conquer the course with my running partner, Amy, and her son, Hansel—one of my favorite students, one of Jenna’s friends. This year I’d wanted to complete it a third time, although I no longer knew why.

With a son or daughter’s suicide, a wave of grief often crests every few days for the first four years. Nearly three years in, healing had gradually come. At the end of August, however, a tsunami hit hard.

Minutes after being told a mother’s daughter was missing, memories had come rushing back. Details and emotions I’d buried when, for a couple of long hours, my daughter hadn’t been found. Flashbacks of the unforeseen trauma from the night my husband and I, with a roomful of friends, were delivered the devastating news. 

New questions now haunted me. “Why, God? When Jenna was missing, where were you?” Though I wrestled to receive answers, none came.

But a Facebook message arrived from Ohio in the form of a belated birthday post from Rocky, another favorite former student when he was a high school freshman and I was twenty-three. Half my lifetime ago he’d led in YoungLife, served on the newspaper staff, and kept track stats for the team I’d coached. He’d even been a groomsman in my wedding.

When is your half marathon? he asked. Maybe I could come down.

It’s in two months, but I'm way behind in training for it. This year I’ll do well to finish.

I’m marking my calendar, wrote Rocky. Let me see what I can do.

When Fear Presses In: How a Wounded Warrior Wages War

by Beth Saadati

 

My nine-year-old son slides his hand into mine as we wander the aisles in search of a gift for his sister. He desires closeness. He wants connection.

I cherish the moment. After all, I know what he doesn’t—that the days before he’s no longer a young boy are numbered. That time speeds by and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.

That’s why we’re here. Because, after nearly three years without a teenager in the house, we’re about to have one. In a few days Christa will turn thirteen.

“Do you know what you want to get your sister?” I ask. Reaching over, I brush his hair to the side so I can see his eyes.

“A sword. I already told her.”

“A sword?”

“Yep,” he says, “so she can fight. I just need to find the right one.”

The mom in me is tempted to tell him to save his money since she’ll outgrow it too soon. Instead, I hold my tongue, because Josh is smiling. He looks happy.

It’s been a long week of uncommon bickering with the sister who’s secretly his best friend. He’s deep, battling thoughts no nine-year-old should have. He’s been fighting fear.

Fear that, lost in new teenage ways, Christa will pull away. Fear that she’ll enter a world of hurtful bullying, listen to lies, and lose her way. Fear that he’ll lose a playmate and sister. Again.

I speak words to comfort and assure him. “Christa’s a great kid. She’ll be a terrific teen. Everything will be okay.”

But, as much as I look forward to the joy of living life with my own teen in tow, I feel the fear too. I know no family is immune. And I couldn’t bear the grief of suicide a second time.

“Mom, WalMart doesn’t have it. Can we try another store?” Josh’s words pull me from imagining what I don’t want to see.

So on to Target we go. Same scenario, same warm fingers wrapped in mine, same perusal of plasticized products.

“There it is,” says Josh. He points, and I pull the Nerf sword down.

“It’s $15.99. Are you sure you want to pay that much? Maybe there’s a cheaper one.”

“No, Mom. The black and green is cool.”

“There’s a problem. Read the title.”

“Zombie Strike,” says Josh. “Dad will never go for that.”