Tag Archives: how to

grieving

Holiday Grief: Empty Chair, Full Heart

I set my dead husband’s photo at the table again this year, propped in front of an empty chair at our fourth Thanksgiving without him. I look to his spot at the head of the table and smile. It’s not like a wound anymore, but like a familiar mark on a cherished family heirloom. We raised our glasses to toast him. He’s always with us in spirit.

In the first few months after Tom died, I struggled to understand how I could feel such intense and seemingly contradictory emotions at the same time. It took a long time to realize that they aren’t really contradictory and both stem from the same root: crazy love. Now, grief sitting right next to joy, neither one canceling the other out, feels normal.

One of the biggest surprises of this grief experience has been realizing that grief is not the opposite of joy. I can sit at a Thanksgiving table bursting with laughter and love, while that empty chair holds its space. The laughter, the love, and the absence are all there together. My heart holds all of it.

The next day, as we put up our holiday decorations, I sighed to my daughter that I had been thinking about taking down the blueprints that Tom put over the glass of the French doors. Tom had taped them there as a temporary fix years ago until we could get proper window coverings made. When she suggested framing a piece of them, something clicked, like finding the perfect place for a memento you’ve been holding onto. So I took the blueprints down and folded them carefully. I admired the glass that has been covered now for nearly five years.

Taking the blueprints down felt momentous, and I’m sure some of my friends have wondered if I ever would take them down. When I eventually frame the blueprints, I’ll hang them on either side of the French doors, which may someday have those proper coverings. I love watching how my grief and memories of Tom unfold in these surprising ways.

Every Thanksgiving, gratitude for Tom tops my list – not just for the time we had, but for teaching me that life is delicious and even the painful parts deserve attention. Life makes room for the contradictions, the missing and the joy.

I can miss Tom with an ache that still takes my breath away AND live this ridiculously wonderful life I’ve built. I can feel the weight of his absence AND the lightness of new joys. The missing doesn’t dim the joy any more than the joy erases the missing. They’ve learned to live together, these feelings, like old friends who’ve forgotten why they ever thought they couldn’t share the same space.

My life has expanded in ways I never imagined—my memoir writing, this blog, my end-of-life work, epic travels—and somehow Tom’s still here too. During the holidays especially, I feel both things: the weight of his absence and the lightness of living fully.

Here are two ways you can support a grieving person during the holidays:

  1. Acknowledge the loss. Holiday cheer can make those of us grieving feel more alone, not less. The festive atmosphere can heighten awareness of who’s missing. Instead of avoiding mention of the person who died, share memories of past holidays with them. Ask about their traditions and favorite celebrations. Let the grieving person know it’s okay to feel both joy and sadness – that remembering their loved one adds meaning to the season rather than diminishing it. Invite stories, look at old photos together, or incorporate their cherished holiday customs into current celebrations.
  2. Hold space for contradictions. Grief and celebration aren’t mutually exclusive – many who are grieving want to participate in holiday joy while acknowledging their loss. Rather than making assumptions, ask what level of celebration feels right to them. Some may want to fully engage in festivities while others prefer to dip in and out. Create safe spaces within celebrations where they can step away to process emotions. Let them know it’s okay to laugh and cry, to toast their loved one’s memory and also enjoy making new ones. The key is giving them agency to navigate celebrations in whatever way serves them best.
Aging, death, normalizing what should be normal

“I Am Not a Poor Thing!” How to Talk to a Dying Person

Last weekend when I visited Margaret, my hospice patient who’s in her late 80s and dying of COPD, she was having a challenging day—she was confused about whether it was day or night, how to use a fork, whether coffee is a drink or a food. I told her a bit about what I had been up to, and then she said she was tired and wanted to nap, so I helped her get settled into her lounge chair. As she was drifting off, a visiting relative who probably meant well said to me, “Poor thing.”

Margaret snapped out of dozing, straightening herself up in her chair. “Did she say ‘poor thing’?!” Her voice was strong and clear, her jaw set. All the sleepiness that had been creeping in for the past 20 minutes evaporated.  

“She did,” I confirmed.

“I am not a poor thing!” Margaret proclaimed.

Her relative looked surprised. “I didn’t mean anything,” she stammered.

“Well, I am not a poor thing!” Margaret said again.

The relative slunk into the kitchen to busy herself and Margaret and I sat in silence for a moment. “You didn’t like that, did you?” I said, and put my hand over Margaret’s. “Poor thing,” she muttered again angrily, before settling into her chair to nap.

I think the “poor thing” comment bothered Margaret because it tried to reduce her to something pitiful, something less than the complex, three-dimensional person she still is. It attempted to put her in a box labeled “dying person,” as if that were the only relevant fact about her. Even worse, the comment was made about Margaret to me but in front of Margaret.

Dying doesn’t strip us of our dignity, our personality, or our right to be treated as full human beings. When people respond to the dying with pity—saying things like “poor thing,” “what a shame,” “how awful,” and the like—they’re not seeing the whole person. They’re seeing only the illness, only the ending.

But Margaret is still Margaret. Yes, she’s dying. Yes, some days are harder than others. But she’s also the same woman who raised two children by herself, who read voraciously until her vision made it impossible, who loves animals and lights up when her grandson talks about his dog. She’s not a tragedy. She’s a person living the final chapter of her life with grace and authenticity.

So two practical lessons here if you’re spending time with someone who is dying:

  1. Talk to them not about them. Whether you think they can hear you or not, show respect for them by talking to them. I think Margaret was a little extra pissed about the “poor thing” comment because it was directed to me about her.
  2. See them for who they are: a person with a rich life behind them who is entering the final chapter. We all die—it’s normal. It may be sad, but it is not a tragedy.