What to say when someone is grieving is tricky. Sometimes actions speak louder than words

First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

I learned an important lesson when I was widowed – grief makes people say strange things.

“Time of death, 10:05 p.m.,” the doctor declared, acknowledging my husband’s demise for everyone in the emergency room at Toronto Western Hospital.

“How Grey’s Anatomy of you,” I responded, insulting his real-life medical protocol. I’ve only watched a handful of episodes, yet, why my brain chose to associate the worst moment of my life with a hit TV show I’ll never know.

Did I mention? Grief makes us say strange things.

The tragedy of my situation didn’t escape me. My 32-year-old husband died from brain cancer. Snatched away at the prime of his life as a newlywed and newly minted Toronto resident. I was only 30 years old, branded a widow, and looking nowhere close to one of The Golden Girls, which is a popular image for grieving wives.

Widowhood confused me and everyone around me was just as flummoxed about how to deal with a young widow. Those close to me rallied around to try and help, providing me space to wallow and a supportive shoulder to cry on when needed. But everyone outside my circle was at a loss for comforting words when I revealed my relationship status.

They tried, and tried again. Multiple non-widowed folk took to explaining how my grief would play out thanks to expertise conjured out of thin air. Others decided they needed to get to the bottom of the whole story – the why, what and how. I was interrogated about my husband’s last hours, his last words, his pain levels. All often while at his graveside in Mumbai, India, praying for his soul.

“How sad,” “How terrible,” “Why does it happen to good people?” I nodded along in agreement at these phrases, playing the role of the polite, grieving wife. I bristled when a sympathizer said he felt my pain – because he’d lost his dog. “I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing how to respond. I couldn’t fathom the depth of a human-dog bond as I only had experience with chickens, parrots and rabbits as pets.

My indifference started to grow as a shield to well-meaning but misplaced summations. When in the mood, I’d drip sarcasm.

“My God, he was so young,” exclaimed one bearded bystander in the cemetery.

Yes, his age is engraved on the gravestone, I pointed out.

And the graceful widow avatar broke down completely when I was asked, “How long were you and your ex together?”

“He isn’t my ex,” I snapped.

That two-letter word indicated he was my past. That I had failed. As a perfectionist that didn’t jibe with my incessant need to be flaw free. I’d tried very hard to keep my husband alive. I looked for alternative treatments, cooked nutritious food from scratch, carefully followed his medication plan. We didn’t negotiate a conscious uncoupling. Cancer had made that decision for us.

But strangers didn’t know the details. What they saw was a young couple with a tragic ending. Their sadness on encountering our situation overshadowed the words they chose. Curiosity turned casual observers into either Sigmund Freud or Sherlock Holmes.

I hid my anger. Instead, I channelled the rage into writing a graveyard etiquette guide for the local Catholic newsweekly. I considered it a public service message for future sympathizers.

A decade later, while writing Bad Widow, a memoir-in-progress chronicling my first steps into widowhood, I realize that people were merely trying to connect, to express their humanity, however inappropriately.

And who was I to judge? My own retort seconds after my husband’s death proved how difficult it was for the brain to digest shock and pain. How did I expect people to know what to say when I myself was tongue-tied? I was struggling to find euphemisms for the word “dead” because it felt too harsh to admit out loud that my sweet husband was … indeed … dead.

One morning while praying at my husband’s grave I saw my father speaking to a man. My dad’s gestures implied he was explaining who I was and why we were there. A few seconds later the man walked past me, hovered his hand a few inches away from my back, whispered a quick prayer and walked away. Not a single word uttered directly to me, but it was a powerful condolence conveyed.

I learned an important life lesson that day, just a few months into widowhood.

In grief, silence is louder than words.

Beverley Ann D’Cruz lives in Brampton, Ont.