Front Porch: Take opportunity to express condolences

Like a slalom skier, I tried to maneuver my cart quickly through the clogged Costco aisles. I rounded a corner sharply when I heard a soft voice say, “Hey, Cindy!”

It was an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in awhile. The last I heard she was expecting her third child. “How are you?” I said, trying to be subtle as I looked at her winter-clad figure for signs of advanced pregnancy.

“I’m OK,” she said. “But …”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I had a miscarriage last month.”

The words flew out of my mouth as I wrapped her in a hug, “Oh! I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

We stood there – an island of sadness in the baking supplies section. Her shoulders shook as she leaned into my embrace. “Thank you for acknowledging my loss,” she said. “So many people don’t say anything. It’s as if the baby never existed, but he did and I wanted him!”

And then I was crying, too. Her pain opened a floodgate of memories.

Twenty-seven years ago, I was a young bride eagerly expecting my first baby. Though the pregnancy was a surprise, it was a welcome one. All my life I’d wanted to be a mother. I couldn’t wait to hold my first baby in my arms.

Though I hadn’t gained more than a pound or two I went on a maternity clothes buying binge. I can still see the pink and green billowy blouse I was wearing at work when the unthinkable happened. I started miscarrying.

My boss called my doctor and he said I should go home immediately and try to rest – that he’d see me in the morning or sooner, but there was very little to be done at this point.

Very little to be done? I was in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. I felt great. The doctor was wrong. I was 14 weeks pregnant. My baby was a boy. His name was Thomas Derek and he was going to be just fine! But he wasn’t. An ultrasound the next day showed no fetal heartbeat – just the vague shadow of the amniotic sac that once cocooned my child.

I was inconsolable.

My husband tried to comfort me. My mom fixed homemade soup. My best friend cried with me. Co-workers sent flowers and a card that read, “So sorry for your loss.”

The first time I attended church after my miscarriage a well-meaning pastor’s wife said, “Well honey, you’ve got a baby in heaven now!”

My fists clenched in rage. I didn’t want a baby in heaven. I wanted my baby in my arms.

And then there were all the women who said, “You’re young. You’ll have lots of babies.”

As if they could predict future fertility. As if having lots of babies would make this one’s death irrelevant.

But mostly, people were silent. They avoided any mention of babies or pregnancies. The silence hurt more than anything.

I didn’t share any of this with my young friend in the Costco aisle, I just cried along with her. Then I fished some fast food napkins out of my purse and we blotted our eyes and continued our shopping.

That same week a friend wrote on Facebook about trite phrases and words that have lost their meaning. Someone mentioned “I’m sorry for your loss,” as a trite phrase.

Since I’d just uttered those words, I was troubled. Had I said the wrong thing?

I posed the question on my various social media accounts. The consensus seems to be that it’s a safe phrase and when delivered sincerely, is appropriate. Several folks opined that a simple, “I’m sorry,” is the best thing to say.

My friend Denise summed it up this way, “I wonder, what should I say? I don’t want to overwhelm my friend, but if I don’t acknowledge the death, then there’s an uncomfortable gap between my friend and me. The words ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’ bridge that gap. They’re only trite if there’s no sincerity behind them.”

I think the fear of saying the wrong thing is why so many people say nothing at all when confronted by loss. My friend Judy agreed.

“People are uncomfortable with the whole death protocol, they don’t know what to say, but I found that if they talked about my loved one, it meant the world to me,” she said. “Too many people are unable to express anything so your loss, death, emptiness is ignored.”

In retrospect, I’m glad I blurted out those words, but even more glad I could open my arms and weep with my friend as Costco shoppers bustled around us.

We are surrounded by loss. Loved ones die, marriages end, babies are miscarried. To be silent in the face of sadness can only compound the hurt.

Better to say, “I’m so sorry,” than to feel sorry later for missing a chance to offer the warmth of compassionate words.