Daryl Wood's Blog

Every other day or so I take a quick look at the local obituaries. We are a small town and I want to know if someone goes missing from our community. I would never do this in a city but pretty much every listing has a familiar ring to it. Saturday morning was particularly surprising.

Two weeks ago I met an acquaintance in town and we had not seen each other since my sweet Doug died in November. Of course I sobbed out loud in the grocery store (they are used to that) and she hugged me with great compassion. We talked about Doug and I caught up on her husband’s failing health. We agreed I would drop in for a visit in the future.

Saturday morning I read that her husband had died suddenly at home two days earlier. It was jolting and I knew what I needed to do. After finishing some tasks I went to town and bought flowers and cookies and drove to her home. She was alone with her son and grandson in the back room busy and when she laid eyes on me she said “I’ve been thinking about you ever since this happened.” We had a long tearful embrace and then settled into chairs to talk.

And then it happened. My heart opened to my instinct to care and all my training as a coach to listen came to the forefront. I’ve been so immersed in my own grief that I haven’t had much room to be ‘with’ other people in celebration or despair. Saturday morning it was effortless. I listened as she shared the experience of finding him and the history of their 63 year marriage and back to the trauma of his passing and then to happy events. She jumped around their lives together and laughed and cried through the telling and retellling of her loss. And I listened. I listened because I knew she needed that more than anything I could have said. We both knew I was a few steps further down the path from her and she referenced that off and on. And I knew that this was her path and it might/would look very different from mine. Without hesitation I gave her the opportunity to say and do whatever she needed in that moment and that included hugs and listening without judgement. I think of something I told the women at my retreats when we first gathered together and I paraphrased Parker Palmer: “No fixing, no saving, no advising, no setting straight”. Just be a vessel of loving kindness to hold space for others.

I came away giving in to my own sobs of grief but also cried for the courage and strength I’d had to give her what she needed. It feels like a step forward and also reminds me of something Sheryl Sandberg mentions in her book Option B about the death of her husband. It was a way that I ‘took back’ something from my life before widowhood, something I was proud of being able to do for others.

I’m realistic enough to know that I won’t always be able to do this and now I have evidence that in the midst of my own suffering I can give to others with genuine love and empathy.