** This is my own personal experience with the phrase “I can’t imagine.” I am in no way speaking for ALL grievers. Each person has the right to their own interpretation of the phrase. **
One of the things my nurse said to Eric and I shortly after Harper was born was, “People are going to say a lot of really dumb things.” In the moment I couldn’t wrap my mind around what she meant. I was overcome with grief and my mind was trying to process the fact that I had just given birth to a lifeless baby girl. But as time went by, her words echoed back in my mind and I realized what she was trying to warn us of.
It didn’t take long for us to experience all kinds of, well, let’s just say “interesting” comments. Some were hurtful. Some were confusing. Some were just stupid. And some were cliches that are often used when people just don’t know what to say.
I wanted to talk today about one that I’ve probably heard more than all the others. Chances are, if I’ve told you my story, you have probably mumbled this phrase to me.
Those three words:
“I can’t imagine.”
Now, I’m not writing to create guilt for anyone reading this. Please do not take it that way. I simply want to bring you into my mind for a moment and explain why that phrase may not be as helpful to me as you may think.
I want to make this point as clearly as I possibly can.
People who speak this phrase to those in grief mean well. They are lost for what to say and can’t be expected to eloquently respond to such a deeply personal grief like stillbirth. But I want you to think about what grieving people need most for a moment. They need compassion, empathy, and understanding. They need others to sit with them in their deepest, darkest places. To hold hands and cry with them.
Speaking the words, “I can’t imagine” does not help me in grief.
It does not show compassion. It does not show empathy. It does not show understanding. What it does, is build a wall so tall it makes me feel more alone than ever. It highlights the vast differences between a life of suffering and a life seemingly untouched by it. It tells me, “I hear your pain and it is so incredibly sad and uncomfortable for me to think of, that ‘I can’t imagine’ it.
I mean, I get it. Who would want to imagine carrying their baby for 9 months, naming their baby, setting up a nursery for their baby, having a baby shower for their baby, loving their baby...to have it end in death? Who would want to imagine suddenly having a realization that their baby wasn’t moving, going into the hospital to be told their baby didn’t have a heartbeat, having to labor and physically push out of themselves a silent, lifeless, child? Who would want to imagine leaving the hospital without their baby, planning their baby’s funeral, or watch their baby’s casket being closed for the last time before being buried beneath the earth? Who would want to imagine a lifetime of grief- a loss of so many experiences the list is literally endless? Who would want to imagine that?
But you see, that doesn’t help me.
You “not being able to” imagine my reality actually causes me more pain. And so, I need you to try.
Try to imagine what it’s like to be me. Say things like, “I know that must be so hard.” or “I’m sure the pain you are feeling is unbearable.” (For goodness sake don’t stay silent-whatever you do.) Because not until you get down into the darkness and try to imagine with me, will I feel loved, supported, and unlone.
There’s a famous verse in the bible (Romans 12:15) that says: “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” I strongly believe the only way you can truly weep with those weeping is to try to imagine their circumstances- no matter how uncomfortable that makes you feel. Obviously I don’t expect anyone to ever fully understand my pain and I’m not asking that you do. I don’t need you to tell me you know exactly what it’s like, because you don’t and you can’t. I’m just asking that you take a moment to put yourself in my place and try to imagine what it must be like, because that… that opens the door to deep empathy.
Given our nation’s ongoing circumstances, I would like to add, if I could, that my experience with stillbirth has made me a more empathetic human being. It has opened my eyes to suffering happening all around me. No longer do I just see or hear about suffering, but I take a moment to let it sink in further as I try to imagine what it must be like to be that person. That person who lost a loved one, that person diagnosed with cancer, that person with black skin. I have spent much time over the last month empathizing with those who have been unjustly treated since the foundations of our country. I have educated myself on the hard, uncomfortable truth that is their reality in and effort to get down in their darkness with them. As a white woman, I am still learning but I am committed to listening and trying.
Remembering that black lives matter and, well, trying to imagine.