By Dvora Entin, LCSW
Several years ago, I had the privilege of accompanying a couple on a very painful path of medical care and difficult choices for their newly delivered child. This family had reached out to rabbonim months before the due date to plan a halachicly guided course of decision making and spent many hours devoted to preparatory palliative care and planning for the many outcomes both expected and unexpected. When that baby was born to a simultaneously, silent and sobbing delivery room, where everyone had tears and hearts full of sadness, the parents knew that each moment would challenge their capacity to parent this child in the most nuanced ways, to care for and love this baby in the moments they were given. There was peace in that plan. I watched these very young parents make decisions that required wisdom that is reserved for the aged. I watched the grace with which they honored this process, and the compassionate partnership of two parents coping with the ultimate of tragedies, the impending loss of their child.
And as I accompanied this family, I learned an extraordinary lesson. The intrusion of well-meaning and highly emotional outsiders wreaked havoc on a quiet and patient process. These young parents were inundated with calls from community members, even leadership, who questioned their capacity to make these decisions. These callers claimed to have an even greater rabbi for them to consult on these matters, who would undoubtedly disagree with their choices. For the less invasive caller, the comments were “if this were me, I would be falling apart” and “I would be going crazy, why aren’t you going totally crazy? How are you so calm?”
Think about those comments. Think hard. These comments infer dissatisfaction or even horror with the emotional response they are seeing in the parents. It’s a statement of failure, or “you are doing this wrong” and even “there must be something wrong with you that you are NOT falling apart or going crazy.” And so, these well-meaning intruders left a tsunami in their wake. These gentle and grieving parents were left filled with doubt, questioning their sanity and their strength. They asked me, “Is there something wrong with us that we are not falling apart?”
“And what would falling apart look like?” I questioned them. Curled up in a ball under the covers? There are other children at home that you are parenting magnificently. Screaming and throwing things? Maybe, but not really your style. Crying a lot? Sure, you are, and why wouldn’t you?
So, what was the commenter or spectator really meaning to say? Can we find language that strengthens and “holds up” the family in their pain and grief? Might we say “I see you and your pain?” Can we add in “I see the grace and dignity that you are handling such a painful situation” and how about “You are such wise young parents, I imagine you have to make such difficult choices” and “You are so wise beyond your years.” If all those words sound hollow, or too much for you, then stand silently beside this woman. Stand silently beside this man. Look them in the eye and say absolutely nothing. Hold eye contact beyond what might feel comfortable and put your hand on their shoulders. Ask for permission to hug her and hold her tight. Find ways to say, “I see your pain, and I hurt with you” or “I could never know your pain and I stand with you.”
But don’t question them. Don’t add salt to a blistering and oozing wound. It is not your place. Trust that while young, they have sought counsel much wiser that your own. They have sought guidance from those who have gone down this same path with others. Put aside your desire to offer advice, and please stand silent. Because when we are in the presence of greatness, when watching a young couple holding and rocking and loving the child they know they will lose way too soon, we should stand in awe. We should respect that we are privileged to see the capacity for the human spirit to rise and struggle in the direst of circumstances. Stand silently and watch as the human spirit breaks and repairs and tears and recovers. As you stand there, salute with respect for what you are privileged to witness. You will never be the same. I am ever changed.