When We Want to Help

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For this newsletter, rather than offer an educational piece, I’m going to share a reflective piece I wrote, which was published in the anthology Unfolding, by Lisa Colburn https://www.marketstreetwriters.com

It was born of a grief counseling session that hung over me for days, crept into my dreams, and drove me to pen and paper in search of insight. I wanted desperately to be helpful but was missing the mark. I will share my afterthoughts toward the end.

The Missing Button

It was a nice shirt, some designer brand, maybe J. Crew or Ralph Lauren. The point being that he seemed well taken care of. But he wasn’t. He wore his grief like a secret shroud to protect himself from others. It had been a whole year, and still the pain cut deep and was seemingly fresh. It was right there under the surface, and he limited his exposure lest it spill out too easily. A nervous laugh, a glance askance, a ducked head as he entered and made his quick exit. Demure. Deferential.

He stayed home a lot. Home was safe, though lonely. It was both haven and mausoleum. No TV on, because they didn’t like most television shows. When they were they.

The things she left were still in place one year later. He confessed that it took him six months to change the sheets on the bed she died in. He didn’t know what you were supposed to do. And there on the floor near the bed were the little drops of lotion he had used to soothe her aching hands and feet. Crystallized. It hurt to see them. But he couldn’t erase them. He couldn’t do that. Not yet. He told me all this while wincing, but no tears. The tears were kept at home, in the dark of the silent night.

I had been a grief counselor for several years, so none of this was new to me. I recalled the lady who slept with her husband’s ashes, in their wooden box, on the bed “where he belonged,” and the widow who kissed the leftover hair in her husband’s hairbrush every morning. Pain. Longing. Clinging to the last little tangible things, the personal and intimate ones. Not ready to let go.

I was no stranger to grief, but this one somehow crept in with a new discordant twang. Maybe because he was my age. But also because of that one button.

Educated, quietly eloquent, physically fit enough to play hours of tennis. Allusions of vibrancy juxtaposed with rumpled cotton. I wanted to lean over and gently button his shirt for him, but of course I could never. It was too personal, too intimate. Even to mention it would be akin to treating him as a small child, which he was not. It was a dilemma for my maternal instincts. Loud, that button. It struck like a black piano chord.

He came back three weeks later to talk again, same shirt. The one he saved for appointments. Same unbuttoned button, right there in the middle. And if he shifted in the chair, as he did in his established discomfort, a gap would form. I had to avert my eyes. Not my place.

What is this? I asked myself. What is this? Not just the button, but my reaction. And it occurred to me that it was not unbuttoned after all, but missing. And he at 57 had no wife to sew it on for him. Not a failure of dress, just loss - reeking, bleeding, messy loss. The hundredth story of my work this year, and yet somehow new. Stinging.

It didn’t matter. It was just a button. Just me making up some explanation. Maybe it was always missing. Maybe it came that way. Maybe he set it aside in the small dish atop his dresser, next to the sentimental knickknacks of vacations, and her photograph. Probably not. Maybe he knew how to sew, but didn’t want to. Or he didn’t notice, didn’t care. It was low on the list. It was inconsequential.

The part of me that mixed over-helpfulness with compulsion wished I could pull out the miniature sewing kit I kept in my desk drawer, because once I was a Girl Scout leader. I could gently say, “This will just take a minute.” And set things right. But I couldn’t fix any of it, or make it pretty, or whole. Professional boundaries. Personal boundaries. Respect. All I could do was nod kindly, listen, find some soothing words, and hold the space for him, the space where he could say the things the others no longer knew still weighed on his heart. Nobody else knew the depth of his distress, the depth of his need to honor her. Nobody asked anymore. It had been a year.

 Afterthoughts:

In this situation I over-identified with this client’s age, religious upbringing, and acute sensitivity. His children were my children’s ages, his wife too young to die. My maternal instincts kicked into overdrive. This can easily happen when numerous variables align, and leave us sitting with anxiety.

Most of us in the helping or medical profession enter the field with a deep desire to heal and to alleviate suffering. We end up learning (and re-learning) necessary boundary skills. What piece is mine, what piece is theirs, what is the goal?

We hope to accelerate healing, but the pace of grief can be painfully slow. While it is assumed that a person who seeks counseling is ready and asking for help, there can be differing ideas about what is helpful. They often do not know what they want. Moving forward can create feelings of disloyalty. Griefwork is hard work, and counselors have no magic wand. It may take a long time find the key to unlatch the door, but it is the client who must walk through

Some people come in because they want a safe and confidential space to continue the conversation others have dropped. They need to retell the story: the story of their love, the story of their loss, the story of the death. Some come to honor their loved one. Some need confession and absolution. Others want someone to unlock their tears, or stop their tears. Some come hoping for permission to date. Some want to know what is normal, and if they are going crazy. Most just want “help”.

It wasn’t until later in life that I came upon the Enneagram, and my understanding of helpfulness was illuminated, if not set on fire. It was humbling to read that what I had regarded as a noble virtue had a rich shadow side. In this paradigm there are 9 categories or types which can overlap. A person’s actions and wishes are driven by motives that stem from early childhood formation.

It was both painful and oddly freeing to read that helpfulness is driven by a desire to gain acceptance and assure personal safety. This is unintentionally manipulative. Helpfulness is not always as altruistic as it may seem and it requires self-reflection. When I first read this, I had a strong negative response. I wholeheartedly disagreed, but gradually softened, became curious, and found much of it to be useful. It allowed me to step back and view objectively.

My reaction to that missing button represented: my overriding desire to be helpful, my wish to alleviate pain, my need/compulsion to tidy things up, to do something/offer something in that exquisitely painful moment. I think we can all identify with this on some level. We have all wished to help someone and been unable.

I needed to listen with all my senses. I needed to sit and respect his pace. I could not smooth over anything; I could not mend the utter dishevelment his wife’s death had ushered into his reality. His expectations were low, perhaps to survive the day, to squint into the distant future toward a time when the sky might lighten up. He came to be heard. His pace was his pace, not mine.

I was there to offer witness and validation. The simple words, “This is really hard for you,” when offered in full presence, impart powerful impact. They say, “I see you. I let you be in that space where you need to be, as you find your way. I can walk beside you for part of the journey, but the journey is yours.”

The same is true for each of us as we watch a grieving a friend or relative. We want them to feel better faster, and we convince ourselves it is for their sake, but it is also for ours. The painfully slow pace of normal grief can be frustrating for all.

We walk a tightrope, a balancing act of restraint and respect while we hold out hope for a happy-ish ending. Our role is to wait patiently, to offer a steadfast presence, and small acts of kindness. There is no one button to push, no one button to mend. Our discomfort is a teacher, and we need not act on it. We can reflect on our own process and grow alongside them. We can trust in their innate ability to heal.