This is a quasi-rant about platitudes. Oddly enough, one definition of quasi is “sympathetic”, but I have no sympathy for platitudes.

Folks are getting better at offering their condolences. At least you rarely hear, “I know how you feel.” That’s probably the wost of “sympathetic” platitudes.

Today I read that a colleague’s Mother had died after a series of extended illnesses. Among the comments, I read “At least she’s at peace now” and “At least she’s free of pain now”. Those well-meaning platitudes reminded me of when my own Mother died and the well-meaning platitudes that plucked my heart strings in a dissonant chord.

My Mother was my only parent. She died in 1998 from a combination of renal failure, heart disease, and diabetes. She and I were up and down—one day sunny and the next tornadic. Yet, although she was survived by several brothers, two sisters, and my daughter, when she died I felt as if I my entire connection to this planet had been broken. Yes, I felt relief in that she had no more pain, that she was a peace, but my pain was overwhelming and the lack of peace I felt did “pass all understanding.”

Platitudes hurt. Although I understand that they’re offered in condolence, they don’t ease the pain, they magnify it.

In 1977, I miscarried. I won’t go into the gory details here, but I will say that for the next twenty years, that day was the worst day of my life. I heard platitudes such as “At least it wasn’t a still birth” and “First trimester, it was probably for the best” and “At least it wasn’t a baby”. Those well-wishers couldn’t possibly feel the emptiness I felt in my arms. They couldn’t know the physical ache that began in my empty womb and stretched to my finger tips. At least I hope they couldn’t.

Twenty years later, I experienced the real worst day of my life. I sincerely hope it stays my worst day. On April 1, 1997, I awoke to the sight of two uniformed Army officers walking up my driveway. My 21-year old son had died in a head-on collision with a semi. Over 200 friends attended his wake and funeral, but I barely remember the condolences offered except for two “At least he died quickly” and “At least he didn’t leave any children behind.” That last was the worst one and I didn’t even hear it from the acquaintance who meant to express her condolences to my daughter. Although I understood that the remark was well-meant as well as the implications of a child left behind, I selfishly would have given everything I own for the legacy of that grandchild.

When you don’t know what to say, say nothing. When you must say something, “my deepest sympathy” or “my condolences” will do. If you’re close to the survivor, you might add, “I’m here for you if you need me.” Otherwise, please let the platitudes R.I.P.

Sills, Edward Roland. “The Fool’s Prayer”. vs 6, 7. The Little Book of American Poets. 1915. Ed. Rittenhous, Jessie B. Cambridge: Riverside Press. 22 July, 2006. <www.poetry-archive.com/s/the_fools_prayer.html>