By Bethany Bruno
If there’s one thing that my father’s late cancer diagnosis and eventual death taught me, it’s just how much I hate the phrase “I’m sorry for your loss.”
After my father broke both arms in the span of three days, the doctors decided to run a full body scan. The bright spots scattered across the scan left no doubt: cancer had permeated his body. It was May 2016, and the doctors gave him one year to live. By November, he had died in my arms as he seized one final time.
Those six months between diagnosis and death consisted of me repeatedly, and unenthusiastically, having to constantly explain why—at the age of twenty-eight—I dropped everything and relocated to my desolate hometown. I would see people around and have to explain why I was back in town and how my father would most certainly be dead soon, to which I would always receive the awkward and typical “I’m sorry,” followed by a frowny face.
This type of interaction, which was frequent, would always piss me off.
It didn’t matter if it was an old friend, a family member, or some stranger on the street. If he said that he was sorry, I wanted to scream. “I’m sorry” reeked of inauthenticity and that, more than anything, infuriated me. For those six months, I experienced what’s known as “anticipatory grief,” which is essentially when a person prepares mentally and emotionally for an impending death. There was no question in my mind, regardless of whatever my hopeful mother said to others or even to herself, my dad was a goner. All of the doctors who examined my dad, one by one, had the same exact look on their face by the end of the session: doom and gloom.
With every fake interaction, I grew angrier. It began to fester inside me like an open wound. It got so bad that I started to do what I believe most do when asked “how are you doing?” I lied. I no longer told people that I wasn’t doing okay. I no longer mentioned the impending death of my father was close at hand. Strangers, family, and friends would no longer be allowed into my grief until they could say something to me that was purely empathetic, and not a scripted line. Though I was suffering immensely within the depths of my soul, I said “I’m fine.” As my dad’s death grew nearer, I found myself becoming more and more angry. Why, oh why, couldn’t someone read into me and see my suffering? Why was it so hard for someone to pull me to the side, place their hand on my shoulder, look into my eyes, and say “no, really, how are you? Do you want to talk about it?” Not one person offered me this solace, before or after he died.
The day after my dad died, I went to Publix for some essentials for the house. It felt so odd to be doing everyday errands after experiencing such a devastating loss. But, regardless of how I felt, there I was, standing in line at the grocery store, waiting to purchase bottled water and oven baked pizzas. I looked to the right of me and saw a young teenage girl, with long brown hair pulled up into a ponytail. She was smiling at me as she placed the items in bags. As we walked out together, her pushing the grocery cart beside me, she asked the dreaded question, “how are you doing today?”
Maybe I had reached my threshold, or maybe I was so desperate for empathy, but whatever the reason was, I unloaded on her. “Actually, I’m not doing good,” I said. “My dad just died yesterday.” She stopped the cart, looked at me, as her eyes swelled, and her face became somber. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. I nodded and thanked her, as we began to place the items in my trunk. I have never told another stranger that my dad died since that incident.
That time between waiting for my dad to die and dealing with the aftermath feels like a blur now. I learned that some people in this world don’t know how to be empathetic to the suffering of others, especially when a person is standing in front of them, saying she is fine when she is clearly suffering. My anger, grief, and loneliness couldn’t be healed by anyone but myself. It was a hard fact to face, especially when I was at the lowest moment of my life. But one day, when someone I care about is standing in front of me, clearly suffering, I will have the courage to do for them what I desperately wished others would have done for me. I will put my hand on their shoulder, look into their sad eyes, and offer more than just the words “I’m sorry for your loss.”