Empathy: But What If I Do It Wrong?

Something crappy happens to someone you know (lost job, health crisis, death of loved one).
You're freaked out.
You're worried about them.
You want to help.

And in the midst of rushing about and fussing there is the inevitable awkward moment of silence.
You freeze, slightly panicked.
"Crap, what do I do now?"

Since fleeing from the room screaming would be a bit overly dramatic, we fill the silence with a conversation that is more a ritual than bridge between friends.*

We compare tragedies as though they were DVD collections.** Talking about our own bad experience is familiar and feels empathetic. The heart is in the right place, but when you've been on the receiving end of heartbreak or extreme stress, other people's tragedies are not always so interesting.

Death and health crises are rites of passage. Avoiding either is statistically impossible. We tend to think of rites of passage as happy events (weddings, birthdays, the first early morning worship to college's porcelain god). Though happy, they are also fraught with slight anxiety; manifest in magenta butt bows, cakes requiring fire extinguisher and incriminating pictures on the internets. Rites of passage bond us together in general but at the same time are unique and personal.

That general bond is part of the reason why seeing someone pass through the ritual triggers us to share our personal experience. There is a tipping point when empathetic storytelling becomes blather on about yourself. It's like the party guest who wants to wear the birthday girl's sparkly tiara just a bit too long. Feeling definitely get hurt and if there are rhinestones involved, there may be blood.

So at this point, you may be thinking, "Great. If they are not sobbing and my kleenex distribution duties aren't needed, then my only recourse is to sit there and not talk. But I have all this experience from when my great aunt Hildabette got bit by an mutant silverfish and had incurable mysterious reactions (which scientists even wrote a really important paper about--I can probably find it on wikipedia if you'll just give me a few seconds cause it's super interesting) and then died. Her funeral was really sad....I mean...what else can I say? I'm here cause I want to support my friend!"

As a friend you have a role in the crisis ritual--you are the elicitor and listener. Your job is to create the space free from judgment and competitive narratives. You support your friend's rite of passage by asking questions that allow space for reflection. Listening to them speak uninterrupted about the experience--in all its surreal and very real moments--is loving and helpful.

Your best questions are simple, open ended and powerful:
"How has the last hour been for you?"
"Tell me about the changes you've noticed"
"What helps you feel hopeful"
"What makes you afraid"
"Tell me more about that"

Each of our rites of passage--birth, aging, acting silly, bonding with others, illness and death--are never done as pure soliloquies. We have a chorus shaping our narrative, sometimes with comforting noise, sometimes with eye opening silence. Listening is an act of love.

A.O.--I hope I can take my own advice, be a good friend and be there for you.
*Interestingly you could make a solid argument that exactly the same lead up happens on a date before the first move--freak out, concern, a desire to be connected then awkward silence. In this case running away remains a viable option. Or you could just kiss them.

**Arguably there is another set of alternatives to fill the silence--prayer or chanting. Since I don't really believe that prayer will magically fix problems any more than reciting a nursery rhyme might (though it could offer some familiar comfort), I'm not really including it as viable means of filling up the awkward hours. However, it give me a perfect excuse to tell a story about myself so you can see the "let me demonstrate empathy by blathering on about myself" hypothesis in action. When I was in the hospital having the brain scooped out, a very kind Catholic priest wanted to pray with me. My mother was fairly distressed and I figured some prayer would appease her need for something familiar and comforting. I mentioned to the priest that I wasn't really Catholic and was Unitarian, looking for a weasel way out. He countered with the clever "Why don't we say a Unitarian prayer." So I did what UUs have done for ages--I made something up that felt right. I have no idea what I said but it was enough to satisfy the priest and my mother. Even in the midst of a supposed health care crisis, you might find roles reversed and end up being the one one offering comfort.