Thank You, I Think

"Having a loss in one's background could certainly be an asset to a grief counselor, but it also inevitably colors one's interpretations and recommendations.  Not only have many grief counselors experienced traumatic loss but so has almost every prominent grief expert out there...Almost every person who has written a book on grief has experienced the sudden, unexpected, and often violent death of a loved one, so that extraordinarily difficult circumstances have formed the filter through which we have come to understand loss in general."--Ruth Davis Konigsberg, The Truth About Grief, pages 120-121.

I read Konigsberg's book with interest and appreciation.  Her section on the grief experiences of grief counselors and grief experts was a useful set of cautions.  More than that, her thoughts highlight the tension that I feel as both a recipient of bereavement support and a dispenser of that support.

When I tried to find counseling help and support, I certainly wanted to know if the "expert" before  me had any experiences of loss matching the depth and frequency of my own.  

In fairness, early on I was convinced that no one had a loss like mine.  So that inquiry was a no-win proposition for the "expert."  That being said, I did hear a great deal that seemed to come much more from books and pamphlets than from personal struggle and insight.  I listened much more closely to people who had experienced loss.  I also knew that I received genuine listening in return from those folks.

Now, I find myself in that position--that of a grief counselor--on a number of occasions.  

It takes tremendous energy for me to monitor myself and my reactions.  I find that people ask me for more advice about specifics now--how many death certificates, burial arrangements, wills and estates, dealing with children, what to do with clothes and personal items.  I have specific experiences to share and that is helpful.

What is not helpful is when I am tempted to make the conversation about my experiences.  This is different than a modest reliance on my own experiences to offer possibilities or encouragement.  It is an ongoing task of self-monitoring and self-management to make sure that I stay focused on the person in front of me.  It is so easy to move from that empathetic connection I feel and fall face first into memories of my own stuff.

I find that I am able to maintain that boundary for the most part.  And for the most part, I find that task--of using some energy to maintain health and intentional boundaries--to be a helpful part of the process.  

I have to focus much more clearly on the needs of the bereaved person in front of me in order to maintain the healthy distance that genuine empathy requires.  I can be connected to my own memories and feelings, but I also need to stand apart from those memories and feelings if they are to be tools rather than burdens in the conversation.

So those conversations in hospital rooms, hospice units and homes take far more energy form me than they once did.  I am still adjusting to that greater energy requirement.  Those conversations, however, have a depth, immediacy and impact--both for the other and for me--that I have not known previously.  It's harder work, but it is also better work.  And for that I am grateful, I think.

As with all other things now, autopilot is not an option for me.  I'm not suggesting that somehow I did pastoral care ministry on automatic before Anne's death.  I am suggesting that I didn't have quite so many things to manage with intentionality in order to do the work.  The real gift is that the more intention that is required for self-management, the more present I feel myself to the person and to the conversation.

Thank you , I think, for this deeper set of challenges and opportunities to help another and grow in my own being.