How are you?
It seems such an innocuous, commonplace question, but it was one I had a serious problem with in the US. When a cashier in an enormous supermarket greeted us with "How are you guys doing today? Everybody having a great day?", I was almost shocked. My mind started racing with possible responses along the lines of "not a great day: we have just come from viewing our sister's body at the funeral home and are in the middle of a discussion about how to divide up the costs for the funeral home …". My thoughts were cut short by my brother's startling response, "Sure we are, how about you?" When I asked him about it later, he said that a mindless question like that only deserves an equally mindless and meaningless response. That made some sense to me, but I don't think I could do it.
Since my return to Austria ten days ago, I find myself confronted with two very different kinds of "How are you?" questions. When I left for Michigan, I hastily set up a not overly coherent automatic response to tell people I was not available due to a sudden death in the family, and they should contact my colleague Sophie Sedgwick for urgently needed translations (which Sophie took care of wonderfully for me, so I didn't have to think about it). People who received that automatic response have been sending me work or sometimes just personal messages with notes of sympathy and asking whether I am ok now. People who just missed that automatic reply have been sending me work with the usual cheerful remark that the translation is needed as soon as possible, often expressing good wishes for the start of fall following a hopefully pleasant summer. Sometimes I'm not sure which is harder to respond to. When I posted last week on Facebook that I have the feeling life can't just go on as though nothing had happened, my friend Les summarized my feelings in a succinct and apt comment: "I know that feeling, 'how are all these people at the grocery store when this has just happened?' Life does go on, but it is changed." Since that change is not visible, perceptible to other people, I have mixed feelings about whether to explain or not. Presumably, this will become easier over time.
Last week I also started going out again in Linz, but every time I meet any of the dear and kind friends who heard about why I was gone, and they approach me with an expression of sympathy and a warm hug, as grateful as I am for that, I have no idea how to respond. Most of the time I can't anyway, because the tears just start running down my face. Presumably that will also become easier over time, when I will have been home long enough and gone out often enough to have something else to say for myself.
Perhaps I will also find it easier to cope with people, once I am able to start sleeping regularly again. I think there have only been about two nights since September 2nd, where I slept through the night and woke up feeling rested. Most nights I find myself awake somewhere between 2 and 4 am and can't bear to stay in bed tossing and turning, when I am haunted by mental images of computer screens. The last contact I had with Amy was via Facebook, when she posted a comment about deciding that she would no longer take the crap that life keeps handing her. I sent her a comment asking if I needed to worry about her again and added a comment about gold shoes that I thought would amuse her. I thought about calling her then, but on Skype she was still marked as logged in, so I assumed she was busy and waited to hear from her. Later, in the midst of the frantic phone calls with my brothers, I was horrified to see that Amy was still marked as logged in on Skype. She had apparently just left her computer on at work without logging out. I immediately removed her name from my contact list, because I couldn't bear to see it like that, but now every time I look at Skype, I have the feeling there is an invisible gap where Amy's name was. And at night I lie awake and wonder what happened, why I didn't sense that I needed to call her right away instead of patiently waiting for a reply that never came.
On the whole, I'm afraid I'm not quite as fully functional as I thought I was when I first came home. It will take time, I know, but I have time. I have the rest of my life to miss Amy.
Since my return to Austria ten days ago, I find myself confronted with two very different kinds of "How are you?" questions. When I left for Michigan, I hastily set up a not overly coherent automatic response to tell people I was not available due to a sudden death in the family, and they should contact my colleague Sophie Sedgwick for urgently needed translations (which Sophie took care of wonderfully for me, so I didn't have to think about it). People who received that automatic response have been sending me work or sometimes just personal messages with notes of sympathy and asking whether I am ok now. People who just missed that automatic reply have been sending me work with the usual cheerful remark that the translation is needed as soon as possible, often expressing good wishes for the start of fall following a hopefully pleasant summer. Sometimes I'm not sure which is harder to respond to. When I posted last week on Facebook that I have the feeling life can't just go on as though nothing had happened, my friend Les summarized my feelings in a succinct and apt comment: "I know that feeling, 'how are all these people at the grocery store when this has just happened?' Life does go on, but it is changed." Since that change is not visible, perceptible to other people, I have mixed feelings about whether to explain or not. Presumably, this will become easier over time.
Last week I also started going out again in Linz, but every time I meet any of the dear and kind friends who heard about why I was gone, and they approach me with an expression of sympathy and a warm hug, as grateful as I am for that, I have no idea how to respond. Most of the time I can't anyway, because the tears just start running down my face. Presumably that will also become easier over time, when I will have been home long enough and gone out often enough to have something else to say for myself.
Perhaps I will also find it easier to cope with people, once I am able to start sleeping regularly again. I think there have only been about two nights since September 2nd, where I slept through the night and woke up feeling rested. Most nights I find myself awake somewhere between 2 and 4 am and can't bear to stay in bed tossing and turning, when I am haunted by mental images of computer screens. The last contact I had with Amy was via Facebook, when she posted a comment about deciding that she would no longer take the crap that life keeps handing her. I sent her a comment asking if I needed to worry about her again and added a comment about gold shoes that I thought would amuse her. I thought about calling her then, but on Skype she was still marked as logged in, so I assumed she was busy and waited to hear from her. Later, in the midst of the frantic phone calls with my brothers, I was horrified to see that Amy was still marked as logged in on Skype. She had apparently just left her computer on at work without logging out. I immediately removed her name from my contact list, because I couldn't bear to see it like that, but now every time I look at Skype, I have the feeling there is an invisible gap where Amy's name was. And at night I lie awake and wonder what happened, why I didn't sense that I needed to call her right away instead of patiently waiting for a reply that never came.
On the whole, I'm afraid I'm not quite as fully functional as I thought I was when I first came home. It will take time, I know, but I have time. I have the rest of my life to miss Amy.
posted by Aileen at Sunday, September 28, 2008
1 Comments:
According to Miss Manners, in the US, the only polite response to "how are you?" is "fine thank you. And you?" It's a ritual exchange, not a real question. Also, deeply, culturally strange.
Don't worry about how to respond to sympathy. Mumble out a "thanks" if you can, but if you can't, that's ok.
I'm so sorry for your loss.
It does get easier over time. This projected lessening of grief has seemed impossible or even wrong to me, but it does happen.
You wrote, "why I didn't sense that I needed to call her." Any time that somebody dies too young or too soon of something that seems preventable, the people close to them feel something like this. Why didn't I notice this and why didn't I try that? I try not to think like this. I tell myself that my love can't save anybody, but it can bring them comfort. Love is not curative, but it is palliative. You didn't know. She didn't tell you. Your love still mattered.
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