An article in the Chicago Tribune, “The Skill of Sympathy,” by Judith Weinstein, offered “tips for saying the right things to a grieving person.” As I see it, the problem with sympathy is that in the place of consolation lots of well meaning blabber mouths manage to say just the wrong thing.

Her article brought to mind my play, HERE AND THERE that appeared at the  Detroit Repertory Theatre from November 6 to December 28, 2003. Loss is universal, and mine happened in 1998 when my husband, Warren died. After that, I thought I’d never write again, until someone said,”You do widowhood so well, you should write another book.” I couldn’t do that, but I figured that I could enter into a duel with grief by writing a humorous play about death based on my truth.

HERE AND THERE has six characters: A grieving wife named Becca, a son named Josh, two friends Sherlyn and Teddy, and Aaron—the deceased husband with whom they all converse in order to get from“There to “Here.” Among the stupid things that people say, I added this true interchange: “A month after Aaron died, a woman approached me in the produce department at the grocery store. Waving a stalk of broccoli in my face, she said, ‘That certainly was a beautiful obituary in the newspaper, but it didn’t tell what your husband
died of. ‘I looked her right in the eye, and I said—-‘I shot him!’”

The play begins with Becca: “For the past year, I’ve become more aware of things that aggravate me. Yesterday, I arrived at a florists shop, it’s locked and there’s a sign on the door, ‘Back in five minutes.’  On July 1, 1998, I put a sign on my husband’s chair, ‘Back in five minutes.’ On July 1, 1999, I threw away the sign. It was a year since he died. I got the message. I guess he’s not coming back. The aggravating thing about dying is that it’s so damn permanent.”’ In the Tribune article, a clinical psychologist advises that a bereavement group might be helpful to talk things out.

I won’t quote the dialogue in the play (based on my one time experience) that Becca tells her friends about the  support group she attended, but I will tell you about one of the attendees named Fred, who had been attending the group for two years since his wife, Bertha died.  They used to love camping, so he had a “mission.” He was determined to “scatter her ashes on at least one campsite in every State in the Union,” which proves that truth really is funnier than fiction.

Teddy’s reaction in the play is: “That’s got to have been one big Bertha,” and Becca says: “And he’s polluting the whole Country with her.” The grief group wasn’t much help other than good material for the play. I did however, go home, run up and down the street flying a kite. The neighbors all locked their doors.

When someone dies, not only family members have to deal with the loss, but death also affects friends. However, it is normal to feel terrible for the spouse who has been left behind, along with a sense of relief that it didn’t happen to you—just like viewing an automobile accident on the highway. I dealt with this phenomena in the play when Becca gets a call from her friend Sherlyn that Teddy has been taken to the hospital with a suspected heart attack. I wrote a conversation between Teddy (who is in a hospital gown) and his best friend Aaron (who has died).

Here is just a bit of that conversation:  Teddy: “I’m feeling anxious. I think I’m going to die.”
Aaron: “The most exercise you ever got was jumping to conclusions.” Teddy: “I miss you, pal. I wish we had spent more time together.” Aaron: I never saw a headstone that said, “I wish I’d spent more time with nincompoops.” Teddy: “I’ve never been very religious. Do you think I should start praying or something?” Aaron: “Go ahead if it makes you feel better.” Teddy: “All I can remember is my Bar Mitzvah speech. Do you think that will work?” Aaron: “Wasn’t your Bar Mitzvah speech something about Jericho and the Crispus Attucks High School Football Team?” Teddy: “You remember.” Aaron: It’s hard to forget, especially the part about the children of Israel blowing down the walls of Jericho, and you called it their ‘Hail Mary Shot.”
Teddy: “That didn’t go over real big with the rabbi. I try to be a good person, but I guess I’m not what you’d call religious.” Aaron: “Teddy, being a good person is being  religious—better than the fanatic who thinks he is doing what God would do, if God only knew the facts.”
Teddy: “Do you think I’m going to die?” Aaron: “Yes, my friend, but not now
—-someday for sure—but not now.” (Teddy gives him a bear hug).  Aaron: “The last time you did that, I thought you’d never let me go.” Teddy: “I didn’t want to. I knew I’d never see you again. I didn’t want to let you go. I don’t want to let you go. You are my friend.” (THEY EXIT.
Sherlyn, Becca and Josh enter) Sherlyn: “A bee sting! A bloody bee sting! I am so sorry I dragged you both down to the hospital, but when he passed out—I am so sorry!”

The Tribune article ends with a statement, “There is no statute of limitations on grief.” After Warren died, I was told by many people that after a year, I should find closure. When I asked my father, Rabbi Karl Richter about this, he replied, “Honey, it’s not a real estate deal.”

So, the next time you visit a grieving friend it’s probably a good idea to bite your tongue, give a hug and just listen.

Esther Blumenfeld   (*Here and There, copyright January 1, 2000)