The Role of Comfort at the End-of-Life
This past November, I had the honor of facilitating an intimate grief event for some members of Surge Reproductive Justice. At one point, I asked the attendees what brings them comfort as they grieve and there was a brief silence. Then one person shared this:
“Comfort to me would be someone wrapping me in my favorite soft blankets and tucking me into bed. They would make me tea just how I like it. They would wash the dishes without me asking and bring me soup. I wouldn’t have to talk. And they would bring me flowers, my favorite flowers.”
A few things came to mind as I listened. One, this meme. Two, as a birth doula, this person provides this same comfort - the comfort that her grief desperately longs for - to her clients every day to support their healing. Simple, thoughtful acts and presence that mean so much and yet are difficult to ask for when we are the ones needing them.
And three: we all need a deathcare worker as we grieve. Often after any loss, but especially after a death, society ignores and underestimates the importance of comfort. There are very real physical, emotional and spiritual hurts that are sustained. From fatigue to difficulty thinking clearly to our nervous systems getting stuck in a sympathetic or parasympathetic loop - grieving, and not having the space to grieve, hurts.
Many times after a death, someone supporting a grieving person will reach out to me in a panic and ask, “But what can you DO??” The underlying question here is often how can you quickly fix this person I care about so that the grief is no longer scary to feel and witness.
They never like my answer: I can’t save you or your person from the hurt. There is no quick fix for grief.
But in that liminal space when someone’s heart is breaking and death is so palpable that the loss is both vague and shockingly jagged, what I do first is comfort. Like my siblings the birth doulas, I enter a home as a guest. I bring food, tea and flowers. I wrap people in blankets and tuck them into bed. I wash the dishes and fold the laundry. I sit beside the person and listen through their tears to the pain, no words needed. Doing has its place and is important. If needed, I can come in and help with practical things like completing postmortem checklists (I like this one), writing obituaries and planning services. But comfort is first. Even if the death being grieved is enough years ago that others think the mourner should be “over it.” We still need comfort.
In a month dedicated to celebrating love and Black History, the importance of comfort that truly sees us, embraces us and tends to our pain seems more important than ever. What does comfort look like for you these days? What comfort does your grief need?
