It’s Not About the Words

I’ve come to hate the words there are no words, mainly because so many people said exactly those words to me when my older son Rob took his own life. It amazes me that people used words to say that there aren’t any. I knew what they were trying to convey—that it’s impossible to articulate the depth of their sadness or to imagine the unimaginable heartache of losing a child. I get it because I used to be one of those people.

I never knew the right thing to say and trying always made me squirrelly. It still does, and that’s after Rob has been dead and buried for close to six years. After reading a ton of books on grief and consulting ChatGPT, I know that “I’m sorry for your loss” is the go-to sentiment on the menu of comforting responses to say to someone who has lost a loved one, followed by “If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.” Whenever someone said that to me, I always wanted to answer, “Paint my house!”—the punchline to one of my father-in-law’s favorite old jokes. (RIP, Mart!)

My friend Steve, whose son Gabe died of an accidental overdose a few years ago, sometimes helps people out with their commiseration attempts by cutting them off before things get too awkward. He calls this play an “interception.”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” he’ll say, “I appreciate your kind condolences” and then he’ll nod curtly, signaling an end to the conversation.

The truth is, it’s not about the words. The truth is, we don’t really care what you say. I take that back. We actually do care . . . but whatever you say will invariably annoy the hell out of us. It’s not you; it’s us. We can’t hear the words because we’re in severe emotional pain, and you can’t understand our pain because no one can understand unless you have a dead child, so shut the hell up with your “I’m so sorrys” and your “there are no words.”

We know you mean well, we really do, but now we have to pretend to be gracious and appreciative of your kindness. I know that sounds crappy and ungrateful, but this is really how we feel when we hear whatever it is that’s coming out of your mouth. To us it sounds like the muffled trombone voices of the adults in a surreal Peanuts cartoon called Your Kid Just Died, Charlie Brown.

It all boils down to one immutable thing: there’s nothing you can say that takes our pain away. So now what?

Start with a hug. I can still feel the hugs I got after Rob died. When I hugged my dear friends Tony and Gina, I felt them take me into their hearts. It was what I needed and continued to need. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a hug is worth a million. Maybe I love hugs so much because Rob gave the best hugs, and I miss them almost as much as I miss him.

Perhaps the best and most loving thing you can do for someone who is grieving is to listen to them. That’s what we need the most, particularly when it’s fresh and impossible to process anything because everything feels so empty and meaningless, especially words.

Just listen to us with an open heart and mind. Listen to us with no judgment. Listen to us when we can barely speak. There’s a lot going on in our silence. “There are no words” doesn’t mean there are no feelings, but there are times that those feelings can be so immense that they should never be put into words.

*

I never struggled with words in my life until I made the two most difficult phone calls ever to my ex-wife and son, telling them that Rob had killed himself.

“I have terrible news,” I said to Caryn. “I just got the phone call.”

“Which one?” she asked, bracing herself for one of the only two possibilities we ever discussed.

“Rob’s dead. He killed himself.”

All I remember after saying the words I had feared saying since Rob was a teenager is hearing Caryn cry like I’ve never heard anyone cry before. I would try to describe the sound to you, but nothing’s coming to me.

“I know, I know,” I mindlessly repeated over and over again as I listened to her wail in agony. I remained calm but couldn’t think of anything else to say.

After a few minutes, I told her everything that the coroner and the police had told me and then we talked about telling Zach.

“Don’t call him at work,” Caryn said. “Wait until he gets home.”

“Okay,” I said, knowing it would be impossible to wait.

I told her I was going to the coroner’s office to pick up Rob’s phone and keys, and then I was going to go to his apartment to see if there was a note or whatever the hell I might find. I don’t remember what either one of us said to end the call.

“One down, one to go,” I said to my girlfriend Maura, who now looked as grief-stricken as anyone I’ve ever seen. I texted Zach to make sure he was around and then I made call number two.

“Yo yo,” he cheerfully answered, like he always does.

“Yo, I have terrible news and there’s no easy way to say it. Rob died. He killed himself,” I said, rushing the words out as fast as I could.

Then I heard almost the exact same kind of crying that came from Caryn, only in a much deeper voice. And now I can describe it for you—it was the sound of our family being destroyed. I told him what I knew, we cried together, and then I suggested that he just go home.

There were no other words.

Larry Carlat is the author of A Space in the Heart: A Survival Guide for Grieving Parents.