Catching Bad

When someone close to you dies, people want to offer condolences. Lots of people. The notion is of course that those who comfort take care of those who grieve. But if you’ve been in the unfortunate position of navigating loss, you know it doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes those who grieve need to take care of those who comfort.

What are the rules for condolence? Our shared secular culture doesn’t offer much guidance. Many people are at a loss. They feel awkward. They don’t want to cry, and they don’t want to see you cry. They want to say something, but the words feel false. They want to fix something that they know cannot be fixed. In short, they need to be let off the hook so they can move quickly out of the danger zone.

“There are no words.”
“I don’t know how you manage it. I couldn’t do what you’re doing.”
“If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.”

All words of comfort are welcome, but sometimes you see people floundering. This is where counter-consolation can be helpful. “Thanks. I appreciate it. You’ve done enough already.” You can see their relief as they move away, as they merge back into the traffic of life.

Recently I’ve had time to ponder the nature of this awkwardness. Is it simply the case that our happy-success culture doesn’t give people the grounding they need to embrace suffering? That’s part of it. But I think there’s something else going on too.

I think people are afraid of catching bad.

We all have an innate understanding of infectious disease: don’t loiter with the sick lest you sicken. Similarly, deep in our psyche is a less rational notion of infection, that being around bad things can make you susceptible to them. That’s what I mean by “catching bad.” It’s uncomfortable to be around people who are under a cloud, because that cloud might rain on you.

Image by Midjourney

I can relate. When my wife was sick with pancreatic cancer, I met a man whose wife had died of pancreatic cancer. He was willing to talk to me about his experience, but I didn’t want to hear it. My wife was still alive. I didn’t want to catch bad.

Seeing things through this lens makes some behavior more clear. Let’s say I’m trying to comfort you, and I say “I don’t know how you manage it. I couldn’t do what you’re doing.” What I’m really saying is something like this: “You can handle this, and God knew that, and so he sent this malady to you.” It follows logically that I should proclaim that I can’t handle it, thereby keeping God off my case. You’re heroic and I’m not! You’re strong and I’m not! The more distance I put between you and me, the better. Your grief competence is a disaster magnet. My grief incompetence is a shield. It will protect me from catching bad.

I find it useful to think about catching bad, because when you see it, when you see yourself squirming under its influence, you can stop and observe that it’s not really a thing. It’s a superstition based on magical thinking. This lets you settle into more helpful behavior: embrace the awkwardness. Be with the afflicted. Cry and bear witness to crying. Listen more than you talk. We all know you can’t fix what’s happened. But you can sit here next to me and watch the sun set. And maybe tell me a story about that time my wife gave you a ride home from swim practice, and you both were laughing so hard that she missed her turn off Storrow Drive. I would like that.