When I talk to grieving people about support received from friends, I hear many different stories. Most indicate that bereaved people struggle, to some degree, with the reaction of friends. Some just seem to be there. They don’t intrude, nor do they give advice or second guess things like medical treatment. Friends like these are gifts indeed. They just appear with a prepared meal or arrive unannounced to give a caregiver some free time.

However, we are not all the same. Some friends are incapable of visiting or even making a simple phone call. “I don’t know what to say,” is the common fear. “Start by saying hello,” is my common response.

We mustn’t fall into the trap of expecting that others will think as we do. Avoiding this trap is easier said than done as I know from my own experience. Some of Collette’s friends did spend time with us; some very good long-term friends did not visit at all. Collette appreciated company, and it was heartening for me to hear laughter from time to time. Visitors were also a godsend because their presence meant that I could have some brief time to myself.

Neither of us understood the perceived neglect of friends. This was a great problem for me after Collette’s death, but as time went on, I gradually realized that some people have immense difficulty dealing with the realities of illness and death. We must accept how these people feel and act when a friend is afflicted with terminal illness.

When a loved one dies, the partner is left with a host of mixed emotions and memories: the long illness, the doubts about treatment, the neglect of long-term friends, the well meaning but inappropriate words from some friends and family members can leave most of us with a terrible feeling of isolation and loneliness.

It becomes easy to dwell on what one could have done, what others could have done better, why some friends were so neglectful, and why you feel so alone.

I know how I felt after Collette died: the feelings of frustration, of not knowing what to do, of not being able to do more, of having no sense of control, of feeling guilty because she was gone, and I was still here were completely overwhelming.

Frankly, I was also puzzled when Collette’s best friend was unable to face coming to the funeral. I wasn’t angry, just disappointed, and perhaps, to be truthful, I didn’t even try to understand.

As time went by, and I became more involved with my bereaved friends, it slowly dawned on me that my feelings were not unique. Most of my friends had similar experiences, faced the same problems, felt the same loneliness, had the same neglectful friends, and most of all felt unable to express their feelings easily.

After a time, I began to understand that Collette’s friends also had great difficulty with her death. They had lost a good friend, and, of course, they had their own feelings that I had no way of understanding. Our children had lost one of their parents. Her sisters had lost a family member. When Collette died, I was not the only one with a terrible sense of loss. I tried to put myself in the place of others, and it helped me to understand how her death affected them. I became much more tolerant. I now accept that Collette’s friend simply couldn’t attend the funeral, and that fact wasn’t a reflection on the closeness of their relationship.

Once I realized that I had done everything I could possibly have done for Collette and my family, I was able to be gentle with myself. The growth that comes from this realization has enabled me to become gentle with others, including those friends whose responses were, initially, puzzling. My bereaved friends and I have had many long talks about the necessity of understanding the reactions of others, trying not to judge their behaviour, saying thanks, accepting offers of help, and being closer to our families. As a result, we have become more gentle with others.

Now and then, someone asks me how one should talk to a seriously ill person. The question usually indicates that the individual is having difficulty visiting a sick person, particularly when death is imminent. I usually offer to accompany the visitor, sometimes more than once if that is what it takes to establish a comfort level.

Visitations sometimes have a humorous tinge. I visited a friend who was tired and close to death. She was glad to see me, and we held hands for a bit. Then she looked up at me. “Goodbye John, I am glad you can’t stay for long.” This dear soul always had a gentle way of being in charge, and as her friend, it was important for me to be sensitive to her wishes. I did the only thing that a true friend could do. I left.