They’re not my lemons
By Sharla Gorder
“When life gives you lemons…I promise not to tell you how my mother died of lemons.”
This dark-humored sentiment captioned a card that talk show host Kelly Ripa sent to a friend who was battling cancer.
I laughed — and then I cringed. How often have I said or done the exact wrong thing when desperately wanting to say or do the exact right thing, if such a thing even exists.
It probably doesn’t. One man’s encouragement is another man’s distress.
For example, quoting scripture, like “God’s grace is sufficient” may serve as a comforting reminder to a believer that divine support is nigh. But for me, in a recent struggle I was having, it felt reductive, even chastising. Sufficient for what, I wondered? And was I then deficient because I was hurting?
Likewise, clichés that might ring true in theory can fall flat in practice when emotions are raw. “Everything happens for a reason” is another one of those utterances that can lead the distressed down an even darker path as they wonder what they have done to cause their suffering.
These examples may seem obviously fraught, but I have erred in much subtler ways, though my intentions were always good.
I have asked, “What can I do to help?” and then instead of respectfully waiting for my role to unfold, I kind of pestered my friend into finding me a job so that I could feel like I was doing more than “sending thoughts and prayers.” This put even more responsibility on my friend. It wasn’t her job to make me feel better about her diagnosis.
I have pressured a family member to talk about her feelings around a scary upcoming surgery when what she really wanted was to go to a movie and laugh. Not everyone is a verbal processor like me. And even if they are, I shouldn’t assume that I’m the one who has earned the privilege of bearing witness to their vulnerability in such a dire situation.
But perhaps the biggest “mistake” I keep making is so honest and sincere that it can be hard to see it as anything but helpful. I am genuinely impressed with the courage and fortitude of friends and family members who are obliged to fight these medical battles — and I tell them so. Ad nauseum. I mean it as encouragement, but it can come across as throwing down a gauntlet of sorts — a challenge for them to be constantly upbeat and optimistic — to live up to my glowing assessment of them.
For me, it comes down to this — a lesson I’m called upon to revisit about twice a week. I even wrote a column about it entitled — “Don’t Just Do Something, Stand There.” I need to calm down.
While I’m certainly not advocating complacency when it comes to being there for others, I am trying to learn how to be still, open, aware and quietly available. In my yoga practice, we call this “holding space.” It’s a hackneyed phrase that I actually like. “Hold” is a gentle word — evocative of cuddling a baby or the tender wedding vow, “to have and to hold.” It’s the opposite of foisting, the antithesis of imposing.
I need to say less and listen more. I need to wait respectfully without an agenda for the “next right thing” to become apparent. I need to insist on only one thing — that my friend/family member understand that I am ready, willing and able to take on any role they see fit in helping them through their crisis.
And calmly hold space. I don’t need to busy myself trying to make lemonade.
They’re not my lemons.
