It's difficult to know how to react around someone whose parent has recently died. Offering someone your condolences sounds so formal and doesn't give any clues to what you are actually meant to do or say. The word must be from Latin: my musician's Italian gives me a clue because I know con means with and dolorosa is sorrowfully. How do you give someone your with-sorrows?
My mum and sister have a full time job of providing tea and cake for visitors who don't know what to say.
I have been distracted by a concert. The youth orchestra that was my Dad's idea and we started together seventeen years ago (17 - how is that possible?) had been booked to do a concert for the Mayor's charities. The Mayor had been very specific about how the audience should dress. It was to be black tie for the men and he knew how us 'ladies liked to dress up.' Our orchestra committee were confused about this because none of the females liked to dress up. Our secretary wanted a Minion costume but we had to rule it out because it had no mouth hole and we needed her to play bass clarinet. My dad suggested I dress as Charlie Chaplin and our percussion director wear a bunny girl outfit like Bridget Jones wore in the film. It turns out that ladies who like to dress up wear dresses are too tight, often with centre splits that show their pants, witches capes, long gloves and ostriches draped around their necks. When dad was ill he was still talking about the concert and when he died, although the whole orchestra were devastated, we all knew he wouldn't have wanted it to be cancelled. It was difficult. The Mayor asked if he could say something about him and dedicate the concert to him and we agreed that the end of the concert would be better than at the beginning.
The Mayor didn't really know what to say either. The orchestra had played brilliantly, not forgetting anything that we had worked so hard on, the soloists were amazing and even I held it together. He told the orchestra how lucky they had been to be able to play a 'proper' concert for people who were dressed up and he went on to try to say something about dad but words appeared to fail him.
I understand how difficult it is. The day before the concert, I was worried about whether I could be with people. I made my apologies to my mum and my aunts, leaving them to drink more tea and eat more cake, to pop into school to see if I could be with "normal" people. They were a little offended until I explained that by normal I meant not grieving, although it's probably true that none of my family can be described as normal. This experiment started well: I was coping and then I suddenly felt a bit wobbly so I scuttled off to my friend's room. While we were chatting the two male teachers who share a name came in, carrying a box of paper. I looked at them; they froze, gave each other sideways looks and tried to back out of the room. They were hoping to put their paper in her bin, although I'm not sure why. They still hadn't acknowledged my presence out loud and realised as they were backing out of the room that they probably should do.
"Oh hi Julia," they said, as if they had just seen me. "Err, sorry about your dad."
"Err yes, sorry."
"I wasn't going to say anything but err sorry."
They backed to the edge of the door, turned and ran.
My friend and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
It had cheered me up enormously and made me realise that I could cope being around people, especially those that didn't know what to say.
In fact, the most comfort I've had has come from the people who've said nothing. The Long Suffering Husband who sat with me in silence in the dark, made hot water without asking, brought crumpets because he's worked out that's all I'm eating. My son, who gives the best hugs. My daughter who didn't take her eyes off me during the whole concert.
Maybe that is how you are meant to do condoling: just to be together with your grief. You probably don't need to say anything.
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