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stories, legacy and personal history in bereavement

William G. Hoy

If there is one element of the bereavement process more important than all the rest, that one element might be storytelling. In my compass model of bereavement (Hoy, 2007) I have suggested that the need to remember is fundamental—not only in early grief but for the entire duration of the process. Whether those stories of life’s impact are told to small groups of family and friends, at holidays, in eulogies, in bereavement support groups, through monuments and contributions or in a thousand other places, clearly there is great power and value in marking the legacy of the person who died..

History stories engage the bereaved person with the facts of their loved one’s life. Therapists use history to paint a picture of the client’s life—how the biography has shaped who the person is. In the same way, when first meeting a bereaved person, it is always helpful to hear the biographical details of their loved one’s life—how old he was, where she was born, what the early years of relationship were like, etc.

Sometimes, the details of the death get overlooked, at least in early bereavement. In my experience, before a bereaved person is ready to talk in depth about the life of the person who died, there is usually a need to share the details of the death—where he died, when he died, and how he died. Whether the story is told to the hospice nurse as she arrives at the home moments after death, to the funeral director in the arrangement conference, or to the counselor days or weeks later, the story of the death is, for most bereaved people, a vital part of this biography.

Listen for the details in these biographical sketches. Speaking of her recently deceased husband, a widowed woman in her 70’s said, “He had a very rough childhood but he overcame that bad start.” In follow up to that remark, I learned her husband had been abused in foster care during the Great Depression, having been given up at age 4 by his parents because they already had too many children to feed.

Character stories take the biographical details of the history stories a step farther. These details actually assign character qualities to the deceased, helping the hearer to understand the values by which the bereaved perceives the deceased lived her life. These details often form the basis for spoken eulogies with descriptions like just, honest, compassionate, fun-loving, faithful, charitable, kind, generous, and hard-working. When we hear in the funeral homily or sermon that Marie was a woman who walked with God, and then we are reminded of specific examples of how she lived out that faith, we are participating in the labeling of her character, a vital role in grief.

Counselors can be on the lookout for details about the “sort of person” she was and even help the bereaved person find labels to fit. I’ve said to bereaved people in session, “So it sounds like he was a very honest man; is that a good word to describe him?” Then, the bereaved can enhance the story or change the “label” to best fit their perception of their loved one’s character. This powerful exercise helps to establish for once-and-for-all the kind of man or woman the deceased was.

Life impact stories move the storytelling to an even more intimate level as the bereaved person explains, “This is how her life impacted me.” Biographical details and even character stories can be told almost with an objective, third-party tone. Life impact stories likely get closer to the heart of the loss; we don’t grieve the deaths of people about whom we only know facts and dates. We might notice their death and feel some sense of loss, but grief, it seems, is a term that is reserved for those with whom we share some level of relationship. And it is in relationship where life rubs against life and where life’s impact (and therefore, death’s impact) is keenly felt.

These stories get to the heart of the matter. They are the stories that most reflect the depths of the loss and that declare, “This is what I most miss about her.” The erecting of a monument over the grave, naming a hospital wing in memory of a loved one, making a contribution in a loved one’s memory, and planting a tree in a park are all ways grieving people try to demonstrate the impact on life of their loved one who died.

But the telling of these stories requires a “witness” to hear them. It doesn’t seem enough for a grieving person to say to himself, “Wow, he was a swell guy because of this, and that, and something else.” We need another person to bear witness to that story. Speaking a character quality aloud and sharing the story—the supporting evidence if you will—helps to consolidate the story’s truth. When we invite the story to be told in our presence or when we attend a funeral where stories are told, we become part of a throng of people who hear the stories and attest to their truth. I suspect when a monument is built or a university building is named in a person’s memory, family and friends hope that the story of the deceased is heard by a great throng of people over many generations.

I went alone to visit the World War II memorial in Washington DC when there on a business trip a couple of years ago. Because my dad, a veteran of that war died quite a few years before its completion, he never saw it. What I was unprepared for when visiting the site, however, was the need I had to “join with” some of the other several hundred people there. I even found myself “tagging along” with an “Honor Flight” group of veterans from Iowa who were visiting the memorial. I sense that my need, in part at least, was to experience that memorial with concerned others, rather than in isolation.

As counselors, we also want to be highly sensitized to those bereaved individuals whose stories do not grow out of positive recollections and experiences with the dead. These stories also need to be heard, but it might be very unpopular for the bereaved person to utter these details in the family or friendship circle. Abuse victims most often need the safety of a person to whom they can tell “the rest of the story” after the death of the abuser. And in more cases than not, he or she will not feel able to safely share these stories within the family where the abuse occurred.

Perhaps, like me, you like old cemeteries. The gravestones to which I am most drawn, however, are the ones that tell a story—either through words or symbols. In an old cemetery, it has been perhaps a hundred or more years since this person lived, and yet, I am “blessed” by reading elements of their stories; often, I wish there were more details shared! I remember one monument to a young man and woman who, as best I could tell from reading the story on their gravestone, had been killed in an accident on their honeymoon. I felt a bit of the anguish of the families and community, who in the space of less than a week, went from the celebration of their wedding to the utter sadness of their deaths. And as I read their story etched in bronze, I felt my life strangely enriched.

Embrace the story. Encourage the telling of stories with all the details the bereaved can find. In the hearing of those stories, you become an important tool in their experience with grief.