Colin Campbell lost his two teenage children in a car crash. He says that the way we treat grieving people is cruel and backward, and that it needs a reimagining.
Thanks Bari for this piece. I just lost someone who was very dear to me. Nothing like those parents have experienced of course. But it was a great piece and helped me a lot.
Something I think is missing in this essay is the fact that grieving a sudden death is very different from grieving an expected death. It actually made me angry when Mr. Campbell insisted that all grief is the same, because it isn't.
We lost our oldest daughter at four and half months. She had a heart defect that we knew about before she was born and a liver defect that was discovered after. She had multiple surgeries, and she never got to come home. We knew from when I was 5 months pregnant that her chances of survival were very slim, but we chose to give her that chance.
We had never been parents before, and the whole bonding process was disrupted by the fact that she was trapped in a hospital nearly two hours from our home, and no one helped us to be there for her as much as we wanted to be. Even Ronald McDonald House--which was at the hospital on the other side of the city--largely failed us. About a month before she died, one blessed nurse allowed me to have one precious night with Jair in a parent room, taking care of her almost entirely by myself.
I didn't cry after her death, even though it hurt. I had been expecting it too long. It was only as our oldest son grew from infant to toddler that I truly bonded with Jair, as if reaching back through time. The first moment when I truly grieved was when our next son had grown to about the same weight that Jair had been when she died. Our older son didn't look at all like his sister, but our younger son was very clearly her brother. I looked down into the bassinet and suddenly began crying uncontrollably.
Jair would have turned 33 this summer, had she lived. Talking about her still hurts, but it's a good pain. That was the one thing I agreed with Mr. Campbell about. I would rather feel the pain of talking about her than the horror of forgetting her.
I listened to the interview. It’s was so impactful; more than reading the text, to hear the father talk about this tragedy. I am not a parent. I never cried for my mother nor my father, who committed suicide. The only ‘person’ I cried so hard for was my loving little dog.
Hearing Colin tell the story so openly and viscerally with absolute raw truth was a stunning experience as a listener. Bari was very empathetic, you could hear it in her responses. She asked all the questions I would have wanted to ask if I had known how to interview this father. Colin was open, clear and fully present in his responses. As a non Jew, as he is, it was interesting to learn about the traditions in the Jewish faith for mourning. I have only attended a shiva. I had no idea of the wonderful rituals that attend the mourner in the Jewish faith. In fact, you don’t even have to have ‘faith’. Just the community. I wish Colin and his wife healing and eventual peace. My heart goes out to you both.
Such a beautiful read. And every insight rang true. Bravery is showing up despite everyday tragedies with grace. Thank you Bari for this feature. It was inspirational.
In 1977, when I was 17, my dad was killed in an auto accident that killed two others and almost killed my mom. I have spent many years considering how I, and my family, responded to this sudden tragedy. I developed an epigram about grief which is this: "There is no 'one way' to respond to grievous circumstances." I enjoyed listening to Collin's discourse but stop well short of endorsing his advice on how a person should respond. What he described was effective for him, and helped him make some sense of his tragic circumstance. Yet in his discussion, and in Bari's interviewing of him, I deduced a sense from both of them that "This is the way". Because I philosophically agree with much of Colin's opinions, which only marks me for confirmation bias, I am wary of that response. If in listening a person is uncertain of how they'd react in grief, if they aren't sure they could do as Colin did, it's all right to be uncertain. "Embracing the suck" is exactly my way of dealing with difficulties, but it is not something one can just "do" or "be". I do appreciate most, however, his circumstance of NOT avoiding a person in the midst of grief. Be present with them. Listen to them. SEE them as a person, not merely a tragic figure.
As always, thoughtful and compelling content from Bari and her team.
I went to a wedding where the bride's family was Jewish and I witnessed the celebrants give the gift of JOY to the couple and their families (of which I was a part). I never conceived of the concept that people could give their unbridled joy as a gift to sanctify an event. They put aside their lives for a time to live for the honoring of their kin. I honor that. I also revere the tradition of "blessing" children formally. The proverb from somewhere "sorrow shared is half sorrow and joy shared is double joy" wraps itself around the truth in the traditions that bear out the wisdom of these communal acts.
My brother, who was younger than me, died of cancer at a young age. He suffered horribly. Not only did I feel guilt for being alive and older but the sadness was overwhelming. It still bothers me to this day however I cannot even begin to imagine the loss of a child. It's unfathomable.
For me, a substantial part of my medical school experience was defined by my mother's mystery illness, revealed with time to be a glioblastoma (a form of brain cancer which is usually fatal). Driven to complete school so she could see me graduate, every experience I had on the wards was colored by my experiences of watching her decline into madness and eventually death.
Someone did tell me about some of the Jewish components of grief, and while I am not religious, I did find that it took a year to really come to terms with it.
The most meaningful activity I could find was sharing insight, from the classmate going through something similar, the Tasmanian mother-daughter couple I met on a wilderness hike, or the patients and their families who dealt with their own losses without being able to even see each other as I started work in the peak COVID era.
This was a superbly powerful piece of writing. To read the perspective of this father was heartbreaking, courageous, and yet hopeful that all of us can be better at processing our own grief and offer meaningful support to others.
Our son died but suicide at age 22 to in diagnosed depression. He left a note trying to tell us why he “couldn’t go on” & ending by saying “we were the best parents” & “mom I love you”. I prayed to God asking for his help. I became suicidal always thinking of ways to end my life. Grief is crippling. But you have to face it, cry your heart with someone or alone as often as you need to. Rather than thinking of what might have been I became grateful for the time & love we shared. Some support groups helped too. I came to believe that I’d much rather miss my son than not having had him in my life at all. Nineteen years later God has blessed as with 6 loving fun grandchildren. I think of my son every day now with more joy in remembrance. Thank you Mr Murray for your poems and thank you Bari for this site
In the book and movie "We Were Soldiers," Lt. Col. Hal Moore talked about his failure in contacting the families of the deceased among his soldiers in what is thought of as the bloodiest battle in the Vietnam War. He realized too late that there was one common element in all these difficult personal visits: the families just needed to tell him what a wonderful human their son was. And he'd been guilty of exactly what, decades later, Colin Campbell says: people are afraid to hear from you. You become isolated. The doctor who, in telling them that the Campbell children were declared dead, and then asked, "tell me about them," was the first time anyone was willing to engage with them. Including social workers, who basically ignored Campbell and his wife.
After eight years of counseling, ruminating, reading, and doing so more than is reasonable, the Bari Weiss interview of Colin Campbell was the first time I found something that made sense to me. Maybe it "takes one to know one." Maybe Campbell is just terribly good at articulating emotions where others fail or rely upon euphemisms.
A loved one gave me a book when I suffered enormous and catastrophic loss, and I cherish it. Not because it was particularly good, but because I knew the intention of the giver was true and loving, and meant to provide solace. It was intention more than an objective salve that gave me some emotional peace.
Now, I will gift Campbell's book when I find out that loved ones or ones I care for go through loss. Because my intention is to provide that same solace. And because Campbell gets it right, at least more than anything else I have ever read or heard. A very nice piece of work.
This podcast took my breath away. Beautiful.
Thanks Bari for this piece. I just lost someone who was very dear to me. Nothing like those parents have experienced of course. But it was a great piece and helped me a lot.
Stunning piece
Beautiful. Thank you.
Thank you for this perspective on grieving and consoling those in the midst of profound grief. I will take your advice to heart.
Something I think is missing in this essay is the fact that grieving a sudden death is very different from grieving an expected death. It actually made me angry when Mr. Campbell insisted that all grief is the same, because it isn't.
We lost our oldest daughter at four and half months. She had a heart defect that we knew about before she was born and a liver defect that was discovered after. She had multiple surgeries, and she never got to come home. We knew from when I was 5 months pregnant that her chances of survival were very slim, but we chose to give her that chance.
We had never been parents before, and the whole bonding process was disrupted by the fact that she was trapped in a hospital nearly two hours from our home, and no one helped us to be there for her as much as we wanted to be. Even Ronald McDonald House--which was at the hospital on the other side of the city--largely failed us. About a month before she died, one blessed nurse allowed me to have one precious night with Jair in a parent room, taking care of her almost entirely by myself.
I didn't cry after her death, even though it hurt. I had been expecting it too long. It was only as our oldest son grew from infant to toddler that I truly bonded with Jair, as if reaching back through time. The first moment when I truly grieved was when our next son had grown to about the same weight that Jair had been when she died. Our older son didn't look at all like his sister, but our younger son was very clearly her brother. I looked down into the bassinet and suddenly began crying uncontrollably.
Jair would have turned 33 this summer, had she lived. Talking about her still hurts, but it's a good pain. That was the one thing I agreed with Mr. Campbell about. I would rather feel the pain of talking about her than the horror of forgetting her.
I listened to the interview. It’s was so impactful; more than reading the text, to hear the father talk about this tragedy. I am not a parent. I never cried for my mother nor my father, who committed suicide. The only ‘person’ I cried so hard for was my loving little dog.
Hearing Colin tell the story so openly and viscerally with absolute raw truth was a stunning experience as a listener. Bari was very empathetic, you could hear it in her responses. She asked all the questions I would have wanted to ask if I had known how to interview this father. Colin was open, clear and fully present in his responses. As a non Jew, as he is, it was interesting to learn about the traditions in the Jewish faith for mourning. I have only attended a shiva. I had no idea of the wonderful rituals that attend the mourner in the Jewish faith. In fact, you don’t even have to have ‘faith’. Just the community. I wish Colin and his wife healing and eventual peace. My heart goes out to you both.
Such a beautiful read. And every insight rang true. Bravery is showing up despite everyday tragedies with grace. Thank you Bari for this feature. It was inspirational.
In 1977, when I was 17, my dad was killed in an auto accident that killed two others and almost killed my mom. I have spent many years considering how I, and my family, responded to this sudden tragedy. I developed an epigram about grief which is this: "There is no 'one way' to respond to grievous circumstances." I enjoyed listening to Collin's discourse but stop well short of endorsing his advice on how a person should respond. What he described was effective for him, and helped him make some sense of his tragic circumstance. Yet in his discussion, and in Bari's interviewing of him, I deduced a sense from both of them that "This is the way". Because I philosophically agree with much of Colin's opinions, which only marks me for confirmation bias, I am wary of that response. If in listening a person is uncertain of how they'd react in grief, if they aren't sure they could do as Colin did, it's all right to be uncertain. "Embracing the suck" is exactly my way of dealing with difficulties, but it is not something one can just "do" or "be". I do appreciate most, however, his circumstance of NOT avoiding a person in the midst of grief. Be present with them. Listen to them. SEE them as a person, not merely a tragic figure.
As always, thoughtful and compelling content from Bari and her team.
I went to a wedding where the bride's family was Jewish and I witnessed the celebrants give the gift of JOY to the couple and their families (of which I was a part). I never conceived of the concept that people could give their unbridled joy as a gift to sanctify an event. They put aside their lives for a time to live for the honoring of their kin. I honor that. I also revere the tradition of "blessing" children formally. The proverb from somewhere "sorrow shared is half sorrow and joy shared is double joy" wraps itself around the truth in the traditions that bear out the wisdom of these communal acts.
What a beautiful and heroic story. I feel it will help others to read it here. Thank you.
My brother, who was younger than me, died of cancer at a young age. He suffered horribly. Not only did I feel guilt for being alive and older but the sadness was overwhelming. It still bothers me to this day however I cannot even begin to imagine the loss of a child. It's unfathomable.
For me, a substantial part of my medical school experience was defined by my mother's mystery illness, revealed with time to be a glioblastoma (a form of brain cancer which is usually fatal). Driven to complete school so she could see me graduate, every experience I had on the wards was colored by my experiences of watching her decline into madness and eventually death.
Someone did tell me about some of the Jewish components of grief, and while I am not religious, I did find that it took a year to really come to terms with it.
The most meaningful activity I could find was sharing insight, from the classmate going through something similar, the Tasmanian mother-daughter couple I met on a wilderness hike, or the patients and their families who dealt with their own losses without being able to even see each other as I started work in the peak COVID era.
This was a superbly powerful piece of writing. To read the perspective of this father was heartbreaking, courageous, and yet hopeful that all of us can be better at processing our own grief and offer meaningful support to others.
Thank you!
Our son died but suicide at age 22 to in diagnosed depression. He left a note trying to tell us why he “couldn’t go on” & ending by saying “we were the best parents” & “mom I love you”. I prayed to God asking for his help. I became suicidal always thinking of ways to end my life. Grief is crippling. But you have to face it, cry your heart with someone or alone as often as you need to. Rather than thinking of what might have been I became grateful for the time & love we shared. Some support groups helped too. I came to believe that I’d much rather miss my son than not having had him in my life at all. Nineteen years later God has blessed as with 6 loving fun grandchildren. I think of my son every day now with more joy in remembrance. Thank you Mr Murray for your poems and thank you Bari for this site
In the book and movie "We Were Soldiers," Lt. Col. Hal Moore talked about his failure in contacting the families of the deceased among his soldiers in what is thought of as the bloodiest battle in the Vietnam War. He realized too late that there was one common element in all these difficult personal visits: the families just needed to tell him what a wonderful human their son was. And he'd been guilty of exactly what, decades later, Colin Campbell says: people are afraid to hear from you. You become isolated. The doctor who, in telling them that the Campbell children were declared dead, and then asked, "tell me about them," was the first time anyone was willing to engage with them. Including social workers, who basically ignored Campbell and his wife.
After eight years of counseling, ruminating, reading, and doing so more than is reasonable, the Bari Weiss interview of Colin Campbell was the first time I found something that made sense to me. Maybe it "takes one to know one." Maybe Campbell is just terribly good at articulating emotions where others fail or rely upon euphemisms.
A loved one gave me a book when I suffered enormous and catastrophic loss, and I cherish it. Not because it was particularly good, but because I knew the intention of the giver was true and loving, and meant to provide solace. It was intention more than an objective salve that gave me some emotional peace.
Now, I will gift Campbell's book when I find out that loved ones or ones I care for go through loss. Because my intention is to provide that same solace. And because Campbell gets it right, at least more than anything else I have ever read or heard. A very nice piece of work.