What We Don’t Know

I read a Substack a while back that I’m still thinking about — well, two ideas from it — which means it’s probably ripe for analyzing in a post. Mari Andrews wrote five things she learned from her work in the ICU.

The first plays with the thought of admitting what you don’t know when hearing about someone else’s situation. She writes,

My mentor, a no-nonsense Blundstones-wearing rabbi who was easily exhausted by hubris and certainty, constantly reminded me, YOU DON’T KNOW.

“Even if you had the patient’s exact illness, or you’ve felt the same way, you don’t know what it’s like to be them. Enter their room only with questions, never answers.”

I love that idea of entering with only questions, never answers. And using that as a guide to help anyone through a situation. Really, as humans, our role is to abide. To ask questions that will get people talking through their feelings or ask questions to let them know that you’re remembering with them. You are not meant to have answers. You are not them. Even if you’ve gone through something similar (ahem… infertility), you have not gone through their experience. So while you may be asked a question — how did you get through X? — it’s not your place to think you need to offer them how you got through X because you’re not there for answers. Only questions.

I especially loved this reminder: “I was so frustrated that I didn’t have the opportunity to blow everyone’s minds with my yet-to-be-discovered miraculous superpower to have the perfect words for every occasion.” Isn’t that impulse so true? But being there for someone is not about flexing your superpower. It’s knowing that no superpower can remove the weight of the other person’s grief. We can add to it, but we can’t remove it entirely. Only lighten it a bit by listening.