A man went on vacation, entrusting the care and feeding of his cat to his friend who also happened to live next door.  A few days into his trip, his phone rang.  His friend and cat keeper was on the other end.  “Hey, man.  I’m really sorry, but your cat got up on the roof and fell off and died.  I thought they were always supposed to land on their feet, but I guess yours didn’t get the memo.”  The man was not only extremely distraught over the death of his favorite feline, but irate with his friend for the manner in which he had broken the news.  “Don’t you know you should never give someone incredibly bad news like that?!  You should have prepared me . . . built up to it!  Call me one day and tell me my cat’s on the roof—and then the next day you can tell me he fell off—and then the next day you can tell me he died!  But never, NEVER give anyone bad news like that!!”

A few days later, his friend called back.  “Hey, man.  Your mama’s on the roof . . .”

There have been several times in my life when I got that call.  Most of them were no surprise; age and illness guaranteed the end result.  But two of those times were unexpected, and very different in their delivery.  My grandfather died quite suddenly when I was in college and it fell my father’s lot to deliver the news.  That alone was my first clue.  He never called me at school so the mere sound of his voice on the other end of the line assured me that something was terribly, terribly wrong.  He asked how I was . . . and how school was . . .  and the whole time this voice in my head was screaming, “JUST TELL ME!!”  And when he finally did, my heart sank . . . just as it would have if the polite conversation beforehand had never occurred.

The second time came when I took my daughter, a friend of hers, and my future (although I didn’t know that at the time) daughter-in-law to Disneyworld for the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day.  I was just getting off the Jungle Cruise when my coat pocket began to ring.  I answered the phone and heard my husband say, “Don died!”  No “hello” . . . no “how’s the trip” . . . just blunt force trauma to my life.  My mind went in a million directions at once, but my initial concern was Don who?  I had an uncle Don, he had a brother Don.  Neither of them was old enough to be dead.  In the shock of the moment he had forgotten about his brother and did not realize the confusion he had just created.

So how do you tell someone a death has occurred, a death that is going to directly affect them and substantially alter their life?  I am definitely no expert . . . I doubt that anyone is where this is concerned, even those who, due to their chosen profession, must deliver such news on an almost daily basis.  But I would suggest that the best course would be a combination of the two I just recounted.  Prolonging the inevitable does not soften the blow although it may give the messenger time to summon their courage and steel their resolve in their mission.  All that you say before and much of what you say after will be lost the moment you utter the words “has died”.  And changing the language won’t change the facts.  Whether you say passed on, passed away, departed, expired, gone, lost, called home, left this earthly plain, drifted into eternal sleep, or whatever euphemism you may choose, the fact remains—someone is dead and someone else must spend the rest of their life coping with that knowledge.

If it ever falls your task to deliver such heartbreaking news, there are three things you should remember.  It must be done simply with enough information to accurately convey the event without overwhelming the recipient.  When they are ready for the details, they will ask.  It must be done kindly and with love.  And it must be done when you have time—for at that moment, your time may be what that person needs the most.

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