A grief casserole -- how to help your friends & family through loss | Kate Schutt | TEDxWestChester

Kate Schutt (pronounced “shut”) spent four years as her mom’s primary caregiver, writing songs about the dark and the light of her mother’s journey from diagnosis to death of ovarian cancer. Kate wants us all to know how to show up for our grieving friends so they don’t feel alone with their loss.

Working with legendary producer/arranger Rob Mounsey, Kate just finished a new album, entitled Bright Nowhere. It’s an achingly real collection of the songs about the new landscape of loss she found herself in. The music is melodic and memorable; the sound is that perfect combination of pop and jazz.

Known for her heartfelt, literary songwriting, Kate’s fans are drawn to her authenticity and vulnerability on and off the stage. Her songs have won top honors from the John Lennon Songwriting Contest and ASCAP. Kate studied the influence of jazz on poetry at Harvard, and studied jazz guitar at Berklee College of Music. After nearly a decade living and making music in Canada, she now calls New York City home.

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at https://www.ted.com/tedx

♪ I know you are weary ♪

♪ I know you are scared ♪

♪ There's nothing I won't do for you ♪

♪ There's nothing I won't bear ♪

The CT scan showed a tumor
the size of a grapefruit

on my mom's abdomen.

The doctor wanted to operate immediately

and as soon as possible after that,
start frontline chemo.

She was 67 years old.

I was headed to an extended gig
in The Middle East.

My two guitars and duffel bags

sat on the floor of my New York apartment.

I unpacked, repacked, and

♪ Was on the next train home ♪

♪ When she found out ♪

♪ She had a stomach full of cancer ♪

♪ It was the last day
that she was herself, yeah ♪

♪ It hit us like a hammer ♪

♪ Sometimes in life, you have a choice ♪

♪ And sometimes none at all ♪

♪ So I moved into my childhood room ♪

♪ And I put down my guitar ♪

And I didn't pick it up again
for another year and a half.

I became my mom's primary caregiver,

and getting her through each day
took all of my energy and focus -

the never-ending meetings with doctors,

the labyrinth of medical
decisions to navigate,

not to mention her day-to-day care
and side-effects to manage.

No, there'd be no more writing songs.

But I kept notes of the songs
I wanted to write

should I ever get back to music

or somehow find my way
through this new landscape of loss.

My mom felt guilty for getting cancer.

She felt as though she was a burden
on me and the family.

And no matter how many times
I told her that she wasn't,

it wasn't her fault,

it was like the words never sank in.

Finally, eventually,
she went into her first remission,

and I got a few weeks to myself.

I pulled out my notes
and I started writing songs,

and that first song you heard,
"Nothing I Won't Bear,"

was yet another attempt to tell her

that all I wanted to do
was be there by her side.

I got home, I played that song
for her, and it was ...

it was like the music and the lyrics

went straight to her heart.

We never had to have that conversation
about her being a burden ever again.

Let's do loss better.

Loss is a thread
that's woven through our lives.

It's everywhere!

How many of you have lost a beloved pet?

Lost a job,

lost a close friendship or two,

maybe have a person in your life die,

or know someone who's been
through that experience?

It's evident to live is to lose.

There's no escaping loss,
not our own or other people's.

Let's face it.

We do loss pretty badly.

We don't know what to do and say
when someone's going through grief.

We just want to get through it
and away from it.

It's uncomfortable.

And as soon as our life
goes back to normal,

the crisis is over,

we don't think about loss at all.

I mean, why would we?

What are the consequences
of doing loss so poorly?

Among other things,
people feel alone, bereft,

like they're underwater.

That's how I felt
when I was taking care of my mom.

Especially as her illness wore on,

it was like I was in some strange vacuum.

People close to me going MIA,

a lot of silence,

giving me space.

Space?

I'm going through the hardest thing
I've ever been through in my entire life

and you're giving me space?

I literally lost count
of the number of people

who came up to me and said,

"I really wanted to be in touch,

I know you've been having
a hard time with your mom,

but I didn't know what to say,
I didn't know what to do.

I didn't want to bring it up
or make it worse."

Bring it up?

It was up.

Make it worse?

There's no way you could have.

Listen, I, too, used to act the same way.

Back before my mom got cancer,
I didn't know what to do and say

when someone I knew
was going through grief.

I wished I did.

I wanted to be helpful,

but every impulse I had
felt awkward or off.

I mean, should I send a text or an email?
Is that appropriate at a time like this?

What about Facebook? Facebook?

Maybe I'll screw up my courage
and call them on the phone.

And say what?

My thoughts and prayers are with you?

I don't pray,

and at this point
in our cultural conversation,

that phrase is tired.

What about doing something for someone?
Everything I wanted to do felt intrusive.

Sure, I'd mouth that
sickeningly familiar phrase,

"Let me know what I can do to help,"
as if that was a kind of helping,

full well knowing they'd
never take me up on the offer.

It was just another thing
they'd have to decide.

And who was I?

Was I even close enough to them,

a good enough friend to be involved
at such an awful moment?

No, I'd say nothing,

convincing myself that at least then,
I wasn't making a bad situation worse,

and then I'd let myself
get distracted by my life,

maybe even on purpose, to avoid
the whole scary topic of mortality.

And it would all fade away

until the next loss came around.

Even in the middle of my mom's illness,

when I was quarter-backing
all of her care -

driving her to the hospital
week after week,

sitting with her
in the chemo suite for hours

while the clear plastic bag

dripped toxic liquid
into the port on her chest,

and I knew everything there was to know

about the state of her heart
and the state of her head

and the state of her health -

even I sometimes didn't know what to do
and say to my very own mother.

That's where being able
to write songs came in handy.

♪ I'm scared and you're brave ♪

♪ I'm free and you're caught ♪

♪ We're fighting a battle ♪

♪ We've already lost ♪

♪ We are living every minute ♪

♪ Of your dying days ♪

In the last days of my mom's life,

a family friend brought over dinner.

She didn't ask if she could.

She just showed up,
walked through the front door,

put two brown paper bags
down on the kitchen counter,

turned around and walked out.

I bet this felt risky for her to do.

She couldn't be sure
how many people were in the house,

what we liked to eat, were we
vegan, vegetarian, gluten-free,

or if there'd be enough food to go around.

Let me tell you right now.

That simple gift of showing up
with food ready to eat

was a godsend.

It meant I didn't have to think
about the rest of my day.

My mom was actively dying.

The hospice nurse said
she'd be gone within 24 hours.

We were glued to her bedside.

My dad, my brothers and their families,
and my mom's sisters.

I was giving her morphine
every couple of hours.

We were wiping her forehead
and the corners of her mouth.

It meant that we could go downstairs
when we needed to and wanted to

and sit down together and have a meal.

I'll never forget it;
it was such a relief.

And relief is all that a grieving person

wants in this world;

it helps make the unbearable bearable.

I learned a lot from actions like these.

There are simple things you can do
to show up for your loved ones,

things that'll make them
feel seen and supported,

because it's not about you
and what you're worried about.

It's about them
and what they're going through.

I've got three simple things
I want to share with you tonight,

things that'll make them feel loved.

These are the things
that I once didn't know how to do,

and through the process of losing my mom,

I figured out how to do them.

And now, whenever anyone around me
is going through something tough,

I pick one of these
three things and I do it.

They're reliable and they work.

So number one,

do send a text or an email or call,

and say simply this:

"This must be so difficult for you,
I can't imagine what you're going through.

I'm sending you my love.
No need to respond."

You don't need to say
anything groundbreaking here.

Just be honest.

Loss sucks and it's
different for everyone.

Speak to that.

And be sure to tell them
that they don't need to get back to you.

It's a busy and strange time for them.

Let them off the hook.
They'll be so grateful that you did.

Number two.

Just go and do a chore or an errand
for them, something simple.

Don't ask their permission,
just show up and do it.

Take the dogs for a walk,
fold the laundry,

clean the kitchen floor,
pick up the dry-cleaning,

take the kids out for ice cream.

Just one act that gives them
a moment of peace

or a break from their busy time.

I can imagine you're thinking,

"But I live so far away,
how do I do that?"

You can figure it out.

You're more resourceful than you know.

Call a dog walking service,

call and get the dry-cleaning delivered.

Find someone who does live nearby

and have them take the
kids for the afternoon.

You can figure it out.

And number three,

make or buy a big mac and cheese casserole
and drop it off at their house.

(Laughter)

They can eat it right then,
put it in the fridge, freeze it for later.

Listen, we've all got to eat,

even those of us wracked by grief.

And if you don't live nearby,
this one's easy.

Call and get pizza delivered.

I'm pretty sure there's
a local pizza place or a Domino's

within striking distance
of every house on the planet.

(Laughter)

"Oh, my god!

Remember when you dropped
off the casserole after my mom's funeral?

I hated you when you did that,"
said no one ever!

(Laughter)

I even dropped off the casserole
after my friend's dog died.

Listen, it's been three years
since my mom passed away,

and at the end of her life,
she was sent so many flowers.

They were beautiful.

They covered practically
every surface in our house.

But one of the things
I remember most of all

was that chicken noodle soup
and the pasta with red sauce

that came out of those brown paper bags.

Find the courage to show up
for your grieving friend.

It might feel awkward
or like you're going to get it wrong.

Risk getting it wrong.

Don't dwell on the voices
of doubt in your head,

just pick one of these
three things and do it.

Don't be silent.

Don't be absent from their lives.

Stop thinking about it, just act.

Your grieving friend needs you to.

No, you can't fix
what they're going through,

you can't make it
so the marriage didn't fall apart,

you can't bring back
the person they've lost,

but you can show up for them in a real way
that doesn't put the burden on them.

Loss is all around us,

and now you know three
ways to do it better.

♪ You don't have to fight
the good fight for me ♪

♪ What's it gonna take
for you to believe me ♪

♪ Believe me, yeah ♪

♪ When your world's been blown apart ♪

♪ I got your back, I got your heart ♪

♪ You don't have to fight
the good fight for me ♪

We all know someone

who's going through
something tough right now.

Go say something to them.

Go do something for them.

Maybe even something

as intrusive as dropping off a casserole.

(Applause)