'The well-meaning questions and comments that set me off after my husband died'

It's almost impossible to know what to say to someone in the throes of grief. We all want to say something comforting. Very few of us know what that is.

I've learned this the hard way. My beloved husband of 23 years died at the end of July, two years after being diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer.

Since then, I've seen friends and neighbours struggle for the right words, and I've been surprised by how even the kindest questions can set me off.

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There's no one right answer, of course. What is helpful for me may not work for someone else, and words that I find off-putting may be the perfect balm for another person.

Still, trading notes with a few grieving people, including my own children, I've found some helpful do's and five unexpected don'ts.

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No. 1: 'How are you?'

You'd be surprised how loaded this basic question can feel. A caring friend wants to know how you're doing. What could possibly be wrong with that?

The problem, my kids and I realised, is that it's a near-impossible question to answer. Our feelings of grief change by the hour, sometimes by the minute, so there's no answer that will stand the test of time.

Do you mean how am I this very second? I can answer that, but my answer might change a second later. Do you mean how are we coping in life? The answer is, we don't know yet.

We find it easier to answer less overarching questions, such as, how was college drop-off? How was the first day of school? How was dinner last night? Specific questions are less challenging than existential ones.

No. 2: 'How can I help?'

I've had to dig deep to figure out why this generous question from well-meaning friends doesn't sit right. I think it's because it puts the onus on the griever to help the helper.

The helper wants to figure something out – but those of us who are grieving are in no position to help. We often can't articulate, and might not even know, what we want or need.

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Here's something that worked really well: neighbours who, without asking, dropped off a tray of lasagna or cookies or flowers or fill-in-the-blank.

They didn't ring the doorbell. They didn't call to find out if we liked lasagna or if we'd be home. They simply left something on the doorstep.

One helpful friend showed up at my house and immediately rolled up her sleeves and started doing my sink full of dishes. She didn't ask. She just dived in.

One recent morning, as I struggled to summon the energy to open the fridge and figure out breakfast for the kids and me, I watched a delivery truck back into our driveway.

Out came bags of bagels, platters of cream cheese, smoked salmon, fresh fruit and a carton of hot coffee sent by my colleagues.

That morning, I did not have the forethought to say, "You know, I could really go for a bagel and coffee right now," but it turns out that's exactly what we needed.

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No. 3: 'I can't imagine what you must be going through'

One of my teenage daughters, a theatre kid, explained to me why this phrase really rubs her the wrong way: It reveals a curious lack of creativity.

Here's what she wanted to ask her friends who said this: Really? You've never imagined losing a parent? Have you ever seen a movie about loss or death?

The Fault in Our Stars, perhaps? How 'bout The Lion King? Were you dry-eyed when Mufasa died, or did you cry and feel Simba's pain?

My daughter's hunch is that you can, in fact, imagine a devastating loss, but you don't want to imagine it for yourself or have to think of how sad this is for us.

That's understandable. We want to protect you from our pain, too. But the statement has the unintended effect of isolating us on a grief island, as though loss was somehow singularly ours.

So instead of putting our feelings in an unimaginable silo, try relating to us. Say something like, "I remember when I lost my X and I felt X". Or maybe share a specific memory like "I really enjoyed watching your dad coach you in soccer. I'm going to miss that."

A statement like that lets us know we're not alone.

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No. 4: 'This is so unfair'

I was surprised when friends, particularly friends my age, said this. I'm in the news business, so I think my notion of life "being fair" vanished somewhere in the middle of covering yet another senseless school shooting.

I've long since stopped thinking of life as being neatly organised into fair and unfair categories.

Instead of trying to untangle grief from injustice, I've started the practice of radical acceptance.

This concept was introduced to my husband and me by our grief counsellor immediately after his diagnosis.

It goes something like this: Some things in life are glorious, and some things suck. Try to accept life on its own terms and deal with the hand you're dealt.

Radical acceptance has been a game-changer for me and how I tackle the tough stuff. Instead of asking, "Why me?" or "How can life be so unfair?" I say, "This is what I'm dealing with. What's the best way forward?"

No. 5: 'I want to come give you a hug'

Before I was thrust into grief, I would not have understood how a loving gesture from a friend could ever feel uncomfortable. Now I do.

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Those of us grieving need to pace ourselves. It's draining to grieve for too long on any given day, so we titrate the pain.

I find myself carefully carving out chunks of time to read condolence cards and respond to sympathy emails because I need to conserve energy to attend to the stuff of life: my kids' needs, my work schedule, unpaid bills, returning my husband's leased car.

Being wrapped in grief does not allow me to function the way I need to. Friends who arrived at my door teary-eyed forced the unintended response of me having to grieve with them on their timetable, rather than my own.

Sometimes it felt as though I had to comfort them and help them cope with the loss, which was counterproductive for my mental state.

If you do feel compelled to show up at the doorstep of someone who has just suffered a loss, try to bring laughter and lightness with you to help alleviate the grief load on them.

What to say when there are no words

What worked beautifully for us was receiving a lovingly composed letter, email or text, expressing someone's emotions.

I could read the message on my own schedule, at a time I had chosen for reflection. One dear friend sent a lacquered box where I can store condolence cards and keep coming back to when I want to remember the deep impact my husband had on our community.

Remember, it's OK to say you don't know what to say. It's also OK to wait a beat before saying it. Last week, I got a text from an old friend who I'd not heard from in the months since my husband's death. She said, "I haven't found the right words to text you."

I knew exactly what she meant, and somehow those words felt just right.

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