Dear Chad
Having lost my father at 19, I was fully prepared for the insensitive comments that people make when someone dies. So, after we lost Lola, I braced myself and prepared for the awkward AF comments that would come. Knowing that generally they would be made with the best intentions, I could take it. This I was ready for. What I was in no way prepared for, were the people with zero emotional intelligence. The people who say something inappropriate and have so little awareness, and are so focused on feeling good themselves, they say something offside and you cringe in response. Despite this, they continue spewing just to hear the sound of their own voice.
The first Chad I encountered after losing Lola was actually a superior at work. I had never even met this individual yet, 3 weeks after her death, I received a card from him. I bet you’re thinking “aw that’s nice, a condolence card from someone you don’t even know!” - but I’ll stop you there. This little ditty was actually a birthday card. A birthday card for me, despite the fact that he was well aware my daughter had just died. This birthday card was perky and full of exclamation points. It included key quotes like, “chin up!” and “we are rooting for you!”. Wait, what? I paused wondering if I was in some alternate universe, or maybe I had accidentally taken too many Ativan. Was I preparing for a triathlon? Did I just have a knee replacement? Nope. None of that. My baby died. Dead. Forever, NOT alive.
I later found out that this individual was so focused on getting birthday cards out to staff to make himself look good, it didn’t matter that my baby died. My birthday was nothing more than a box he wanted to tick off his list. Dead child be dammed, he was going to get out that note that reminded me to “make sure” I had “fun over [my] birthday weekend”.
I thought about lashing out with a response thanking him for the card and letting him know how I actually spent the weekend. That the time had actually consisted of me crying on the floor with bags of frozen peas over my leaking breasts, because like him, my body didn’t get the memo on the dead baby… but I refrained.
I’ve received several more “quick notes” from this person since, and a few others who want to apologize for my “circumstances” and then act as though everything is hunky-dory. No, I don’t want to come to a party 4 weeks postpartum my full-term stillbirth. No, I don’t fucking care about a lower interest rate opportunity because the market is the “best it’s ever been”. Let me just turn on the auto response now: “Dear Chad, fu*k no, fu*k off and fu*k you.”
As much as I love a good roast, the point of this post isn’t to trash this dummy at work, it is, as our platform is intended, to share the experiences of our grief journey. What I’ve learned is that Chads are as prolific as ants. You may see one or two but really, there are hundreds under the surrounding rocks just lurking around. Chads are self-absorbed, lack awareness and generally just annoying. If we want them to learn, we have to talk about it. It’s unlikely they’ll take the hint through the wall of axe spray surrounding them or see the real us through their new lash extensions, but we have to try. Just wait for the pause in between all the pats on the back they’re giving themselves for being so great to get your message out.
If your name is Chad and your upset by this, maybe check in with Karen. She can call the manager for you.
Em xo
