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The words that help and the words that don't — what to say at the bedside

You're sitting at their bedside and you have no idea what to say. You want to say something that helps. You want to be comforting. You want to ease this moment. So you look around for the right words, and most of the words you think to say will make it worse.

"She's in a better place now."

"Everything happens for a reason."

"At least they had a long life."

"Be strong."

These words come from kindness. You're trying to help. But they don't help. At the bedside of someone dying, they're reminders that no one knows what to say, and that's actually okay.

The words that sound right but aren't

"She's in a better place." Where's the better place? Here is where they are. Here is where the people who love them are. Here is where their life happened. The place they're about to go is unknown. Imagining it as better doesn't comfort most people. It alienates them. It makes their life here seem less than.

"Everything happens for a reason." Does it? The cancer happened for a reason? The stroke happened for a reason? The body failing happened for a reason? Most dying people don't want theological explanations. They want the pain to be bearable, and they want to know they matter.

"At least they had a long life." At least. But the person who's dying didn't think it would end yet. At least is comparative. It minimizes the loss. It says: be grateful you got this much, instead of: I grieve that you're leaving.

"You need to be strong for them." Why? They don't need you to be strong. They need you present. They need you human. They need you to cry if you're sad, to feel what you feel, to not pretend to be something you're not. Being strong means controlling yourself, and controlling yourself means you're not there. You're in your head managing your emotions instead of being with them.

"She was a good person, and God needed her in heaven." This is theological comfort that assumes belief. Not everyone has the belief you have. And the dying person might be angry. They might not feel ready. They might not believe. This explanation can feel like their death was someone else's plan, not their own. It can rob them of agency.

"Everything will be okay." No, it won't. Everything will not be okay. They will die. Their family will grieve. This is not okay. And you don't get to lie and say it is, not at the bedside of someone who knows better.

What actually helps

Presence helps. You being there. Not always talking. Just being in the room, so the person isn't alone. Just letting them know that they matter enough that you showed up.

Simple sentences help. "I love you." "I'm here." "You're safe." "It's okay to be scared." These words don't try to fix anything. They don't minimize. They don't explain. They just acknowledge the moment and the person in it.

Silence helps. Silence that doesn't need to be filled. Silence that says: this is hard, and that's okay, and I'm sitting in it with you. A lot of people panic in silence and try to fill it with words. But the dying person doesn't need words. They need your presence. They need to know they're not alone. Silence does that perfectly well.

Listening helps. If the dying person has something to say, listen to it. Don't try to fix it or explain it or redirect it. Just listen. If they're scared, listen. If they're angry, listen. If they're sad or confused or making no sense, listen. Your listening says: what you feel matters. Who you are matters.

"I remember when..." Stories help. Tell them something about their life. Something they did that was kind, or brave, or funny. Something that made a difference. Something that proved they mattered. Remind them, in the face of death, that their life was real and it meant something.

Permission helps. If the dying person is holding on and it seems to be causing them suffering, permission to let go can be deep. "It's okay to go." "We're going to be okay." "You don't have to fight anymore." Some people wait until they know the people they love can survive without them. Giving them that permission is an act of love.

How to listen more than speak

Some people at the bedside want to talk. They want to fill the space with words, with distracting conversation, with normalcy. That's understandable. It's comforting to the person doing the talking. But it's not what the dying person usually needs.

Instead, ask what they need. Ask what they're afraid of. Ask what they're thinking about. Ask if there's something they want to say. Then listen more than you talk. If they say something and you want to respond, let them finish first. Let there be spaces where they could say more. Let them know by your silence that you're ready to hear.

If they're in pain, ask what kind of pain. If they're scared, ask what they're scared of. If they're saying something that doesn't make sense, ask them to tell you more, instead of trying to correct them or rationalize it. The dying person's experience is their reality. You don't have to agree with it. You just have to honor it.

This is hard, because you want to help and you don't know how. But you are helping. By listening, you're showing that their fear is heard. That their experience is real. That they're not alone in it. By not trying to fix it, you're accepting that some things can't be fixed, and that's okay.

The words that keep coming back

Some phrases seem to work. "I'm here." That's a complete sentence. It says: you're not alone. I'm staying. You matter enough that I will be present with you in this.

"I love you." Say it. Say it again. Say it the way you mean it. Some people never say it to their parents until the bedside. Don't wait. But if this is when you're saying it, that's okay. "I love you" can heal things, or at least make them matter less right now.

"It's okay to let go." If the person is suffering and holding on, this helps. It releases them from the burden of protecting you. It tells them that you will be okay, even though they're leaving. It's permission to stop fighting.

"I'm sorry." Sometimes people at the bedside feel the need to apologize. For not being there enough, for not calling, for arguments long past, for things that happened. If there's something you need to say, say it. If the dying person can respond, they might forgive you. If they can't, your apology matters anyway. It's you making peace with the life you had.

"Thank you." Tell them what you're grateful for. Thank them for raising you, for being there, for the meals they cooked, the time they took, the love they gave. Thank them for the person they were. In the face of death, gratitude is honest and true.

"It's okay to be scared." And then wait. Some people need to know that their fear is understandable. That fear at the end of life is normal. That you get it. That they're not failing by being afraid.

What you say matters less than how you say it, and whether you're actually there. The words are less important than the presence. A dying person can feel whether you're present or just going through motions. They can feel whether you've come to say goodbye or whether you've come to help them die. They can feel your honesty.

So don't try to find perfect words. They don't exist. Just be there. Be honest. Let them speak. Listen more than you talk. Let silence happen. Say the simple things: I love you. I'm here. It's okay. And mean them.

That's all they need. That's all anyone needs at the edge of life: to be loved, and to be known, and to not be alone.

How To Help Your Elders is an informational resource for families working through aging and elder care. We are not medical professionals, attorneys, or financial advisors. The information provided here is for educational purposes and should not replace professional consultation. Every family's situation is unique, and rules, costs, and availability vary by location and circumstance.