The Case Against ‘I Can’t Even Imagine’

Why we need to stop telling people that their pain is unimaginable

In the spring of 2017, my sister and her family moved from NYC to a suburb near where we grew up. She died exactly two months later.

There are still boxes that haven’t been unpacked — her winter clothes, baby gear for a second child that she never had. It’s all marked and labeled in her handwriting. ‘Living Room’ with a picture of an elephant (she and her son drew in crayon on many of the boxes while they waited for moving day).

Her new town was part of the school district we attended as children. My sister knew all the tricks of the trade: the backroad shortcuts, the homes that had belonged to our old classmates, the cheapest gas station and the best place to get pizza.

When she died, my brother-in-law had barely settled into this land of midcentury homes, windy roads, and frequent power outages (many seemingly benign weather events result in multi-day blackouts in this town). He didn’t have any connections.

All of the street signs in this town are made to look like people pointing a finger | Image Credit: Sven Vik

So, I pleaded my case to the admins of his neighborhood Facebook group and was granted access on his behalf (my brother-in-law is not on social media).

Once in, I relayed important neighborhood happenings — coyote sightings, car…