Men Grieving

 While studying welfare at college and social work at university I was continually told that men were poor at grieving.  That women were spontaneous and transparent and perhaps suffered fewer lasting effects,  except for those that "failed" to let go and move forward.  One of the treats,  apparently was that years later the grief is relived as hard as it was immediately following the loss  

Even then,  it smelled fishy.  I couldn't help but look about and notice that the majority of lecturers,  authors and students,  were women. I felt that they were describing a female reaction to grief.  It fits with the reproductive drive to appear vulnerable and needy,  for one.  I was also conscious that up until this era,  soldiers were men.  Open and spontaneous mourning on the battlefield would weaken your capacity to stay alive,  and your unit's capacity to continue fighting.  It's probably that loss in the arena of war was used to motivate men to fight harder.  In fact,  being weak in the glare of battle weakens morale. 

I'd never been to battle,  but am experience earlier in my life had resonated in opposition to the social worker's claims.  It involve feed my own father upon the dearth of his mother.  Nanna had been sick with cancer for months and we had religiously visited her at various hospitals throughout the previous year. Sometimes, the trip to St Vincent's in Sydney would take us all day.  It was a sombre affair,  but my dad was driven to keep his mother's spirit alive.  When Nan returned closer to home,  my ten year old brain assumed she would be returning home soon. In reality it was so she could die near to loved ones,  and home. Through all this time there was no alteration to my father's demeanor,  always he was sombre and purposeful.  

Eventually,  she passed,  the cancer finally clashing her life.  Just prior to he passing there were more frequent acolytes only visits,  but not until all us children spent time with Nan. Though we  were never burdened with the harsh truth.  My dad looked extremely stressed,  and his morning cigarettes on the back verandah seemed quieter and took longer. I remember coming across him one time,  he was silent, buried in thought,  so I  quietly moved off.  

Now the moment that struck me was after the funeral service.  There was dad immaculately attired in suit and tie, within earshot of his younger sister's wailing cries,  dad looked over us,  his seven children and his wife,  who was quietly sobbing.  All the while dad ushered us gently to the car,  upupright,  heartless,  just stressed looking.  I knew he was going through a lot,  the was very close to his mother from the time of hiss early childhood,  going without meals and working little jobs to raise an income.  He later bought the house for his mother,  so she could retire in peace.  But why wasn't he crying like all of us?, I thought.  A few days later,  a watched him smoking, yes heartless but very stern with grief.  I came away from that experience with a feeling that , as he had done during his mother's long illness,  he put his own feelings in check so that he could provide for and protect his family during such a vulnerable time.  I certainly had no criticism with that,  i actually thought it was courageous and caring.  

A recent incident has me again pondering male grief. An old fellow that my son and I had met once, was killed in a motor vehicle accident. At age 74, he had been taking an afternoon nap when a stranger driving by had a heart turn and his vehicle careened across the road,  through a fence and garden before embedding itself in the bedroom wall.  Our snoozing friend,  never woke. 

Now,  of course I never knew the fellow week.  But the was such an energetic and generous fellow and I'm sorely aware that he'd been robbed of many happy years of living.  But beyond this understanding,  there's a mature awareness that this was a freak accident.  If this fellows heart failed at another moment in time,  had the vehicle hit the next room,  had our old mate been absent,  things could have been different.  But they weren't,  and there are times in life when you just have to say "that's fucked", and keep moving.