Robert J. Miller is the author of a fine book on healthy male grieving; Grief Quest, Men Coping with Loss. I read the book once in late summer. When I took it off the shelf two days ago, I was intending to loan it to a friend. Maybe I will order a copy for him. The last chapters address cultivating an attitude of integrity, re-evaluation of priorities, openness and honesty. My attention is deep into these topics right now.
I can speak for myself when I say a man's integrity takes a beating in the grief process. Most everything I thought I learned about being strong, masculine, confident, resilient was proven to be counter productive in my experiences with grief. This latest loss, the one more painful than all others combined, is the one time I gave in to the pain and admitted it was more than I could handle alone.
In 1975 I was 16 when my father died. "Be strong and move-on" was the wisdom of the day and I tried to be a poster child for strong, father-less kids. What I developed into was a callous, cynical, resentful, pitiful young man. No one had a pain that was greater than mine. "Too bad for you" was the best I came to offering compassion.
In 1997 my first nephew, the boy I long wanted to be part of our family, was killed at age 15. A victim of a reckless act, Kristopher was killed in a one car crash as a passanger in a car where three of the four walked away with minor injuries. My reaction was to Fix IT. What IT was I don't know, but by God I would do what ever I could to find the fix; even if that required bearing the grief along with my sister, her husband, and their daughter. Anger and resentment made up my dominant character traits. Very masculine. I was going to fix this problem by fighting and battling something.
Fast forward to May 2005. With a few months of honest assessment of my place in the world behind me, the first thoughts I had after hearing the news of Aaron's death was: Get your attitude right. Don't strike out. Be ready to give comfort to Cathy and Patrick.
Once home I fell to my knees and prayed to God that I would be able to do this with integrity. Someone said to me: You have to be strong. I replied something like: I'm going to be weak and fall down if I feel like falling down. To me that is in fact strength. I tried the "Strong" route twice before and it didn't work.
Now I know and various books, and counselors confirmed, to be "weak" is to be honest. Honesty is strength. Strength is integrity. You never have to apologize for integrity. The standards for American males does not include showing woundedness. That may be fine for the athletic field, and battle field. But grief is not a game and it is not war. Grief has no opponent. Grief is not an opponent. You don't battle grief. You journey grief. Where and when you get on the journey is not always up to you. Where you go on the journey is. I don't know about where or when you get off; not even sure if there is an exit. The journey will change you. Cynical. Resentful. Angry. Broken. Those are choices of feelings, but not ones I will own. Borrow from time to time, OK. I'm human. But I'm not owning them.
To quote the author, "Accepting the harsh reality of the need to change...is intrinsic masculine energy at its best. It is courageous, bold, humble, honest, and stronger because of its "wounding" than it could ever have been before. "
Being strong is accepting loss. Loss of control. Loss of dominance. Loss of a loved one. Loss of one's previous priorities. Loss of old attitudes.
This is a consise statement of my attitude and it's taken from an interview by the author with Joe Bernardin, Archbishop of Chicago: I don't intend to fade from sight. I don't intend to retire. But I do intend to do the best I can during the day and be satisfied. And that's all I can do...(I will) use my experience to help others who are undergoing the same difficulties.
From an unidentified writer, this last sentence is my last motto: I desire to live usefully and walk humbly under the grace of God.
Tom
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