On being a man and losing a loved one

Thank you Matt Moore (on having a dad, being a dad, bodies, and gay), Gavin Heaton (on balls and bravado and on the joy of dancing to Culture Club), Julian Cole (on being bullied and being ‘man enough’ to reach out for help), Jye Smith’s beautiful post on being adopted and his return to Columbia, and especially Mark Pollard (on the journey to first-time fatherhood). I take strength from all your examples, so thank you for helping me to write this post.

I want to try and tell this story because talking and writing about it has helped and is helping me to slowly come to terms with it all. On February 3rd of this year my Mum died. What happened to me during her final days and after her death has taught me a lot and I’m still learning: about asking for help, about confronting my emotions, about my priorities in life, and about acceptance.

Thanks to triple j and Reach Out for giving us all a platform to celebrate what it means to be men.

At a dinner party, early

Being a man means: knowing where you came from
I was a pretty intense, bookish kid, sensitive and a little introverted. Mum understood my anxiety and always made me feel better when I was stressed.

We would spend hours together, watching television (Twin Peaks), solving crosswords (we shared a love of words) and talking about current affairs.

Mum never treated me like a kid, always listened intently as I formed opinions about whatever it was that we were discussing. She was fascinated by ideas and incredibly compassionate.

I have her and Dad to thank for my abiding sense of curiosity but the perfectionist streak is all Mum – we both set ourselves extremely high standards and often struggled to meet them.

At a dinner party, 1969

Being a man means: knowing it’s ok to feel terrified sometimes
Dad’s voice was gentle and quite calm on the phone but I knew straight away that there was something wrong. It was past midnight in the UK and I wasn’t expecting a call. But more than that, and it’s hard to explain exactly, when your Mum has had Multiple Sclerosis for 20 years you live with an almost imperceptible yet deep-seated fear that one day the creeping degenerative disease might win the fight.

Mum had struggled to overcome a nagging chest infection, which had in turn given her breathing difficulties. We’d later find out that she had contracted pneumonia. I was struggling to take it all in but I could hear Dad’s voice trembling so I said goodbye and within four hours I was on a flight to London Heathrow.

The last thing Dad said was that I should hurry. Time wasn’t on my side and I was absolutely terrified I wouldn’t get the chance to say a proper goodbye.

Mum and Dad getting married, 1974

Being a man means: accepting when it’s time to say goodbye
Over the next three days we all sat with Mum by her hospital bed, holding her hands, talking to her, reassuring her about what lay ahead. She had always been terrified of death and it was heartbreaking seeing her so scared. When she repeatedly said “Ich habe angst” (German for ‘I’m scared’) all I could say was “Ich auch Mutti” (’me too, Mum’). It was true and I’d like to think the honesty helped us both a little.

Mum’s strength faded day after day but she seemed unwilling to let go. The doctors had advised us that it can be hard for the terminally ill to pass away when their loved ones are still so close. As she had been in some pain we all decided to leave Mum alone for one night. Hearing Dad speak softly to Mum, letting her know that it was alright for her to let go and to be free from her pain, is still one of the most beautiful things I will ever experience.

I watched my Dad, a husband of 36 years, give his soulmate permission to die and find the peace she was searching for. I hope one day I can be that brave, that selfless, that accepting

Hippy chic in Munich, early

Being a man means: taking those first difficult steps
When I got back to Sydney I realised I was mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted. I took some more time off work but it didn’t seem to be helping. I actually couldn’t cope with basic tasks and although I was trying I felt completely helpless and at the mercy of my emotions, which were all over the place.

Karla was amazing comforting me but I could tell she felt helpless too and was worried about me. As much for her as for me I went and spoke to the St Vincent’s Mental Health Service in Darlinghurst. I felt totally broken and I knew I couldn’t fix myself alone.

The triage nurse at St Vincent’s was incredible. We just sat and talked for over an hour and she let me unravel emotionally. I don’t think I’ll really ever be able to thank her enough for listening so sensitively, and at the end she suggested I visit a psychologist to help me to deal with my depression and to start processing the grief I was feeling.

It was just the beginning but knowing that I had professionals who cared about me and were going to help me to feel better gave me hope, something that had been in short supply.

Mum and Dad visiting friends in Seattle, late 2008

Being a man means: sharing your feelings and embracing weakness as a strength
Seeing Jon, my psychologist, has allowed me to dedicate serious time on a regular basis to thinking about my emotions, the grief I am feeling, the sense of unending loss, and about how my I want my life to go on without my Mum. It’s the biggest challenge I’ve faced but I feel like in Jon I have a professional guide through the often messy world of the mind. Maybe I could do it on my own but I’m happy to have the support.

A massive part of this journey has been my close friends. Early on, when I was still really suffering and feeling heavily depressed, I reached out to a small number of them and explained how I was doing.

It was really hard – despite everything that had happened I still felt that somehow my admission of weakness, of being broken and unable to fix myself, was something to be ashamed of. But they were there for me in the truest sense of the phrase. I think men are often expected to fix problems, not have them. But I learned it’s natural and ok to feel helpless sometimes and that there’s a lot of truth in the saying “a problem shared is a problem halved.”

You know who you are and I hope you know how much it means to me that you were there for me. I’m very lucky to have friends like you.

Being a man means: being a man

If I’ve learned anything through all this it is that there aren’t any hard-and-fast rules for how to be a man in this crazy and unpredictable emotional tornado we call life. The only thing we can really be assured of is that life will continue to change for us all, regardless of how much we wish it wouldn’t.

All I know is that how you grow and evolve as a man to meet the challenges that life will inevitably throw at you is what really counts. I’ve learned that no matter how alone or broken you feel there are men and women who care enough to be there for you, to help you feel less broken and alone.

Thanks so much for letting me write this and for reading. Thanks especially to Mark Pollard for inspiring me to have the courage to write about the way I have been feeling. I haven’t written a poem for my Mum, but I did read someone else’s at her funeral, and I share it with you here because it is my adopted tribute to her life, one fully lived and, in the face of adversity, with courage, dignity and a loving heart.

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