Some of my fondest memories can be traced back to my fishing trips with my father. Side by side in our little boat on Threecorner Lake in Northern Ontario, we often sat serene in contemplation for hours, exchanging only a few words every now and then. But sometimes these fishing trips were not limited to the catch of the day.
The most important conversations I have had with my father, the ones about the big questions and big decisions in life, were side by side in this boat, the waves swaying us, our hands busy, my worries. and my hopes floating on the surface like moving bait.
I lost my father five years ago. I tried to overcome my grief. But, it always ends up catching up with you. My message for Movember is: don’t try to escape difficult feelings; a very real temptation for many men I know. This is confirmed by a recent survey we conducted, which found that men are more likely to report problematic substance use than women. This is especially the case for men who live alone.
It’s much easier to indulge in unhealthy distractions than it is to stay in an awkward situation.
But, all those afternoons spent on the water with my dad reinforced the truism that sharing the burden often cuts him in half. My father was not there to listen to me without judgment when my mother had Alzheimer’s disease. I lost a close cousin, uncle and aunt during lockdown during the pandemic, and again grief overwhelmed me, magnified by the lack of ceremony. Yet despite the weight of these struggles, I kept moving forward, trying to savor the little moments of joy and connection, despite lingering sadness.
But, several months ago, when my dearest friend of a lifetime was struck down by a pulmonary embolism and thought I was going to lose him, I wondered how much pain a person could take. I did the only thing I knew how to do when tragedy struck.
I took refuge in nature.
Long walks have been a salvation for me this summer and fall. The hikes brought me a peace that I couldn’t find anywhere else. The sounds in a living forest reminded me that we are all part of something bigger. Slowly, with each step, I let the accumulated grief fall over my steps. Calm sets in with acceptance. These solitary stays have allowed me to let the sadness of the past years escape to the shore.
Instead of denying the grief, I welcomed it.
I could feel my stress going down, and my blood pressure going down. The memories of those fishing trips with my father began to come to the surface with moving clarity.
The veil of sadness slowly lifted, replaced by tender nostalgia. I continued my walks even after hearing that my best friend had recovered from his illness.
When I could see him, I quickly realized that things were different. He was returning from a long and tumultuous journey. But, he was able to grab my phone and ask to listen to music from our common past. And, as we sat together, each carried away by their own memories, I had a dearly acquired feeling that I was grateful for the form this new friendship could take.
Men are no less sensitive to the vagaries of sadness and grief than women. Some of us just don’t always know how to express these feelings in words that can bridge the gap.
The last few years have given me the opportunity to reflect on what my father was trying to teach me ages ago on that fishing boat.
With his hands busy, he told me that nothing I could give him would break the flow of the current. His quiet confidence allowed me to cultivate the confidence necessary to be able to make my own choices. And above all, his long moments of silence gave me the space I needed to find the words.
After all these years, I think that’s just what I did.
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