LIFE’S UNDERTAKINGS...p

Shortly after my mom died, I remember my father giving away the funeral flowers and freezing the funeral casseroles so he could travel to Florida.

Alone.

Despite the initial outpouring of grief and support from family and friends, my dad was soon left alone in his marital home and forced to navigate his grief as a solo traveller. Dad’s strongand-silent approach to loss was common in men then and today is still popular as “big boys don’t cry” parenting.

Right now we’re in a whole new age of loss and isolation. In a sense, we’re all acting like men as we face the catastrophic impact of grieving a loved one’s death under health orders that prevent us from gathering and grieving.

Funerals are as emotionally powerful as they are because they hold a safe and non-judgmental space for crying, laughing, storytelling, eating, loving, and hugging.

My mom died more than 20 years ago (aka preCovid) and despite my father’s assurances that he was fine, he was not. And neither were my sister and I.

A funeral is ultimately a dark kick-off into taking care of men, women, and children devastated by loss. Yet so often when we’re suffering, we slink away like wounded animals; we want to be alone because we feel alone.

Men are doubly cursed when they are grieving because they’re afflicted with feelings of shame about looking or feeling “weak.” Male grief is unapologetically observed, and sometimes harshly judged, when visible tears and fears are out of character.

My dad went on to bury two wives, my mother and decades later his secondmwife, and both times he channelled his inner John Wayne. At the time, as a much younger (slimmer) son, I was complicit in the male myth that strong men are solo men despite my early years in funeral service.

Looking back I realize the depth of my father’s grief scared me. I had been devastated by my mother’s Christmastime death (and in some ways I still am) and I could not fathom losing my father, too. None of us gave my dad the space to spin off his axis, grieve fully and loudly, because that would mean he couldn’t fulfill the role of rock and lighthouse to me, my sister, and his young grandchildren.

Grief always feels like fear and we all feel frightened and powerless in the shadow of death and heartbreak. My dad, forever unflappable, deeply insightful, and passionately dedicated to his family’s wellbeing, likely knew his grief triggered and deepened our own. As a family, we gathered and mourned at a powerful and beautiful funeral. But as a family, we grieved separately and alone.

I will not model that lone wolf approach to my four boys. Part of being a man is being a human being, and all 8 billion of us laugh, love, cry and grieve. When it comes to loss and letting go of those we love and cherish, we really are all in this together. No one escapes pain in this lifetime not even John Wayne Florida-loving cowboys like my dad.

Of course, not all men are created in the eyes of public opinion. When Premier Ford broke down and cried at a press conference this spring, his tears were met with scorn, shame, and outcry. Few Canadians, whether they consider Ford a servant or a scoundrel, were sympathetic toward the premier as he recounted stories about constituents dying alone and families devastated by separation and loss.

Doug Ford cried as if this source of suffering was new; the cold hard reality is that millions of Ontarians for more than 15 months have been forced to say goodbye from afar and then mourn and grieve with little or no support.

Forgive me but I will say it again about this pandemic: we are not all in this together. We’re all in the same ocean of suffering but some of us are drowning in dark, lonesome, turbulent waters while others drink champagne on yachts and chum the waters for sharks.

If you have been bereaved since March 2020, you are suffering deeply and silently, and I shudder at the emotional cost that will be charged against each of us for our lack of political humanity toward the most vulnerable and devastated. I actually shed tears of sorrow, overwhelm and outrage as I write that.

And it’s not just one specific political ruling class that’s oblivious to the pandemic-induced trauma of the bereaved. Being tone-deaf to more than 15 months of national and global suffering inflicts all levels of government and media.

Recently Canadian politicians and media outlets moaned and wailed about how a photo of the Queen, dressed in black, masked, and sitting alone as she mourned her husband, was an iconic visual of the global pandemic. They claimed the Queen’s suffering was representative of all our suffering.

Nope.

of the bereaved in Ontario or across Canada. She is fully 100% vaccinated, receives the best healthcare on the planet, has access to her entire extended family (including a US-based grandson who travelled across the pond without restriction or quarantine), and is one of the richest women in the galaxy. The Queen’s pandemic experience does not mirror my own and I doubt she represents your lived experience either.

What I do appreciate is that the Queen’s grief shines light on the spiritual struggles of the bereaved, especially when we’re instructed to stay away from one another irrespective of the suffering around us.

The number of times this past year alone that I have watched grown children bury one parent while refusing to hug their remaining parent breaks my heart each and every time. Then there are all the elderly frail widows I’ve driven home after our time together at the funeral home. I know those grieving wives are going into an empty house that will stay empty. For months.

Despite the emerging focus on the catastrophic impact of lockdowns on our mental health, the special needs (and hell) of the bereaved have so far been overlooked and ignored.

Our premier grieved on film and his tears were made suspect. Let us show more patience and compassion for our own tears and the sadness of others.

So, what is to be done for the bereaved during these strange and sad days? We show up as much as we can. We don’t go “male” and alone. Instead, we actively participate in healing the brokenhearted, not further alienating them in the name of public health policy. Just like our kids, the bereaved are not alright.

Grieving men, women, and children need our strength, support, and companionship. When in doubt, drop off a tuna casserole. Mow their lawn. Invite them out for a walk. Tell a funny story about the deceased. Help them plant their garden. Drop off donuts. Sit down and listen without interruption or the intention to “cheer up” or problem-solve.

And if you’re a man helping another man grieve, you do you. Show up and go from there. What’s better than one lone wolf in the wilderness? Another, stronger wolf acting as a reminder that wolves are pack animals. We need family, assigned and chosen, and we need support and love.

My dad loved wolves and how their collective howls could mean celebration or lonesomeness. Grief is the ultimate call of the wild. When you hear that howl, please answer.

BRAD JONES

Owner, Ridley Funeral Home

Brad Jones is president of locally-owned, commission-free Ridley Funeral Home (3080 Lake Shore Blvd West) in Etobicoke. He can often be found boycotting social media, chasing after his kids, and dreaming about summertime BBQs with family and friends. You’re always welcome to reach out to Brad with questions or comments by calling 416-259-3705 or emailing him at bradjones@ridleyfuneralhome.com