Men, mortality, stewardship, love

It’s not a conducive time for posting ’round these parts. We leave for the Philippines on Saturday night; we’ll be back on Friday, January 11. I have lectures to prep and packing to do.

My father-in-law died early Sunday morning, and we have been busy with taking care of family and with funeral arrangements. Sunday afternoon, my wife and I spent several hours dealing with the cemetary, the mortuary, and all the minutiae that come with death. I’ve gotten too familiar lately with all the details that survivors cope with in the aftermath of a loved one’s passing.

My Dad died eighteen months ago, at 71. My father-in-law died three days ago at 63. Over and over again, the words “much too young” echo in my head. My father’s father died at only 44 (in a car accident); my mother’s father died at 62. Both of my wife’s grandfathers died relatively young as well. Though the causes were all different, we both come from families where there are plenty of older women — and too few older men. The statisticians tell me that men in America and Europe should live to see at least 72, but for my wife and for me, neither our fathers nor any one of our four grandfathers made it to that age. Meanwhile, all four of our grandmothers made it to at least 80, and most well beyond.

So in addition to the grief over losing a loved one, I’m feeling this week an acute sense of fragility. Some of that is just the reminder — of the sort we always get when we’re confronted with death — of our own mortality. But in my personal experience (and the experience of my family), dying “too young” is a largely male phenomenon. Though some of these deaths were due to poor lifestyle choices, the emotional impression I am left with is that men are somehow more vulnerable than women.

I opine frequently “against the myth of male weakness”. I am adamant that men can exercise the same degree of self-control as women can; I am convinced that men have the same capacity to nurture and love as women do. I see that proven by men all around me; I see it being proven — at last — by my own actions. What I don’t see, I’m afraid, is the same corporeal resiliency on the part of men that I do with women. “Premature” death has robbed me of my grandfathers (I never knew either); it has taken my father and my father-in-law and many other dear relatives. (My uncle Peter, a formative figure in my youth, died last year as well.) The impression all this leaves me with is that the strength of the male will is not matched by the endurance of the male body.

Yes, I know women outlive men for a variety of reasons. (I also know that thanks to death in childbirth, this has not always been true. Think of the ubiquitous “wicked stepmother” of the fairy tales, and ponder what happened to Cinderella’s biological mom.) I’m not writing this morning about medicine and masculinity, because my knowledge of the former is dim indeed. I’m writing from a place of grief, matched by an awareness that as a man who will not celebrate his fortieth birthday again, I have an obligation to be the best steward of my body that I possibly can. Accidents, alcohol abuse, over-eating, cigarettes: these were factors in the deaths of several of the men in the family. And though I could be — God forbid — struck by lightning tomorrow, I know that to at least some degree, my longevity is within my hands.

My wife’s grief is palpable. In a sense, it’s almost harder to bear than my own grief over losing my Daddy in 2006. Watching the person you love most in the world go through pain is harder than going through it yourself, particularly when your own experience tells you how sharp that hurt is. But her grief — and that of her family — is cautionary to me as well. The choices I make have an impact on others. Whether I buckle my seatbelt matters. How I eat and drink matters. How I take care of my body matters.

I’ve written about this before, particularly from an animal rights perspective. But not only is it important to me that my lifestyle choices be as “cruelty-free” as possible — hence my veganism — it is also my moral obligation to do everything I can to make decisions that will maximize my longevity. I have people in my life who love me and depend upon me. And while I do not expect to live forever, when I do things that might shorten my life I treat my loved ones with callous disregard. This will become doubly true when I become a father. I won’t be a young Dad by any means. Those of us over forty who contemplate parenthood for the first time surely have a special responsibility to do as much as we reasonably can to ensure that we will be around for as long as possible.

On Monday, we buried my father-in-law. Though all of his children and grandchildren were there, and all were in tears, the one who was perhaps most deeply affected was his youngest daughter. My “littlest” sister-in-law is just 22, still in college. Several times over the course of this difficult past week, through her tears, I’ve heard this sweet young woman say, “I wasn’t ready, I wasn’t ready.” No one is ever ready to lose a parent, of course, whatever the age of the child. But there’s little doubt that it’s harder to lose one when you yourself are still so very young.

As much as I honor the memory of my father-in-law, I acknowledge — as does his entire surviving family — that his own poor choices surely hastened his death. And what his passing reminds me of is that though men are not fragile, we are often foolish. Our greatest foolishness, perhaps, lies in our sense that our private daily habits do not impact everyone around us. I am inspired today to redouble my efforts to live fully, boldly, and, at the same time, with a sense that I am steward of my flesh. Though to die young is, of course, not a sin in itself, to continue to make decisions that are widely regarded as life-shortening perhaps is.