I just finished listening to the Prairie Home Companion Radio show. There was a fictional story of a stoic Minnesota woman who tragically buried a husband and later a son without ever crying at the funeral of either one. When this same woman's dog died, she started crying and could not stop. It is a great listening, it is alternately sad, funny, and poignant.
The moral of the story is clear. Not crying for the things in life that should make you cry is going to take its toll on you. If you are able to cry for the large and small things that tug at your heart, you are going to be able to stop crying when your dog dies. The storyteller mentions that he sheds a tear or two each day for the things that make his heart happy or sad.
Cry a little each day? Except for the weeks following my Grandma Maggie's death I cannot remember a stretch of days where I shed tears like that. I am like most every guy out there; I live in the space that is emotionally distance and emotionally available. Wide swings in my emotional availability can be directly associated with alcohol consumption.
I apply old school man logic to things like this. It is easy to have very distinct, clear, opinions about life events and people that I observe from a safe distance. When I am at a great distance from the things that I do not clearly understand or take the time to process, my opinion is very clear and cemented in man logic. As great as that story was, I got to think that if you are crying a little each day, that you should be under the care of a qualified health professional.
Boomer (my own flatulent dog) that I just kicked out of the kitchen, solidifies that opinion. He is glaring at me from the comfort of his dog bed, making it hard for me to imagine having an extended crying jag for him.
Good solid man logic until two things happened to me.
The first thing was a rare free afternoon where I was home alone. I am channel surfing in a way I can't do when the kids are home.
I am sitting alone in the recliner with a cold can of coke on the table next to the recliner. I am not using a coaster and I love that I am leaving a ring on the table. I am flipping through the channels that I would never admit to watching.
Daytime talk show hosts are giving a lot of people (who should never have it) their 15 minutes of fame. People of every description are taking their clothes off, yelling endless streams of profanities at the host, audience, and each other. Men are finding out they ARE or ARE NOT the father of their young sons and daughters. Women are finding out boyfriends and significant others have secret families that they were not aware of.
Music videos with women wearing almost nothing and grinding away to music that I do not normally listen to. Most shocking police cars chases, fights, and shoot outs. There is an unending stream of shows that pander to the lowest common denominator in people.
TV is treating me like the pig I am.
I end up on the Hallmark channel and catch the end of a Little House on the Prairie episode. A tearful Laura Ingalls starts to sob and her dad, Charles Ingalls wraps her up in a bear hug. As the credits start to roll, the camera shows a single tear rolling down his cheek.
For some inexplicable reason my eyes are starting to tear up.
I switch the TV off, get out of the recliner, wipe the ring from the can off the table and take a deep breath. I feel embarrassed and I am not entirely sure why I can feel this embarrassed when no one was around to see me tear up over 3 minutes of a Little House on the Prairie episode.
Damn you, Laura Ingalls.
The second thing happened the following weekend. I was working as an EMT at a karate tournament at the local high school. I have spent the morning watching very young kids throw each other around and kick the living hell out of each other.
I cringed the entire morning, it brings out the dad in me. Like everyone else, I have distinct voices in my head, my Mike voice, the firefighter voice, and the dad voice. When it comes to kids throwing each other around and kicking each other, the dad voice is the loudest. It does not help that they are wearing white robes, that there is a referee, and they are bowing to each other before and after each match. The dad voice wants to tell them to stop hitting each other.
Just before lunch, the final results are announced for the 7-8 girl's bracket. A tiny girl with a long brown braid is announced at the 3rd place finisher. As soon as she is announced, two middle aged women in the bleachers start yelling, whistling, and woo hooing for all they are worth. The little girl is called up to the podium and bows deeply as the judge puts the 3rd place medal around her neck. When she finishes her bow, those beautiful brown eyes are wide, red rimmed, and a single tear rolls down her cheek.
My eyes are tearing up and I can't stop. Now there are people who can see me tear up and I feel mortified. I casually wipe my face on my shirtsleeve, and I am looking around to see if anyone picked up on me getting tearful watching the 3rd place finisher.
Now, I am worried.
I have a vision of my dog dying and me slipping into a long crying episode, crying that I will not be able to stop. Poetic justice, because I will become the person, I was making fun of just a short time ago. It seems like (despite my firefighting experience) that I keep having to relearn the karma lesson.
As a firefighter, I have seen people who find themselves in catastrophic and life changing events in very unanticipated moments.
I have seen how lives change in an instant with a speed and finality that is stunning. I have a very deep appreciation of how a moment in time can take on a life of its own.
In my own mind, these moments can be short lived, or they can last for an indeterminate amount of time in my thoughts. The only thing I know for sure is that when one of these moments stick with me, I do not get to choose the amount of time that they stay with me. Some of these very intimate moments that I see do not stay in my thoughts or mind. There are those intimate moments that remain with me for a time period that I do not get to choose. Some of those places and people remain with me with a startling clarity today. I do not know why some stay in my head and why some do not.
Many of those moments stay with me and have a clarity that can keep them at the forefront of my thoughts on any given day. They are not moments, that cause me pain or haunt me, these moments remind me that everyday things are not always everyday things.
When I see two people who are giving each other those hugs that happen when people are leaving on trips or coming back home, I remember the most tender embrace I ever witnessed. The embrace of the 85-year-old man who is bent awkwardly over the body of his wife, holding her in an embrace that looks tender and desperate at the same time. We have all held a loved one in a tender embrace that no one wanted to end. Our crew had to gently insert ourselves into the most important hug this man was giving to his wife and start the process of the recovery for everyone in his home.
Tender embraces look different to me now, I have seen some of the most tender embraces one human being can give another human being. I hug people a little bit harder than I should, but I want them to remember that I held them tightly
I still have a box of trophies and ribbons from Megan and Jakes elementary and middle schools plays, teams, and groups they joined. They do not want them and I still cannot manage to throw them out. I still remember with amazing clarity the trophies, ribbons, and the smiling pictures in the room of the teenager who took her own life early on a Sunday morning. After I write this, I will go look at the box again to start sorting it out and after short time, will place it back in the storage closet with nothing removed.
The badly wrapped gift that is next to the rolled over SUV on Father's Day, next to young man who was ejected from the vehicle with injuries too extensive to attempt life saving measures. The badly wrapped gifts I received every year from my own kids when they were younger were always so beautiful in a way that I still cannot explain
I have only taken my kids fishing a handful of times over the years. In the corner of the garage there are 3 fishing poles and equipment that is no longer functional. I can't bring myself to throw them away. I still remember the fishing poles and the packed lunch that the 8-year-old boy was trying to pick up early that Saturday morning.ck up. The young boy had a a large wound on his forehead and looked dazed. The older man, that we assume was driving is about 20 feet away from the demolished truck with catastrophic injuries. It is 8AM and the State Patrolman is arresting the drunk driver that ran the stop sign and killed this young mans father.
Everyday things that stopped being everyday things. Moments for me, entire lifetimes for the people who lived them.
Firefighters are the strangers who start to pick up the pieces those unimaginable situations that are so difficult to process. These professional men and women are the first people in the healing and grieving process. These people who do all of this heavy lifting are the people that you should only have a vague memory of.
All of the beautiful souls that come after the firefighters will be the people that will hold the hands of the mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters as the title wave of fear and grief hit. Grief is one of the most intimate times in anyone's life. This kind of intimacy belongs with people that will hold and cry all of the tears that are needed to start the healing process.
This is not what firefighters do.
Being a regular witness to events like this gives you a deep appreciation for all the people you encounter who will have to endure this process. Some of these moments and people will remain fresh in my memory for periods of time that I simply have no control over. Most fade with the passage of time, and new ones replace old ones. There are some that remain with me today.
As Firefighters we only read the last page of the book. Not the beginning, middle, or end, just the last page. It is easier not to cry that most people would imagine, because we really never know the whole story.
Every time I think I am not empathetic; I think about the instructions you get when you are flying on a plane. Put your oxygen mask on before you attempt to help another passenger. Two passed out people may seem more heartfelt, but it lacks the practicality that is needed to be a firefighter.
Well, I have answered the question then. When my dog dies, I will cry but I will be able to stop.
Firefighting has made me a kinder, gentler, and a more thoughtful person. By my calculations, this puts me somewhere between introspective and "not quite the asshole I was". Being kinder, gentler, and more thoughtful is a function of time, distance, and acquired wisdom. Being a firefighter has accelerated this journey for me by quite a bit.
I still cry at weddings, funerals, and happy events in that dorky way that men cry. It is like turning on a garden hose that is half frozen. Water stops and starts and if you are expecting water to flow, it is hard to watch. When I do cry, I will wipe my eyes on my sleeves in the most casual way when I think no one is looking.
If you ever catch me doing this (at a karate match for example) pretending, that you did not see me is a kindness that I appreciate.
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