Firefighting is inherently dangerous, and it remains, primarily, a man’s work. Yes, women are increasingly joining the US Fire Service, but to this day the profession of firefighting is represented by an overwhelmingly male demographic.
I am a man and I have spent my adult life in the fire service. I lived and moved and found my being with men. Grown men. Aggressive men who channeled their behavior in a positive manner toward protecting life and property in local communities. Compassionate men, who rarely worked alone.
There is biological predisposition and learned behavior firefighters have that expresses itself in what I like to describe as ‘John Wayne-ing’ it. This looks like fierce determination, grit, problem-solving, and not asking for help. These are behaviors many men learn, certainly, and if we are being fair, are also naturally predisposed to.
What then when we, men, experience the loss of our child?
On October 8th, 2023, we lost our 23-year-old son, Cooper, to suicide. I do not like writing this word, suicide. It pains me deeply, yet it remains ground truth. I cannot undo it.
A micro-atomic bomb was dropped on our house, on our lives. I dropped to my knees and the air was sucked out of me. I could not stand, and I could not breathe. Yes, I cried. I wailed. I still cry.
I remember many of the fires I fought. I was never alone; I was with a crew of firefighters. We always practiced the buddy system. We worked in pairs of at least two. If we went into a fire together, we came out together. It was that simple. As the firefighters say in “Backdraft,” the movie, “If you go, we go.” Meaning, your brother or sister firefighter is not going to leave you in the fire if something happens.
In a fire, in a fire station, in the fire department, firefighters practice a lot of togetherness. Tough times, responding to tough calls, requires “tight togetherness.” In a small fire, for example, firefighters can work off the hose line away from each other but within verbal communication range. In a complex, difficult fire, firefighters have a hand on each other’s back and do not leave each other. The proximity is dialed to the level of physical touch.
Immediately after my son died, my brother flew into town to be with me. He slept on the floor next to the couch where I slept for four nights. We got up at night a few times, cried and hugged each other. He chose to enter the fire with me, and we practiced a lot of tight togetherness. He had a hand on my shoulder. The immediacy of Cooper’s death required this level of proximity.
I know of a man who has lost a son. He is grieving deeply. He lives near a lake, and he has chosen to focus on his dogs, fishing, and solitude. He is ‘John Wayne-ing’ it.
I respect this. I respect this man. I honor him. Who am I to suggest how a man ought to grieve? If we are truth telling, I could very, very easily be this man. I could check out, thumb my nose at all the things, and live in solitude. I do not think I would be wrong. Perhaps I should do this.
Despite this impression, my history and behavioral conditioning in the fire service runs deep within me, and I want to be with my brother. I do not want to be alone in my grief. I do not want to walk alone. I know that this is a complex, difficult fire and I need to be working with a crew.
I talk to my wife, my mom, my children, my brother, and my Compassionate Friends frequently. I want to talk about my son, what happened, and how I am feeling. I write. I walk. I breathe. I ground. I lean into tight togetherness and work as a team to help me make sense of this gaping, painful hole in my chest.
To be fair, I think a man needs time alone, processing time, time in the woods with his dogs fishing the lake. We lived in Montana for several years and this resonates with me. As I like to say it, we may need to hole up in a Nepalese cave and drink yak’s milk with the shamans to begin to make sense of this tragedy.
A man needs this for a season. Maybe a few seasons. There is no shame in this.
Still, I want to call men to tight togetherness following the loss of their child. When the fire is complex, hot, dynamic, and dangerous, I know it is the time and place to practice tight togetherness. Hands on shoulders.
Knowing men the way I know them, especially working in high-risk operational environments for most of my life, it could be that only other men ‘who know’ are able to talk with a grieving man who has lost a child. This may be the signal that gets through the noise.
I remember a counselor coming to the fire station after a tragic call that our crew had responded to. The counselor had never worked with firefighters and did not know a thing about fire service culture. We ran the counselor off, as they had no credibility.
If a man has not lost a child and offers to help me, despite his best intentions, it would land flat. I would run him off. To talk to me about the loss of a child, you need to show up with credibility. You need to have lost a child.
The mantra of The Compassionate Friends is, “We need not walk alone.” In the fire service, this is a lived reality. Firefighters do not work alone. As the saying goes, “If you go, we go.”
Men, how ought we to grieve the loss of our child? With rugged determination and grit, certainly, but also, not alone. My humble admonition is this: do not do it alone. Go in together, come out together. Lace your solitude with compassionate family and friends ‘who know’ and will put a hand on your shoulder and not leave you during the darkest night of your soul.
Especially in the loss of a child, practice tight togetherness. You need not walk alone.
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