Even though I have been happily married to two French Canadian women, I hate to admit that the title of this piece represents the full extent of my linguistic ability. It does, I like to think, connote a certain kind of flair. This expression launches us into the proverbial mine-field of perceptions and misperceptions about differences between women and men. Did you notice that I place women first? As I tell my friends, there is something to be said for a second marriage. It gives a husband a second chance to put his wife first.

That being said, we all know that men come from Mars and women from Venus. My hope is that these two planets don’t ever collide. God forbid that anything should happen, ever, to Venus!

Of course, there is at least one difference between men and women as anyone with eyes can plainly see. Just in case there is any doubt about that fact, I want you to think about this example. The next time that you have the chance, observe precisely how a woman picks up a very hot plate. Notice that she picks up the plate with the side of her fingers. Now, observe a man as he picks up the same torrid plate using the tips of his very fine fingers. Who is hurting the most? I rest my case.

It has always been a mystery to me that so much time and energy can be assigned to belaboring something so obvious, but, as one of my heroes, Satchel Paige, used to say, “Soothe the mind with cool thoughts.” Here goes! Seriously, this is a difficult subject, and I do not wish to trivialize it in any way. We are talking about bereaved people, and we must keep that fact in mind.

Through conversations with bereaved friends, I have found that the way grief is expressed changes with time. Mine is a case in point. I evolved from a person who couldn’t talk about Collette without breaking down in tears to one who enjoys talking about our loved ones with Claire. The many times when I dissolved in tears, just from driving down a familiar road, are still vivid in my mind. It was only after I had been part of the walking and social groups that I felt safe and comfortable enough to talk about my feelings. I owe so much to those friends who listened with such compassion and understanding.

One of the things that I learned in those early days was that my friends had given me a kind of permission to talk about Collette. Now that I have met a great number of bereaved people, I find that we do give permission to each other to talk about our loved ones. It’s not so much that we articulate the words, but rather by listening carefully and respectfully, we discover that words are unnecessary.

The bereaved condition is a gentling process. People seem to be more thoughtful in their speech; they are quick to offer help without being asked. I have listened to women patiently telling men how to shop for one and how to start out with simple meals. There is always a man around to give advice on the pesky things that cars do now and then. We had a man who took it upon himself to save us money on our income taxes. We still miss him. Frankly, I see absolutely no gender differences in  the way that men  and women help each other.

We all need to think seriously about how unkind it is to categorize the reaction of anyone or any group of people, be it by virtue of age or gender, to any given situation. There is a significant danger built in to the suggestion that we should expect folks to behave in a preset manner. The danger is that people will behave in exactly the prescribed manner.

I remember a child whose father died very suddenly. His mother told the boy that he had to be a good little soldier and not cry. He never did cry in front of his mother, but he shed many tears in our home after my children gave him permission to grieve for his father.

His mother still thinks of her son as a brave little boy. In other words, the child was programmed to behave in a prescribed manner, one that suited the mother. She had clear notions about how a male child should grieve, or not grieve in this case. The boy was not permitted to grieve for his dad in front of his mother, and his memory of his father is still tainted by his mother’s insensitivity.

Why some people insist that the bereavement process follows some sort of rules or that the bereaved person should behave in a manner that suits the person giving such advice is beyond my comprehension. The bereavement process has nothing whatsoever to do with time, age, or gender. The expression of grief is extremely personal, and that individuality must be respected. Most of my bereaved friends have learned to be at peace with loss in their own time and in their own way. To suggest that there is a time frame for the bereavement process is at best unwise and possibly even cruel.

I have met men who may appear to be in complete control of their emotions, but who, within a very short time, shed tears freely without shame and share the most intimate details of their grief. I have met women who go to great pains to talk about the sustaining power of children, friends, and hobbies. Then they proceed to tell me that life is well-nigh intolerable.

Of course, women and men are different; remember that hot plate? Women tell me that they are so sorry for their men friends who don’t know how to cook or shop or do all of those little things in everyday living that their wives once did for them. Men are sorry for their women friends who may not be used to driving the car, paying the bills, or repairing things around the house.

The list of regretful empathy goes on and on, but not one person has ever suggested to me that he or she grieves more intensely than any bereaved friend, regardless of gender.