Friend Grief and Shaming

Nicholas Kristof - NY Times

I’m not sure when it began, this need to feel morally superior. But we see it everywhere. “My beliefs/race/gender/income/profession make me better than you” permeates our society. And sadly, we even see it when we grieve our friends.

Perhaps it’s as simple as a need to find a logical explanation for something that doesn’t make sense. Assigning blame makes us feel a little better about what happened. Some of the responses I’ve heard when sharing the news of a friend’s death are:

“A bodybuilder? Steroids, huh?”

“Melanoma? Did they go to tanning salons a lot?”

“Heart attack? Well, they were overweight.”

“AIDS? They must’ve slept around.”

Your first reaction may be to dispute their assumptions. Or you may feel ashamed that they got it right.

If you’re like me, the cause of death is not often foremost in your mind. You’re reeling from hearing the news of your friend’s death. You’re trying to make sense of it. Maybe you’re even blaming yourself for not intervening in some way.

This past weekend, Nicholas Kristof wrote a painful eulogy to his friend, Kevin, in the New York Times, “Where’s the Empathy?”

“The doctors say he died at age 54 of multiple organ failure, but in a deeper sense he died of inequality and a lack of good jobs.”

You can argue Kristof on politics and job creation, of income inequality and the shrinking middle class. He would probably welcome such a discussion. But what you can’t do – must not do – is criticize him or his friend.

Kristof’s grief for his high school buddy is searing. “I have trouble diagnosing just what went wrong…” he writes of his friend’s downward spiral to a much too early death. Resist the temptation to ask why Kristof didn’t do something to help his friend. Imposing guilt – which seemed to be an undercurrent in his op-ed – is not helpful to anyone.

Kevin Green’s story could happen to anyone. In fact, it’s already happened to a lot of people. A factory job used to be the cornerstone of a solid, middle-class lifestyle. Now those jobs have dried up, and people like Kevin are the “collateral damage”.

When I was working in the AIDS community, I was often asked “how did they get it?”  That struck me as pretty offensive, just like the other comments I mentioned above. If someone says something stupid like that to you after your friend dies, you might want to respond as I did: “What difference does it make? They’re dead.”

Not polite, I’ll admit, but it usually shut them up. Your grief for your friend is yours and important. It should not be subject to someone else’s value judgment. Whatever the circumstances of their death, maybe this, Kristof’s closing words to Kevin, will help you focus on your friend, too:

“Those who would judge you don’t have a clue. They could use a dose of your own empathy.”

Helping Young Men Grieve Their Friends

Live for the Moment

Last spring I wrote about a photographic exhibit Live for the Moment. The exhibit, based on a study by Dr. Genevieve Creighton at the University of British Columbia, showed how young men used photography to deal with the death of a friend. The study continues with an exhibit this month in Whistler, BC, with photographs taken by a group of men aged 19-25 who each lost a friend to accidental death in the past year.

What Dr. Creighton found was that even in the broad category of “accidental” deaths, there was a wide range of circumstances as well as responses.

The community responds differently to accidental deaths “on the mountain” (skiing or snowboarding) than to those off the mountain. The latter, at least in these examples, tended to be drug or alcohol-related.

So, a young man could mourn his friend who died in an avalanche and be proud of him. But if he died of hypothermia, passed out in a snowdrift after leaving a bar…well, that evokes a very different type of grief.

Some of the men in the study were addressing their grief for the first time. A few had already been lucky enough to reach out and accept support from those around them.

But as I found in my own research, it’s not just that men tend to be instrumental grievers: focusing on “doing” something rather than talking about it. That’s the stereotype because most men are not encouraged to talk about their grief. So this was a unique opportunity that they embraced.

Matt Gore, whose friend died in that snowdrift, used the study as a chance to give back, to help others dealing with the same type of grief. That friend’s death made him quit drinking and try to help others avoid the same fate as his friend.

A separate group of young men – who did not participate in the exhibit – lost friends long ago. Long-term, they handled it in different ways. Some saw that death as a wake-up call to focus and appreciate their own lives, friends and relationships. Others seemed permanently stuck, unable to “grow up” past the time when their friend died.

Creighton’s study points out the need for informal grief support services for young men. One of her most fascinating suggestions is for health care providers to train coaches, instructors, bar and restaurant managers to recognize and counsel those who are grieving.

Granted, her subjects live in a ski resort town, the type of community that does not like to discuss anything as negative as a young man’s death – particular if it’s related to their major industry.

But I think the idea of training those in closest contact to these young men is one worth discussing in a larger forum.

George Harrison's Friends

If you’ve read this blog for any length of time you already know I’m a huge Beatles fan. What I didn’t expect was that they’d actually give me something to write about here, something important about grieving your friends.

Today is the eleventh anniversary of the death of George Harrison. It’s also the tenth anniversary of The Concert for George, a superstar musical event produced by his friends in his memory. You can watch it all day today on the George Harrison YouTube channel.

What struck me the most about that concert film – and the emotional documentary Living in the Material World – was the willingness of his friends to talk about their love for George.

In the former, Eric Clapton freely admits that putting the concert together was a way to work through his grief – a way for most everyone involved to work through their grief.

In the latter, the impact of George’s death was felt deeply by all who spoke, but perhaps most surprisingly by former race car driver Jackie Stewart. He talks about how he’d lost a lot of friends in his race career – watched many of them die – but no death had affected him, even ten years later, like George’s.

So, here are some links for you. Enjoy the music (I’ve included the music video of one of my favorite George Harrison solo efforts, “Got My Mind Set On You”). Watch the concert and look at this scene from the documentary, where Ringo recounts his last minutes with George. When it’s over, you’ll probably have the same two reactions I had:

What a good friend he was.

I hope my friends think the same of me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Death Café – There’s a First Time for Everything

Last Tuesday evening, I co-hosted the first Death Café in Chicago. A phenomenon that began in Switzerland and spread to London, a Death Café provides a safe, non-judgmental and non-therapeutic setting for people to come together and talk about death and grief.

Our group was all men (except me, lurking on the edge). Although the seven men did talk about friends – and even animals – there happened to be an unusual situation: one man’s mother was actively dying. As befitting a supportive atmosphere, most of the conversations had to do with family dynamics and relationships.

The feelings associated with grief are common, no matter the relationship to the person who died: sadness, guilt, anger, regret, gratitude. All of them were on display Tuesday as these men came together for two hours.

The one emotion that may have surprised them all was relief. As I’ve written before, men are frequently locked into a cultural stereotype after the death of a friend or family member. They’re expected to be the ‘strong, silent type’. They’re looked to by others as leaders, in control of their emotions.

More than one tear was shed, and more than one man was surprised by how much he felt comfortable sharing, even with strangers.

As it turned out, the timing was a blessing: the one man’s mother died very early Thursday morning.

We all – co-hosts and participants – learned a lot. Plans are already being made for a second Death Café, this one for men and women. It’ll be interesting to see if and how that changes the dynamic.

One thing’s for sure: this is a conversation that will continue.

Chicago’s First Death Café

Sounds weird, doesn’t it?

Death Café

 

I guess the first question is, ‘what and where is it?’

Well in this case, it’s in Chicago next week.

A Death Café is an informal, non-therapeutic gathering of people who want to discuss their experiences grieving. Death, as we know, is a subject that can put a damper on most conversations. But here, it is the conversation.

Therapy is great, whether individual or group. But that’s not what this is. Many people just need a chance to talk about what they’re going through: without judgment or diagnosis. And as it turns out, a lot of those people are men.

Like it or not, men are still expected to be the “strong” ones when someone close to them dies. They’re expected to take care of others, get things done, hold it all in. But what I’ve found in my interviews is that men are not just willing but eager to talk about losing their friends.

So on Tuesday, October 9, the first Death Café in Chicago will be held for men grieving their friends. We hope this is the first of many (and not just for men), so that others have the opportunity to finally talk about a loss that is sometimes difficult to explain.

When people hear it’s called “Death Café”, there’s also a second question: ‘what’s on the menu?’ Well, besides conversation, we’ll have coffee, tea, and goodies.

Space is limited, so go to Events for more information. We look forward to seeing you on Tuesday.

 

 

 

To learn more about hosting a Death Café in your community, click here.

 

 

A Final Gathering of Friends

northwoodscottage.com

Yesterday’s Chicago Tribune carried a beautiful story by Milwaukee Journal Sentinel reporter Meg Kissinger. She introduced us to Dick Rothing, who at the age of 55, received a shocking, unexpected diagnosis of metastatic esophageal cancer.

He knew he wanted to go home. Home is his family’s compound, “R-Place”, on Little St. Germain Lake in Wisconsin, a part of his life since 1957.

His sister and sister-in-law drove him from Montana for a last visit. His grade school friends joined him in June, and a few days later, Rothing returned to Montana. But not for long.

A few weeks later, he came back to R-Place for good.

This time his best friend since kindergarten brought his son, for a father-son fishing expedition with Rothing, his son and his brother.

He’s much weaker now, resigned to the things he’ll never get to do, but at peace spending his final days in the place he loved so much. He chose the place where his ashes will be buried.

Many people say they want to “go” in their sleep, peacefully. Others say they just want “it” to be fast and as painless as possible.

But there’s something soothing about Rothing’s story. Yes, it’s the ultimate shock to find you’re dying at 55.

But what a gift, to spend your last days surrounded by friends who love you, in the place you love the most.

You can read the full story here:  "Making His Final Rendezvous"

Talking About…You Know…

facebook.com

Since the horrific events of last Friday in Aurora, Colorado, people in the US have been forced to talk about something they don’t like to talk about: death.

We talk about hundreds of topics every day, some boring, some exciting, and occasionally something controversial or uncomfortable: sex, drugs, bodily functions, violence, politics.

As a society, though, we have a hard time talking about something every single one of us will experience.

So our conversations over the weekend focused on the motivation of the shooter and the gun control debate. We did our best to come up with a logical explanation for what happened. The truth is much more complex, and unlikely to satisfy anyone.

What we ignored – or tried to – was imagining what it would be like to be in that movie theater or love someone who was.

Later this week, in a guest post by Kristie West, you’ll be introduced to the concept of the Death Café. A movement that began in Switzerland and spread to England, it offers a safe, casual place for people to come together and explore how they feel about death.

I’ll be co-hosting a Death Café in Chicago in September (details coming soon). It’s a very new concept for the U.S., and this one will focus on men grieving their friends.

In the meantime, think about how willing you are to talk about…you know…

"Bury His Heart, But Not His Love"

Shannon Stapleton/Reuters/Landov

We'll continue contsidering how people honor the memory of their friend by taking another look at one of the most popular posts on Friend Grief. It's a look back at the eulogy given for Fr. Mychal Judge, FDNY chaplain who died on 9/11. Giving the eulogy was not something his friend planned to do, but he certainly rose to the occasion:


I've never been called upon to give a eulogy for a friend. I wrote the eulogy a hospice chaplain read for my father’s funeral. I’ve made remarks at friends’ memorial services. But I’ve never given a formal eulogy: never stood up in front of a gathering of mourners, script in hand, before a microphone, praying for strength.

The photo here is one of the most iconic images of September 11, 2001. Fr. Mychal Judge was a New York City fire department chaplain. He died ministering at the World Trade Center. His funeral, at St. Francis of Assisi Church on West 31^st Street four days later, was nationally televised.

Franciscans are required to leave instructions “in the event of” their death, and on the morning following the attacks, Fr. Michael Duffy was told that Fr. Judge had left instructions for him to give the eulogy.

I was shaken and shocked … for one thing, as you know from this gathering, Mychal Judge knew thousands of people. He knew, he seemed to know everybody in the world. And if he didn’t then, they know him now, I’m sure. Certainly he had friends that were more intellectual than I, certainly more holy than I, people more well-known. And so I sat with that thought, why me … and I came down to the conclusion that I was simply and solely his friend … and I’m honored to be called that.

I always tell my volunteers in Philadelphia that through life, you’re lucky if you have four or five people whom you can truly call a friend. And you can share any thought you have, enjoy their company, be parted and separated, come back together again and pick up right where you left off. They’ll forgive your faults and affirm your virtues. Mychal Judge was one of those people for me. And I believe and hope I was for him …

How do you sum up a life and a friendship? Fr. Duffy’s eulogy is as good as they get: personal, joyful, mournful. Even if you never met Fr. Judge, by the end of the homily you’ll feel that he was your friend, too.

Thanks to Fr. Duffy for teaching us all about his friend.

For more information on Fr. Mychal Judge, his life and his legacy:

www.mychalsmessage.org

For the entire transcript of Fr. Duffy’s homily:

http://www.hnp.org/publications/articles_view.cfm?id=16&yr=2001

Daddy's Friends

Daddy and me in the backyard

I wrote this last year. Tomorrow is the 7th anniversary of my father's death, and as people often say, "I can't believe it's been that long." Sometimes, too, I can't believe it's only been seven years. Most of his friends I wrote about here are still around. This is for them and for Daddy, and all those who grieve a friend this Father's Day weekend.

My parents were part of a group of about 6 couples. All had married around 1949, stayed married, raised their families in the same place they grew up themselves. My Dad met one guy when they were 5 years old; others he met when they worked at a factory. The men were loud and a little goofy at times.

Their culinary adventures rarely extended beyond meat and potatoes or Italian food (my Dad was a notable exception to that rule). We’ve celebrated birthdays and anniversaries, weddings and baptisms with them all. With the exception of one couple closer to my age, in my fifties I still refer to them as “Mr. and Mrs.” rather than their first names. They’re still the grownups.

When my Dad was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer in the fall of 2004, this group became even closer. They were still loud and goofy, but different. They would continue to meet for lunch, but also kept him company during chemo. They were there for him, in that nonverbal way men have of expressing love.

We finally brought in hospice in June, and my mother started calling his friends. The first ones were there in an hour, and the rest showed up over the next couple days. By then my Dad was in a hospital bed in the living room, barely able to communicate, in and out of consciousness. In short, not the man they’d known for 50, 60 or even 70 years. It was hard on them; so hard one man took one look at him and walked back out. He couldn’t take it: the most outrageous man in the bunch broke down on the front porch.

My Dad was the first one in their group to die, and it was hard on them. But I will always remember how they made sure that the time they spent with my Dad was as normal as possible. They didn’t abandon him or treat him with kid gloves. They laughed and argued and told stories, just as they had for decades.

So, I share this because it’s Father’s Day weekend, and yesterday was the 6^th anniversary of my father’s death. When I talked to my mother last night, she said she’d gotten a call from one couple who called from their vacation to tell her they were thinking of her. Those are the kinds of friends everyone wants to have.

I wish those kinds of friends for you.

"Tell Me About Your Friend"

stecchinonyc.com

This is something I shared when I first started this blog early last year. The conference is long over, and we've made a triumphant return visit to Stecchino's since then. But the advice remains solid, especially when it comes to men grieving their friends:


We were having dinner at Stecchino’s on 9^th Avenue in New York, a lively group of eight who were attending the Writer’s Digest Conference. With the agent Pitch Slam behind us, the tension of the past two days was finally wearing off, aided by wine, laughter and crab cakes.

I don’t remember what we were talking about. But suddenly George turned to me and said very matter-of-factly, “my best friend died at 29. It changed my life.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised. George and I had already talked at length about my book, and his enthusiasm was contagious. But this was the first personal comment he’d made on the subject.

I’ve interviewed a number of men for my book, with more to talk with in the coming weeks. When I first started, I assumed that it would be like pulling teeth to get men to talk in any detail about friends who had died. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The first man I interviewed actually asked to talk to me, when a friend told him about sharing her story. We met in his favorite bar, which turned out to be the place he and his friend had spent a lot of their free time.

I pulled out my list of questions – about 30 – hoping that the answers would take more than 15 minutes. Ninety minutes later, we were still on question #3, although his story had covered most of the rest of the list.

Conventional wisdom dictates that women’s friendships are more important than men’s; that women are more willing to talk about their feelings. I was certainly guilty of believing that. But the willingness of men to bare their souls about their friends has been a revelation to me.

Everyone who has experienced the death of a friend has a story to tell, of the joy of knowing that friend and the pain of losing them. Don’t assume that men don’t want to share it with you. All you have to do is ask:

“Tell me about your friend.”

Carpe Diem



Sayan Sarkar

“Why do we wait until it’s time to bring in Make-a-Wish to go after our dreams?”

I’m paraphrasing a friend’s question on her Facebook page last week. The short answer is…because we’re human. Despite that fact, we also believe we have unlimited time ahead of us.

A lot of people realize this – for good – when they reach middle age. It’s not so much the passing of their parents – they’re older and it’s “expected”. It’s the deaths of their friends that shock them into action.

Sayan Sarkar is President and CEO of InvigorateNOW. He’s a young man with a winning smile. He recently wrote an article for Huffington Post, “How Grief Can Be An Impetus For Change”.

He wrote of his best friend from college, who died suddenly at the age of 23. They’d fallen out of touch; not intentionally, but just in the way friends with busy lives fall out of touch. As is often the case these days, he found out about his friend’s death in a Facebook message that went out to his fraternity brothers.

“My heart dropped. My pulse was racing. I was crippled with fear, anger, resentment and confusion. Lunchtime came soon, and as a spiritual person, I searched for silence and a place for prayer in this time of crisis, and pray I did. I prayed that this was not happening, that I was in some sick, tragic nightmare. I prayed that I was not actually losing one of my closest friends. Sometime later, I took the long, heavy steps back into reality – the reality that my friend actually was gone, never to return.”

Most people his age aren’t confronted with this kind of reality. But Sarkar channeled his grief to “continue my pursuit of happiness”. In less than a year, he’s almost lost 55 pounds, quit smoking and alcohol. He’s started a side business to share his passion for health and charity. And though he admittedly still struggles sometimes, he makes a conscious effort to connect with loved ones – family and friends – consistently.

How about not waiting until grief knocks you down? How about seizing the day today?

To read the entire Huffington Post article: How Grief Can Be An Impetus To Change

You can follow Sayan Sarkar on Twitter at @invigoratenow

Worrying About Your Friends

I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of finding out about the deaths of friends. It’s not that I was close to all of them, but they were still a part of my life at some time. So I decided to revisit this post from last spring, because it’s still true.

At the end of the morning roll call on the 80’s hit Hill Street Blues, Phil would always remind his comrades “let’s be careful out there.”

They were cops. They knew every day could be their last.

Not everyone lives that consciously, certainly not when they’re younger.

But the truth of the matter is, the world is a dangerous place. Stuff happens, no matter where you live.

We can eat healthy foods, exercise every day, do all the things that are supposed to “guarantee” a long life and still not reach that goal.

This photo is from my 40th high school reunion. Each rose represents one girl from my class of 122 who died; there are 9. One died our senior year, the most recent, two years ago.

As we age, we lose more and more friends. It’s just the law of averages, and not unexpected. What we don’t expect are the “before their time” deaths.

We don’t expect to experience a friend’s death before we’re old enough to vote.

We don’t expect to experience a friend’s death before our hair turns grey.

We don’t expect to experience a friend’s death, period.

So when it happens, we can become skittish, paranoid about our remaining friends. We pester them to lose weight, exercise more, or have that mammogram. We probably annoy them beyond words, and they might even tell us to back off.

Too damn bad.

The price of being a friend is that you are loved. And you’ll just have to live with that.

Workplace Grief: IndyCar-Style

radiomichigana.com

When we hear the term ‘workplace grief’, we probably think of a traditional business setting. Maybe a former employee came back and shot people. Maybe the boss dropped dead of a heart attack. Maybe there was an accident.

But people make their livings in a lot of places that aren’t cubicles: baseball diamonds, stages, beaches, movie theatres, day care centers, gyms.

Sometimes, by virtual of their professions, people also find themselves in the public eye. Knowing you’re going to – rightly or wrongly – be judged by the media and strangers can reasonably compound your grief for your co-worker.

Last October, Dan Wheldon died in a horrific crash at Las Vegas Motor Speedway. British-born Wheldon, the two-time Indianapolis 500 winner, lived in St. Petersburg, Florida with his wife and two young children. He was 33.

This weekend, the 2012 IndyCar season opens…in St. Petersburg.

There will be memorials all weekend pre-race ceremony; orange ribbons (a tribute to his car) sold to raise money for the Alzheimer’s Foundation; his sister will drop the flag and present the winner’s trophy; Turn 10 rechristened “Dan Wheldon Way”.

Those of us watching on TV will be subjected to repeated replays of the fiery images of Wheldon’s last moments.

His friends – his co-workers – don’t have to watch the replays: many of them saw it happen from their own race cars.

They now have to go do the thing they love – the thing Dan Wheldon loved.

The thing that killed him.

The thing they know could also kill them.

Some of them talked about it in USA Today’s March 20 issue:

“Do I still want to do this? Yeah, I do,” said three-time defending champion Dario Franchitti, who never celebrated the title in the wake of his friend and former teammate’s death. “It was something I had to answer pretty quickly because I was in the car (testing) at Indy a week later, and it didn’t take me long to answer it, and I was quite surprised…I hate to sound blasé,” he said. “It’s not a nice thing. It’s just part of it, man, but that doesn’t mean you forget the person. You get back in the car and get on with it.”

Will Power, who was injured in the same crash, doesn’t know what to expect this weekend:

“I have thought about Dan a lot,” he said. “Every time I see his photo, I can’t help but be sad…and it can happen to anyone. When you get in the car, you have to put it aside.”

Well, you say, it’s a dangerous sport. You have to be a little nuts to enjoy racing around at 220mph, knowing full well you could die at any moment.

That may be true. But danger is everywhere: it’s just a little more obvious on the IndyCar circuit.

Being part of a dangerous profession doesn’t exempt you from grieving your co-workers.

Grief counseling was offered for the drivers, but it sounds like many leaned on each other for support. James Hinchcliffe – in the unenviable position of driving the GoDaddy.com-sponsored car that was supposed to be Wheldon’s – appreciated the camaraderie and support:

“We’ve had a good mourning period. I talked to probably 10 or 12 drivers in the last couple of weeks…Especially right after the event, we all needed each other, and some of these guys have been through this stuff before,. This was the first time I’ve ever had to deal with a (racing death), and it was cool to have guys to lean on.”

Though not an official “anniversary” in the sense that we commemorate certain dates after a person’s death, this weekend will be a challenging one for everyone associated with racing.

Kudos to the drivers for accepting the support they needed – professional or other drivers – to help them through their grief.

But even as they prepare to remember Dan Wheldon, and prepare to shut out all distractions to drive their best race, they all know what his close friend and former teammate Tony Kanaan knows:

“Eventually we need…I need…to let it go,” Kanaan said. “I’m going to try to be as positive as I can when I get (to St. Petersburg to race). Try to be strong and not as emotional. But I don’t think you can prepare yourself.”

Friends Grieving for George Harrison

George Harrison's birthday was a few days ago. He would've been 69 years old. I find it almost impossible to think of that gangly, 20 year old "quiet Beatle" on Ed Sullivan's Show as a senior citizen.

Last fall, I wrote this about him, after watching the excellent "Living in the Material World" documentary about his life. As in "The Concert for George", his friends talk about their love for him. I highly recommend both films, whether you're a Beatlemaniac or not. Because you'll find yourself marveling at the beautiful, complicated friendships he treasured so much:

A few months ago, I blogged about Paul McCartney’s concert at Wrigley Field and how his tributes to John Lennon and George Harrison were so very different: while the song dedicated to John was full of regret and guilt, the one for George clearly showed the love they felt free to express to one another.

HBO has been showing Martin Scorcese’s documentary about George Harrison, “Living in the Material World”. His wife, Olivia, and son, Dhani, spoke fondly and honestly about George. But it was in the words of his friends that you really got a sense of the man: strengths and weaknesses, successes and failures.

One friend admitted that it was still difficult for him to talk about George, ten years after his death.

Another laughed about George being stubborn enough, even as he was dying, to buy a house in Switzerland to avoid the tax man (the subject of one of his best-known songs).

But it was Ringo’s emotional story of his last visit with him, at that house in Switzerland, that stuck with me. By then, George was too sick to get out of bed. Ringo had to leave: his own daughter was in Boston, diagnosed with a brain tumor, and he had to get to her. When he told his friend why he was leaving, George asked, “do you want me to go with you?”

They both knew it was impossible, but it was a measure of the man to want to support his friend, even as his own death approached.

As the almost 4-hour documentary shows, George wanted to leave the world a better place. Most would assume he would do that with music, and he certainly did. But for his friends, the music was almost incidental. It was the love he showed his friends that made their world a better place.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

Most would say, I suspect, that he goes with them every day. So it is with our friends, too. Friends die, but friendships don’t.

 http://youtu.be/KZbGVHk3tBA

Learn more about “Living in the Material World” at George’s website.

People Will Talk (about their friends)

We were having dinner at Stecchino’s on 9^th Avenue in New York, a lively group of eight who were attending the Writer’s Digest Conference.  With the agent Pitch Slam behind us, the tension of the past two days was finally wearing off, aided by wine, laughter and crab cakes.

I don’t remember what we were talking about.  But suddenly George turned to me and said very matter-of-factly, “my best friend died at 29.  It changed my life.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised.  George and I had already talked at length about my book, and his enthusiasm was contagious.  But this was the first personal comment he’d made on the subject.

I’ve interviewed a number of men for my book, with more to talk with in the coming weeks.  When I first started, I assumed that it would be like pulling teeth to get men to talk in any detail about friends who had died.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The first man I interviewed actually asked to talk to me, when a friend told him about sharing her story.  We met in his favorite bar, which turned out to be the place he and his friend had spent a lot of their free time.

I pulled out my list of questions – about 30 – hoping that the answers would take more than 15 minutes.  Ninety minutes later, we were still on question #3, although his story had covered most of the rest of the list. 

Conventional wisdom dictates that women’s friendships are more important than men’s; that women are more willing to talk about their feelings.  I was certainly guilty of believing that.  But the willingness of men to bare their souls about their friends has been a revelation to me.

Everyone who has experienced the death of a friend has a story to tell, of the joy of knowing that friend and the pain of losing them.  Don’t assume that men don’t want to share it with you.  All you have to do is ask:

“Tell me about your friend.”