If I Were Dying, You'd Be the Last to Know. . .

The High Stakes of Dealing with a Cold.

This is Killing Me. . .

I don’t remember exactly when I had the first one. It was around the time I graduated from acupuncture school. So, let’s say 2015.

I woke up to a pain unlike anything I’d ever felt.

Keep in mind, I once got tattooed for eight hours straight; only stopping twice to pee.

I’ve also suffered from migraines my whole life. I used to just call them headaches, until that night in Denton, Texas, when my first wife was going to bed, and I realized I couldn’t see out of my left eye.

I mean, I could still see, but everything was blurry. Peripherally, it was better, but straight ahead everything was a blur. I don’t remember much pain at the time.

My conclusion was that I was dying, having a stroke, or both. I took some ibuprofen and went to bed, resigned to not waking up, or doing so with the right side of face paralyzed.

I was fine in the morning. A couple of weeks later I was walking home from class and this intense throbbing pain erupted in my head. A wave of nausea coursed through my body. I retched a little, but I kept it down. I loathe throwing up to this day. That’s when I decided my headaches weren’t normal headaches, but migraines.

I still get them from time to time. Not nearly as often as when I was in grad school.

The pain that woke me up on the night in question was worse than all those pains combined. It was in my body, on my right side around my ribs. It made it hard to breathe. I couldn’t lay down. It was so intense I had to get up and walk around. It was stabbing, piercing, like a hot poker. Nothing made it better.

It didn’t last long. It only took 20 or 30 laps around our third floor bedroom, which basically took up the whole floor of the house, for the pain to subside. Far less than I’d need in the future. As it faded I was able to lie down and find a comfortable position to wait out the last bits before drifting back to sleep.

I figured this out pretty quick.

Both my parents had had their gallbladders out and I was in acupuncture school, surrounded by people who knew about such things. It was a no brainer. I’d had a gallbladder attack.

I did my research. Took an assortment of Chinese herbs. Watched how much I ate. Watched what I ate. Watched when I ate. Drank pickle juice. Did shots of vinegar. Tried to manage my stress. None of it really helped. I had 7 attacks in total.

The sixth was notable.

Unlike the previous ones, this one didn’t come on in the middle of the night. It started on our drive to Aspen to celebrate Thanksgiving with F’s family. The previous night had been super stressful. I’d spent a good portion of it awake, pointing a gun at a deranged man trying to open my front door. It’s a long story, but it took the cops more than 12 minutes to show up, and two more hours for me to calm down.

When the pain started it was less intense than normal, which is why I decided to try and join in the festivities and eat a little something. Bad idea. It only took a few bites before I was forced to excuse myself and retreat to my room. I was writhing in pain, unable to speak in full sentences, when F came to check on me.

She asked me what I wanted to do. I said I’d be fine. I knew I either had to wait it out, or go to the hospital. I knew if I went to the hospital they were going to take it out, and I didn’t want that. I wanted to finish up acupuncture school and then do a serious gallbladder cleanse. I knew the stress of school was a huge contributor to the attacks, and I figured if I could just finish then I could take care of myself. Ironic, I know.

She came back a few minutes later with J, our brother-in-law. J was a paramedic, as well as a member of search and rescue, and ski patrol. His life was dealing with people like me. He asked me what my pain level was on a scale of 1-10. I chuckled, sort of. I’d learned about the pain scale in school, and when I worked as a wildland firefighter. I thought it was fucking stupid, but I’d spent a lot of time mulling it over as I shuffled through my previous attacks. Conceptually, I knew 10 was the worst pain I could imagine. But, here’s the thing, I could always imagine a pain worst than what I was feeling. I decide a 10 would be when I passed out. I was still conscious, so, I wasn’t there yet.

I settled on a 7. I don’t think J bought it. He offered to give me a shot of fentanyl. At the time I didn’t know what that was. I never took anything stronger than ibuprofen or Nyquil. Setting aside ethical concerns about unregulated distribution of narcotics, I said sure. I was so happy. I went from incapacitated, to sitting on the couch enjoying (as in really, really enjoying) a family movie. By the time the drugs wore off, the pain was gone, I laid down and went to sleep.

My last attack came a couple months later. This one was like all the others, but I couldn’t take it. Maybe the pain was worse, or I was just too broken to suffer any more. Whatever the case, I asked F to take me to the emergency room. As we pulled up to the ER I thought I felt a slight easing of the pain, so I asked her to drive around the block just in case it was going away. By the time we made it back to the sliding doors I was crawling out of the passenger’s seat.

I went in and sat in the waiting room, unable to sit still or see straight. F went and raised a fuss and they came out and gave me a dilaudid drip right there. If you’re ever given a choice between dilaudid and fentanyl, go dilaudid. They eventually took me back, did a scan, poked and prodded and told me I could either have surgery, or go home. I opted for the surgery.

This was a Wednesday night, well technically Thursday morning. I had my herbal clinic rotation later that day. I let my lab partner know I wouldn’t make it, and surrendered to the process. They rolled me into surgery shortly before lunch. They kept me overnight and discharged me a little after lunch on Friday. I was back at school Saturday for clinical observation with Dr. Cao from 1 to 7 pm.

What’s the point?

I want to make it perfectly clear; I can put up with a fuck ton of pain.

I Am Man, Hear Me Roar. . .

I’m not special in this regard. I mean, maybe I am, but who cares? It’s not like I win a prize or anything. I suppose if I’m ever being tortured, it’ll come in handy. It’s allowed me to do some cool things, which I’m grateful for, but nothing that hasn’t been done a thousand times before. Men, in general, do this shit all the time. We might say the very process of becoming a man is about learning to deal with pain. Richard Rohr, who, amongst other things, investigated the practices of male initiation wrote, “I could not find a single example where a young man was not symbolically and actually wounded and scarred in initiation rites.”¹

Women, of course, are also very good at dealing with pain. Obviously. I’m not trying to draw a comparison, or say who’s better at it, or who deals with more of it. There’s more than enough to go around. What I’m talking about is how we deal with it, which is different.

Take childbirth for example. No one in their right mind doubts that childbirth is a painful experience, and that women have bravely endured it, sometimes under extremely dangerous conditions, since the evolution of the human brain. Why? Well, we have eyes for one, but also because women have provided a context for us to understand and appreciate the challenges it poses by sharing openly with the world through writing, speaking, painting, and performing about their experience. Certainly, this hasn’t always been well received or believed, but thankfully, that’s less and less true.

Men’s experience of pain isn’t like this.

In fact, there’s little acknowledgement it exists at all. Part of this stems from the fact that men don’t talk about it. Ask a man how he’s doing and the most likely response is “Fine.” It’s not manly to let anyone know you’re suffering, unless the pain is physical in nature and confirms your status as a man (see above). The pain one experiences being a hero of his own story is of a different caliber than the pain of victimhood. The former speaks to strength and fortitude while the latter reveals weakness and vulnerability.

And, these are the pains, the ones pointing to vulnerability (illness, accident, or depression), which men avoid discussing, sharing, or revealing. If they’re spoken of at all, it’s in hushed tones, behind closed doors, and treated as something to be ashamed of. Perhaps this is what Thoreau meant when he wrote, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” “Quiet” being the key word.

And this is what kills us.

The Sound of Silence. . .

Men’s unwillingness to share their struggles, their pain, their discomfort, their emotional upheavals, and their poor health has real consequences.

Bill Burr’s latest special is called Bill Burr: Drop Dead Years. In it, he explains, “I’m 56 years old, which is too young to die of natural causes, but it’s not too young to drop dead.” He goes on to reflect, as great comedians do (I’m convinced comedians are essentially modern day philosophers), that you never hear about women simply dropping dead. But, that it’s not out of the ordinary, nor even particularly surprising, when you hear the phrase applied to a man of a certain age. As he says, “Dropping dead is a uniquely male experience.”

Men, on average, die earlier than women, five years earlier to be exact. Some of this has to do with the work they do, and the risks they take, but it’s not just that. Men far outpace women in what we might term “preventable” deaths, i.e., deaths by suicide, deaths of despair (drug and alcohol overdose, accident, and disease), and violence. They also far out pace women in “preventable” health conditions such as alcoholism and drug addiction, hypertension, and diabetes which not only impact their quality of life, but its duration.

And look, a lot of this is men’s fault. They don’t talk about their issues. They don’t seek help, or treatment for their conditions. Most of the time they ignore the early warning signs for solvable problems. Men don’t do themselves any favors. And I suppose in this light, it’s easy to brush the issue aside. The idea being that if men weren’t so stubborn, so pigheaded, so caught up in some antiquated notion of what a man is, they wouldn’t be in this predicament.

I hear that. I’m not even unsympathetic to it, but like most simplistic and dismissive answers to complicated human problems, it’s inadequate. Sure, we can blame men for their situation, but then we miss an opportunity to understand how they got here, and what to do about it, if anything. Because, and correct me if I’m wrong, but we can agree that no one chooses self-destructive behaviors over life-affirming ones from a healthy, happy, well-adjusted place of awareness? The alcoholic doesn’t drink because he wants to have a good time. He drinks because he’s running from the bad ones. The bulimic doesn’t throw-up because her stomach’s upset. She purges because she’s internalized a distorted perception of self. Likewise, men don’t hide themselves away because it’s fun, or feels good, or they have a death wish. They do it because they’re scared. Scared to be vulnerable, scared to be seen as vulnerable, scared to be seen as weak, or needy, and scared to be seen as scared.

Where does all this fear come from? What if I told you it has something to do with the “man cold?”

You Had Me at...at...at...ACHOOOOO. . .

What the hell is a “man cold?” Good question.

Fabled for its severity, and its laser-like ability to afflict only one gender, the “man cold” is a medical mystery for the ages. Striking at the core of men’s souls and nasal passages across space and time, it leaves them feeling poorly, to the point where they feel compelled to let others know of their discomfort. A fierce debate has raged, for perhaps centuries, but who truly knows, among those with no medical training, or epidemiological knowledge whatsoever, as to its unique nature. What is it about this condition that creates behaviors in its victims so contrary to their nature? Oh, my friends, if only we were able to unravel the litany of unanswered questions, we might come to live in a freer, less violent, and more egalitarian society worthy of our children. Alas poor Yorick!

I joke. Sort of. One thing is certain, a “man cold” is clearly more than a simple cold, although a rhinovirus is part of it. It’s entirely possible for a man to get a cold which doesn’t rise to the mythic proportions of a “man cold.” I know because I’ve had both. Just this past week I had what seemed destined to become a sinus infection (a thing I get since Covid), but I beat it back. With the exception of taking a day off swimming, I didn’t need to change up my daily routine. I blew my nose a bunch. Took some cough drops so I could sleep at night, and generally felt a bit off. It was a cold, but it didn’t become a “man cold.” At least, I don’t think so.

Because here’s the tricky part. As a man, it’s hard to know when you’re going to come down with a “man cold.” That’s because it’s a diagnosis “given to us,” we might even say, “about us,” rather than “for us.” For instance, if I have a particularly bad cold which takes the piss out of me, or makes me want (need?) to rest, or when I legitimately can’t function, there’s a better than average chance it’ll be decided that I have a “man cold.” If for whatever reason, I manage to tough it out and keep my mouth shut, then it generally remains genderless.

All of this points to what I said above. A “man cold” is way more than a cold a man gets. It’s a label, a passive aggressive value judgement that functions as a code of sorts, a trope meant to convey a message to all those within ear shot about when, where, why, and how men are allowed to express vulnerability around their poor health. In this case, the message is clear, “Don’t bother.” Unless, of course, you’re cool being shamed and humiliated for suffering from a virus, in other words, for being human. In this way, a “man cold” is not dissimilar to how women’s periods have been coded, and used to paint an unflattering picture of them as unhinged, irrational, and “dirty.” These messages instill and reinforce a shame in women about something completely natural, coloring how they’re treated and perceived. The “man cold” does the same thing. It shames men, and feeds into a myth of “male incompetence” that has been around since at least Archie Bunker, but which has gained considerable traction in recent years.

It’s a big lesson in a long list of lessons teaching men that it’s better if they keep their mouths shut when it comes to anything that might be construed as weakness.

Build-a-Man (Akin to Build-a-Bear, But Less Cuddly). . .

In order to properly instruct a man, it’s best to start early. How early? More or less fresh from the womb.

The first lessons come when little boys are spoken to less as babies. Shortly thereafter, another dose is delivered when their behavior is described as “angrier,” even when it’s the same girls. You might recall hearing something, somewhere about sugar and spice, versus snips and snails and puppy dog tails? I do. And we can’t forget about how they’re expected to “pick themselves up and brush it off” when they hit the dirt rather than being picked up, cared for, and comforted. And yes, we can’t forget about when their dads come down with the occasional “man cold.”

With so many opportunities to learn the importance of silence, is it any surprise that the “suck it up buttercup” philosophy is practically ingrained in them before their balls drop? Probably not, but, their education doesn’t stop there, because the world outside the home isn’t a walk in the park either. There are countless mines to navigate, and while they’re different than those young women face, they’re dangerous nonetheless. There are lessons to be learned in the classroom. There are lessons to be learned in the locker room. There are even lessons to learn in the office when our boy, now a man, gets there. The lessons don’t ever seem to stop. They come fast and furious, and they all deliver some version of the same message, “Don’t think it’s safe to ever stop pretending.”

“Pretending” what? Pretending that you’re tough. Pretending that you’re untouchable. Pretending that you’re in total control of your emotions, and whatever situation you find yourself in. And, finally, pretending that everything is “fine,” no matter what. Heck, with all this acting a man’s life becomes a performance he was “born” to play. Although, instead of a character, the face a man shows the world is a caricature built from the internalization of the countless cultural messages prioritizing externalized assertive action over and above relational, i.e., emotional, skills, leaving him unable to form real connections.

What the hell does that mean? Basically, that the “problem with men,” i.e., that they’re insensitive, that they lack compassion, that they aren’t empathetic, or in touch with their emotions, and that they’re too aggressive, too competitive, too detached is, more or less, true, but that it’s hard to imagine something, or better yet someone, different given that everything in their worlds encourages them toward disconnecting from their emotions and vulnerabilities. Think of it this way, if little girls are at risk of losing their “voices” growing up, then little boys are at risk of losing their “hearts.”

This is sad for any number of reasons, but the worst is that to be invulnerable is to be disconnected. Our deepest, most authentic connections are founded upon shared weaknesses. If a man never feels safe sharing those parts of himself, because as a little boy he learned to hide them away, or came to see them as “dangerous,” then his relationships, both with himself and others, will remain largely superficial. This struggle to connect will make it likely, if not inevitable, that he will come to see his value and worth as conditional. Instead of believing he has value simply as a result of being, he’ll think love is something he must earn through performance. This is the norm for most men and it’s an incredibly unstable place from which to live a life, a place of perpetual uncertainty where the simplest error, or omission, could spell ruin and relegation to the dustbin of “undesirable.” Imagine living a life, where to “sit back and enjoy,” or “relax,” or “just see what happens,” carries with it the possibility of losing all the love in your life.²

I don’t know, but when I think about it like that, I have a new “appreciation” for why so many men chose to kill themselves. If the option is between never feeling and being buried by unfelt feelings, devoid of support or connection in either case...well, that’s scary. And even under the best circumstances, they’re still not much better off than the “walking wounded.” And, remember, these are the men who will father the next generation. How can we expect them to guide and nurture the lives of their sons when they can’t even do it for themselves? There’s a saying that a boy might not always listen to his father, but he will never fail to follow his example. And so the story goes on and on and on, with no way off the roller coaster.

We’re Damned if We Do and We’re Damned if We Don’t. . .

It’s a double edge of sorts.

As the saying goes, “no one here gets out alive.” Men, of course, aren’t invulnerable. Invulnerability is a myth, and yet men internalize its “ideal” nonetheless...even when they’ve gotten older and know better, like me. That’s because, it’s one thing to know something intellectually, and another to let it go experientially.

You have to be willing to open yourself up, to let cracks appear in your battle hardened exterior, but that’s down right risky. Risks, I’ve learned first hand when I come down with a “man cold,” risks I’ve miscalculated when I’ve been shamed for crying, risks I’ve experienced when I’ve been told, on more than one occasion by more than one of my partners, to “get over” my depression by “being grateful,” as if I’m choosing to feel like a total piece of shit...which, believe it or not, has also been suggested.

So, cracks are no joke. They carry consequences. They’re dangerous. Turns out they won’t just break your mother’s back, but maybe you too. Cracks are points of weakness, the very things we’re taught to cover up. Cracks are where things can start to fall apart. You can lose yourself in them.

Of course, they are also opportunities, as anyone who has seen grass grow through a crack in a sidewalk can attest to. But, to get there, you either need to be extraordinarily brave, feel genuinely safe, or be so broken that there isn’t any other option. Personally, I don’t think the problem is men’s bravery, or lack of it. I know first hand how much discipline and strength it takes to walk around like nothing’s wrong all the fucking time. It’s exhausting.

No, where men struggle is in finding safe harbors from the storm. Men are scared to open up because they lack experiences, which is to say, they lack places and people who show them it’s okay to let their guards down and ask for help. And without those people and places, the idea of opening up, even to those who are “closest” to you, is nothing short of insanity. Especially if those “closest” to you have hurt you, or someone you love, in the past.

I’m not here to point fingers. But, over the years I’ve changed how I think and act based on things I’ve learned from women about how certain behaviors and attitudes have negatively impacted them. And I’ve been happy to do so, and will continue to do so in the future, because it’s the right thing to do. Of course, we’re all responsible for ourselves, and men should be able to embody and communicate their vulnerabilities, weaknesses, and shadows under any circumstances. But, they should also be able to ask for help, and to point out things which make it harder for them to do so. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that women consider the emotional environment they’re creating for the men in their lives.

It’d be so easy the next time a guy takes a chance and expresses some vulnerability about a silly cold, to see it as a opportunity to foster a deeper, more meaningful connection. And to use it as an opportunity to cultivate a healthier man, someone who will ideally be able to positively influence the next generation. If we want men to be the kind of people who are connected to their emotions, then we need to show them it’s safe to do so. That at the very least, it’s safe within the four walls of their home, because no matter what’s going on outside, these people have got their backs.

Because trust me, taking a risk to share is not a decision he has come to lightly. Consciously, or unconsciously, he’s testing the waters. He’s dipping his toe in to see if it’s okay to go swimming. And if you shut him down, or humiliate him, or shame him, he hears you loud and clear, and so does the little boy in the next room. I know, because I grew up in a house where my dad caught the occasional “man cold,” and now I get them...but I’ll be damned if my son ever gets one.

1. Richard Rohr, Adam’s Return: The Five Promises of Male Initiation, pg 47. Emphasis mine.

2. This discussion of invulnerability and disconnection is inspired, and partially lifted, from Terry Real’s discussion on male depression in I Don’t Want to Talk About It. A book worth reading.