THE STIFF UPPER LIP MACHINE

The original Stoics thought that men should essentially be unaffected by misfortune. Emotionally, stoics were expected to be rock walls, unbending to the buffeting winds and rains around them, perhaps even silently and solidly defending their families, and especially their women.

You can see how that caught on in the post-Victorian world. Men of Empire were taught the stiff upper lip. It was shameful to show emotion, and weak to cry. Your job was to be a strong, impassive barrier to the dark and dangerous world, come what may. Society depended on it.

Those men taught their sons the same stoicism. And some of those men, hardened by war, taught their sons. And now here we are. And here I am, wondering how on earth to be strong and emotional at the same time while my Dad is in hospital having suffered a stroke.

He’s doing okay. That’s the main thing. Conscious, responsive, but of course only 10% of his usual self. We don’t know what the long-term is. It seems fairly obvious though that my parents are moving into a brand new chapter, and that these are only the opening paragraphs.

I do wonder whether the Stoics hit upon a fundamental bit of male wiring. The ladies seem so quick to pour out everything, all at once. We can’t do that, at least not as naturally. Stoicism seems like our attempt to define something deeper in our natures, to identify the wiring and use it to somehow advance our society. But what those Victorians, Edwardians, Silents, post-war Boomers, and Older Xers wouldn’t quite admit I think, is that the whole thing, the stiff upper lip machine, is terribly, terribly lonely. And I, the only son of a father in hospital, I kind of feel that today.

I think there was a different way to interpret the wiring. We were meant to share the burden much more with our wives, our sisters, our mothers and eventually our daughters. In fact, I wonder whether that’s what God meant by finding Adam a ‘helpmate’ - there was always more equality by design than we understood. Loneliness was the exact problem he was solving, yet we somehow found a way to turn the answer into its own question again. It was lonely facing the raging sea, but at least the salt spray hid the tears. So the stoics might have been half right: we are built to defend. But half right is also half wrong. We’re built for community too.

So, I’m saying: ask me how I’m feeling. Obviously ask about Dad too. But if you want to know what’s going on in me, ask me what’s deep, ask me if I’m scared, if I’m lonely, if I’m finding God in the middle of all of this, and be prepared for a long, percolating answer that might be behind a shorter one. It might take time.

I’m still working it out - still processing what’s happened, what my emotions are, and what to say that sounds right given the way I’ve been put together, how I’m wired up. And let’s be honest, this wiring is ancient.