I'm a man, but I cry at home

By Marilú Acosta

During a phone call with a patient's friend, he confesses to me: I am a man, but I cry at home. Listening to him, the abyss of time opens before me and I enter the depths of male emotions, which are defined by an absurd limitation of gender. Then I imagine him sitting on the couch, hands on his head, back curved, looking at the floor. He looks at the floor because of the pain and helplessness of knowing his friend is seriously ill. He looks at the floor also for feeling ashamed of having tears in his eyes, for feeling pain in his heart. He covers his face in shame for showing his vulnerability in the face of illness, death and the fear of losing his friend. Each tear that crashes to the floor exposes the human frailty that makes him a failure by male standards. I return to the conversation because he continues in disbelief: I really can't understand that he is like this, someone so intelligent, with so much wisdom, always active and willing to share his knowledge, now to see him unable to control his body, thin, diminished. How else do I help him? What else can we do?