I Cry More Easily Now. I Didn’t Use To

I’m not the same person I was when I retired at 59. Back then, I was frugal to a fault, afraid to spend money, even on myself. Now I treat myself more often, take better care of my health, and I like to think I’ve grown more patient. But the biggest change is this: I cry more easily.

I didn’t use to understand that kind of emotion. When I was about 11, I was watching television with Uncle Lou. I don’t remember how old he was, but he was retired, and to a young kid, he seemed ancient. At one point, he started to cry. I didn’t understand why — the film didn’t seem that sad to me. But now, at 74, I do. I, too, get emotional at times without knowing exactly why.

A few years ago, I went to a gathering for Jeremy, a high school friend who had passed away. The mood was upbeat — people were eating, drinking, and chatting like it was a neighborhood get-together. I had fun seeing some of my old childhood friends.

Jeremy’s daughter spoke first, offering a few touching words about her father. Then Ron stood up, notes in hand, and started cracking jokes about Jeremy’s drinking habits — like how he could fall asleep holding a drink and never spill a drop. He kept going until his wife nudged him to wrap it up.

I had planned to say something about a different side of Jeremy — the responsible guy who always held a job from high school graduation until retirement. I thought that deserved recognition. But suddenly, I felt overwhelmed with emotion. I couldn’t explain why. This wasn’t a somber funeral — it felt more like a casual celebration.

I just sat there, silent. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. It didn’t feel like the right time or place to get emotional and risk dampening the mood. Everyone was there to celebrate, not mourn.

Looking back, I wonder why I was so emotional. These days, my oldest friends and I are gentler with each other, more appreciative of our connection. As you get older, the value of those relationships becomes more apparent.

If I reacted so strongly to Jeremy’s death, I can’t imagine how I’d handle losing my wife. My mother struggled with my father’s death. When my father passed and I started spending more time with her, she sometimes called me Sam, my father’s name. I took her to see a couple of therapists. One sold her his book, and mostly talked about himself. She even tried attending church again. But none of it relieved the pain she was feeling.

I think it was because she never gave herself time to grieve. She cleaned out his closet and packed away his things quickly, hid the photos, thinking that erasing reminders would ease the pain.

I’d do the opposite.

Rachel likes to keep her laptop on the dining room table, right by the sliding glass door, where the light pours in and the morning breeze flows through. It only gets moved when we have company. If, God forbid, something ever happened to her, I wouldn’t move it.

I found out early in our relationship how much Rachel values greeting cards. When I give her one for a special occasion, she always keeps it by her laptop for weeks, until it eventually finds its way upstairs to a shelf in our hallway, displayed alongside all the other cards I’ve given her. I would keep those cards right where they are.

Those things — her pictures, her favorite places, her saved notes — would hurt to see and remind me of her every day. But I think they’d help me heal. I’d want to give myself the time and space to feel the loss and the sadness, not run from it.

I’ve learned from my mother that ignoring grief doesn’t make it go away. Facing it — little by little, everyday — might be the only real way through.