Tears

Tears. They make some people uncomfortable but with others, it’s just a natural outpouring of emotion. My dad was a “tough guy” but he shed them over the years.

I remember him crying when Robert Kennedy died.  If memory is serving me correctly, he cried as we watched the televised funeral processional. I was upset by his emotions, as I cannot recall seeing him cry until that day. I asked him what was wrong and he replied, “Bobby Kennedy was a great man.”

 I remember him crying when he watched the famous football movie, “Brian’s Song,” same too with “Love Story.” My dad cried when my brother was in the Army and left to go to boot camp and later as he left for a tour in Germany. Dad cried when my sister Paula drove away on her honeymoon. Again, the tears came when my sister Laura flew away to one of her faraway homes in Boston, New York, Wisconsin or wherever she and her family were living at the time.

He cried the day he, my mom and I were driving home from Carmel. It was a bittersweet weekend. I have lovely memories of dog walks on the beach, lunches and dinners and shopping…all while awaiting to hear the specifics of his cancer and treatment plan from his doctor, a call we were all anticipating the following week. My sister Laura had called as we were driving home. The silent tears streamed down his face as I could hear her telling him that both she and her family would come out that Easter to visit. He was crying because we were apart but would be together again. He was crying because the damn cancer was going to separate us.

Two and one half years later, he lay in his Hospice bed in my parents’ TV room. We had just told him, agonizingly, that he could not get out of bed that day. We had said he was too heavy and if he had another seizure we simply could not lift him off the ground. His normal routine of getting dressed and sitting up to read the paper or watch the latest news or sports program proved too tiresome for him and too difficult for us without my brother around to help.  He was angry and barked at us to go in the other room to “regroup” and leave him alone. I stole a glance at him as I was exiting the room. The silent stream trickled down from the corner of his eye, trailed down his ear and splashed upon the pillow. He was crying because he did not want to leave us. He did not want to leave this world.

This weekend I went to visit my son in San Diego. He’s in college and we’ve not seen much of one another this year. He’s maturing, we don’t talk as much, even to “check-in” during the month as we did last year. I am trying to let him be the lead. I am a tough mom. But when I went to say good-bye and we hugged one another in a tight embrace, the tears came. I told him I loved him. 


He got out of the car, pivoted briefly to face me as he began to stand up. As he looked into my eyes, I saw the mirrored image of myself. His big blue eyes looked “full” and he quickly turned away and walked up the pathway to his front door. I couldn’t see his eyes then but I know when he walked inside he had to wipe away the excess liquid.

My son appears to be a “tough guy” just like his grandpa and his mom.