Twice in the last few days someone who sees me every week has told me they’re concerned about me.

The first friend said my latest blog posts seemed especially sad, and she’s afraid the sadness could sink into something more serious.

The second, a member of my online support group, emailed to say I haven’t seemed my usual, chipper self with the group. I’m quieter, she said. And am I losing weight?

Both expressions of care were very kind, and to each of them I would respond, “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.” But the second such message in less than a week, from two widely separated sources, is too much to ignore.

A beauty shop moment

The email came while I was sitting in the hair salon with Evelyn who was there for a cut and color. It’s a couple-of-hours process, and Evelyn wasn’t doing well. Off and on, her face dissolved into what looked like tears; this happens all the time, and she usually doesn’t know why she’s crying. She couldn’t tell us today, either.

After the foils were in her hair, she needed to sit for 15 minutes for the bleach to dry. Seems simple enough, but today it wasn’t. I got her a magazine to read, but she wasn’t content just to sit. She was up and down out of the chair, making me afraid she’d trip over the cape dangling at her feet. Soon it seemed the whole shop was involved. “Just a few more minutes, Evelyn.” “Can I get you something to drink, Evelyn?”

At one point she stood to go see the receptionist who has been one of her favorites. Stacy welcomed her to the chair beside her desk. “Are you coming to visit? Good! What are you reading?”

The effort at small talk went on for only about five minutes before Evelyn was up and shuffling back toward her chair again. “Let me see if your hair is dry,” the hairdresser said. And the two of them stood in the center of the shop while he checked. “It’s dry!” he announced, and he and I together pointed her in the right direction toward the hair-washing stations in the back of the shop.

Kindness—and sadness

All this kindness was an onslaught of goodness, but it made me sad. Sad because even though I so appreciated it, I didn’t want it. Sad because it was necessary. Sad because it was more than we’d ever needed before. Sad because here we were, two faltering old folks struggling to survive against overwhelming odds.

And there in the beauty shop, full of chatty women and one very patient man quickly washing my wife’s hair, I felt tears escaping onto my hot cheeks.

A 73-year-old man crying in the middle of his wife’s beauty shop. Yeah, maybe I’m not doing as well as I think I am.

A decision to talk

Even before the email, though, days before the beauty shop incident, I had decided to talk with a therapist. My first friend gave me the usual pep talk about how much it had helped her, how we all need regular emotional checkups just like we need periodic physical exams, how someone she knows talks with her therapist every month just to stay on an even keel.

She expected me to resist, I think. But I didn’t. Did I sense, deep down, that I’m losing my balance? Or am I just especially susceptible to an invitation to talk about myself nonstop for 30 minutes without apology?

I don’t know. But here’s what I do know after interacting with a thoughtful therapist in my first appointment Monday morning. My initial assessment was accurate, as far as the therapist could tell. I’m fine. Really, I am.

Sadness—and acceptance

She and I talked quite a while about the sadness. “I would be concerned if you were not sad,” she told me. Ignored or repressed grief will come back to bite you, I know. The therapist agreed.

I reminded her (and myself) of all I’m doing to stay engaged and hopeful: Lunches with friends, meals with Evelyn and other couples, Sunday-morning church and all the interaction before and after the services, my editing and writing, nurturing my garden, weekly volunteering, time away from caregiving because of paid or volunteer caregivers (the schedule right now is three half-days per week), my weekly online support group.

I don’t know what more I could be doing. I’m not depressed. But yes, I am often sad.

“I’m sad” is not the first response you give to “How are you doing?” But it’s true.

“I’m sad” is not and must not be the chief characteristic of my life. But for now, it’s not going away. Actually, it helped me to talk all this through with the therapist.

Perfect—and sad

As I write this post Monday, I’m looking out my patio door at a perfect day: sunny, cool, with a pleasant breeze. The grass is green, and I know a guy will come Wednesday to mow it. My flowers are blooming, and I’ve eliminated a couple that were dying.

I’ll enjoy this splendid day running errands with a sense of accomplishment at each task checked off my list, and I’ll eat lunch wherever I want for as long as I want to enjoy it.

The afternoon will restore and energize me.

I know what we’re having for supper, and it will be good.

I have in mind several options for TV watching together this evening, and I hope Evelyn will sit through at least one of them.

I’m facing the day with anticipation and joy.

But soon I will again deal with behaviors either bothersome or confusing or irritating. I will not be able to proceed with a plan because Evelyn won’t go along. I’ll face an unexpected mess. I’ll be interrupted while I’m fixing dinner or frustrated when it’s not all eaten. I’ll wonder what we’d be doing on a summer Monday evening if two tragic diseases hadn’t invaded our lives.

And at least for a moment, I’ll admit it. I’ll be sad. The sadness can’t be avoided, and it dare not be denied. But even with that, I’m fine. Really, I am.

First photo by Majestic Lukas on Unsplash