Hellos, Goodbyes, And Everything In Between

Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes; I’m afraid it’s time for goodbye again.

_{— Billy Joel, “Say Goodbye to Hollywood”}

So, remember goodbye doesn’t mean forever …

_{— David Gates, “Goodbye Girl”}

I wrote a few months back about how and why I’d resumed seeing a therapist.

I’d been struggling with losses of various sorts, from hearing loss to the deaths of my mother and several friends.

On Aug. 29, my therapist retired.

In fact, his final appointment was with me.

I’m sure more a matter of scheduling (as I couldn’t meet during the school day) than anything else. Still, I know both the goodbye – and the therapeutic relationship that preceded it – will stick with me the rest of my life.

When I asked earlier in the year about resuming therapy, my therapist noted he would be retiring within months. That didn’t deter me. I knew I had to focus to make the time work.

We talked about life’s transitions, the search for meaning, the value of mentorship, and the healing of old wounds. He was able to find places I hadn’t explored and guide me through the journey of exploring them.

One example: We were talking about the experiences I’d had with loss, and I noted that something had “blind-sided” me. He asked me to stop and take a breath. He said he wished I could have seen how I looked when I used that word. He wondered what the word choice meant.

Before I knew it, I was moving from the 60-year-old me to the 8-year-old learning that his parents were going to divorce.

And then, before that, to the 6½-year-old witnessing a car accident that left my mom hospitalized with a broken jaw.

I’d only spoken with a few people about the first blind-siding. I’d never spoken with anyone about the second – and hadn’t consciously thought of it in decades.

I told him as much as I could remember – about the glass, the blood, the shock, my getting ill later after seeing my mom in the hospital. As I finished the recollection, he said I looked like I had been in a trance.

When we wrapped up, he told me to take some time in my car before turning the ignition, just to let myself process what just happened.

And then, to be very, very mindful while driving home. 

Not every session was that intense. But I did come in ready to sort through my own personal attic.

And his patient companionship, willingness to reframe, and suggestions for resources proved essential in my moving from grief and loss to confidence.

A little while back, I shared what happened the night I spent on my front porch watching the fireflies.

It turned out a sequel to a dream I had April 8, one powerful enough that I jotted down the date in my journal when I awoke, with as many details as I could.

In the dream, my husband Tom and I were celebrating with a huge party at our house and into the adjacent cul-de-sac. Practically everyone we knew was there, including people and cats who had been long gone. Each moment built on the one before, as beings from across our lives intersected, laughed and danced. It was an incredible night, and Tom and I thanked everyone for joining us.

I turned to everyone. I said:

I woke up right after that.

I told my therapist about the dream, and he said he could see how much it had meant to me.

Often, our discussions led to explorations of mortality and vulnerability.

He recommended my reading Atul Gawande’s book Being Mortal.

I did, and it challenged the way I thought about life and death. I gave it to Tom, and his reaction was similar. We both made sure our respective doctors had copies of our powers-of-attorney and advance directives.

As our journey approached its end, we talked about Tom’s and my learning to take care of a diabetic cat, about the anniversary of a beloved mentor’s death, about a new school year rounding the corner, and about a moment when I realized just when I might retire. (I’ll keep that one under wraps for now.)

Hellos. Goodbyes. And everything in between.

At our final appointment, I said, “There really aren’t any ‘My therapist is retiring’ cards, which suggests a new market for Hallmark.”

He laughed, and I gave him a more generic retirement card with a note inside.

I told him I hoped to take many lessons from him:

• To keep my senses sharp and stay up-to-date on how to listen and hear
• To give myself permission to breathe and think through scenarios
• And to engage curiosity, imagination, or wonder

He thanked me for the note and card, and we talked for a little while about what this day meant to him.

Then, he gave me a gift.

He said he had given similar gifts before and sometimes thought of such inscriptions as aspirational. In my case, he said, I was already living the virtue and just needed to remember it.

That stone has been on my desk at work ever since.

I know there will be students with whom I share a similar sentiment. For now, it serves as a reminder to be true to myself and my values.

I was grateful for the time to say goodbye.

Now, I can say hello to the present and future.

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