Goodbyes Are Hard

We sat across from each other, she in her scrubs, I in my usual polo shirt and jeans. The conversation was relatively short; more substantial than a rushed hi-everyone-okay-great-see-you-next-time, but not nearly as drawn out as some of our previous interactions. I did my best to sprinkle some humor into our exchange; objectively, I’d like to think I stayed above the Mendoza line with my choices, though it’s always hard to tell with teenagers. Either way, it wasn’t exactly the time for jokes.

I like to think that I can put people at ease with barely more than a look. I have an image of myself with a warm smile and a welcoming twinkle in my eye, encouraging my clients to open up with little more than a curled lip and a relaxed brow. It might be unrealistic to think that I can help someone relax simply by being relaxed myself but I know it doesn’t hurt.

It didn’t seem to matter with her, though.

She shifted her weight constantly in the chair, seemingly unable to find an acceptable position. Her sight traveled around the room, finding flecks of discolored paint on the walls, tiny dry spots on her cuticles, split ends on her close-cropped hair… anything to avoid looking at my face. She uttered a quick phrase or two; she didn’t know what to say, how to feel, what to do. I scanned her expressions for signs of distress – aside from her obvious discomfort with a difficult conversation – and focused my energy on exuding kindness.

Finally, after a brief rehashing of last week’s incident, a glance back over the last two years we had spent together and a preview of what was to come, she managed to meet my gaze. Her eyes did not have the glassy shimmer of tears preparing to descend but her pursed lips spoke to the struggle she was experiencing keeping her composure.

“Goodbyes are hard,” she said.

I remembered the advice I had received from a former supervisor about terminating with a particular client’s mother. The woman’s ex-husband had died after repeated bouts with alcoholism and heart conditions. I pictured my supervisor suggesting that I present the mother with a chance to end our work with a positive outlook and a planned completion date; it was the opportunity to finish a relationship on her terms, rather than being caught unaware and having so much unfinished business. I imagined launching into yet another soliloquy for the girl sitting in front of me about personal development and coping skills and seeing her eyes glaze over. I resisted the clinical impulse and chose to remain present instead.

“Yeah, they are,” I answered simply.

We sat together in silence for another moment before she finally turned and rose from the chair. She curled her fingers into a fist and extended it slowly toward me. I tapped her fist with my own and spread my fingers in an exploding motion, just as I would every time I left a visit with her. She smiled softly and stood motionless for a moment. I offered her a hug – which she declined – and a handshake – which she took. She released my hand and took a step toward the door, pausing as the nurse unlocked it.

“Bye, Aaron.”

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