Endings

This week I had to say goodbye to my practicum group.  Before our last meeting, we talked about endings.  Our Practicum Facilitator, Jeanette, told us that people usually try to make goodbye less difficult.  We find something to get angry about, so we can brush our hands off and be done, good riddance!  Or, we create distance, convincing ourselves that we don’t need that person as much as we thought.

As Jeanette went through the list of ways we make parting easier, I heard my own voice at every airport: “I had a great time with you, and I’ll call when I get back.”  We’ll talk soon, I say mostly to myself, so this isn’t really an ending.  I borrow from the future to alleviate the pain of leaving.  And by doing that, I’ve missed so many chances to end well.

Good endings, Jeanette told us, involve remembering.  Ending well means telling stories.  It means recognizing that we’re at the end, and not cheapening the end by backing away from it.  It means celebrating and mourning, together.

So on our last day of practicum, we told stories.  We remembered each other, how we were in September, and how we are now.  I didn’t console myself that I would see these people next year.  I will see them, but we’ll never again be in a group together.  I told each person how I would remember them.  And I heard their words to me, which were almost too good to bear.

Then, the next day, I had my last one-on-one meeting with Jeanette, and that was a billion times worse.  I did not want to say goodbye to that woman.  How do you let go of the person who first confirmed that parts of your own story were dark and tragic, and told you your tears were right and good?  I just couldn’t.  So I didn’t say goodbye for the first 40 minutes.  Instead, I found less painful things to talk about while I creatively didn’t look at her.  Or swallow.

Then when our time was up, I panicked that if I wasn’t honest now, I might never again say anything that mattered.  So I took the world’s shakiest breath in and said, “I was scared to come here today, because I don’t know how to begin to thank you.”  I’m not sure if the last few words were audible or not, but she seemed to get it.  She looked surprised, choked out a soft, “oh,” and started crying.

We sat for two minutes, and I hope to remember those two minutes my whole life.  At the end she said, “You’ve touched my life, Christine, and I won’t ever forget you.”  I think she said that because it’s true, and because she knew I would have trouble believing it.  Love must be much bigger than I imagine.

Since then, I’ve been seeing endings everywhere.  What if I left each visit with my sister saying “I had a great visit, and now it’s finished.  We’ll never have another like it.”  What if I let myself comprehend that, next time I see my nieces, they will be different people entirely.  What if, on our anniversary, Jack and I told stories, celebrated, and mourned the quick passing of our newlywed years.  What if I told my sweet 2-year-old nephew, “I remember your first cries, and I will never hear them again.”

Endings are everywhere.  Death is everywhere.  Sometimes it seems like Good Friday lasts forever, and Easter is only a sad illusion.