Ever since that day I have trouble with any type of goodbye. I sometimes wonder if that is a result of the loss of my only child or if it was the result of an experience I had early in my grieving journey.
Site of Plane Crash; Bloomington, Indiana |
Shortly after my son’s death I went to see a grief counselor
and she insisted that I write a letter to my son telling him goodbye. She felt that this would be helpful. She
believed that because of his sudden, violent death I hadn’t been able to say
goodbye before he died like parents of ill children. This was supposed to be an exercise to help
me to come to terms with the loss and finality of his death. It proved to be an awful experience for both the
counselor and myself. I was infuriated
that I was told I had to tell him goodbye.
Although I realized he was gone and not coming back I refused to say
goodbye, I wasn’t ready and I didn’t know if I would ever be ready—and that’s
what I wrote. This wasn’t well received
by the counselor because I didn’t follow the “textbook” response to the
exercise. She and I argued over this
issue as I tried to defend my position.
It was exhausting for me at a time when grief was already taking my
energy—but I felt strongly about it and would not back down. He was my son, my only child, and no one
would tell me to say goodbye to him.
This experience and several other unfortunate experiences
with other experts and first-responders was what convinced me that I wanted to
become a counselor and to specialize in grief counseling. No one can tell you
how to grieve; no one can take on the work of grieving for you. You have to find your own path on your
personal grief journey. In writing this
post I found online a story about a woman whose only son was killed by a train
in 2003. Maria Malin wrote a book about
her journey, called “When You Just Can’t Say Goodbye, Don’t.” Maybe I should send a copy to that grief
counselor.