Thank you, Grief Counsellor

When I think about how far I’ve come writing this new chapter of my life, much credit goes to the amazing people who surround me. 

People who have picked up the pieces of me repeatedly. 

People with strong arms who have supported me, held me and loved me when I couldn’t support, hold or love myself.

The other important part of my journey forward was engaging with a grief counsellor. He was an unbiased ear, an impartial voice (especially in the early days when so many tumultuous emotions came out of everywhere). I’m so grateful I sought professional help. I believe that seeing him was one of the key factors that has helped me move forward.

I wrote the following at the end of our time together and it still resonates with me. I’m still grateful for all of the support I had and continue to have.

 • • •

My grief counsellor is a nice man. I have no idea if he’s paid on a sliding scale but, if he is, I hope the bar slid to max payout when he met me.

My Favourite Husband (MFH) died Aug. 10 and I fell apart. I leaned very heavily on trusted people — family, friends — but the burden of keeping me upright was something that I knew I needed to transfer at some point to a professional. Even in my grief, I knew I’d want my “real relationships” back; two-way relationships where we shared each other’s lives instead of only me sharing my pain. 

One of the benefit coordinators from MFH’s work went through my survivor benefits and she gently said that grief counselling was available if I chose. Yes, please…

My first appointment was Aug. 25, five days after I laid MFH to rest.

My first two sessions were in-person and consisted of my counsellor listen to me cry, talk about things I can’t even begin to recall and not so elegantly snot my way through at least three boxes of Kleenex each session. I know he answered when I asked questions but the only thing I can remember from either of those sessions was this exchange:

Me: “What am I supposed to do now?”

Him: Relates some biblical parable that ended by saying “live a life with purpose.”

Me: Glares at him.

Him: “Perhaps that’s not helpful right now.”

Those first two sessions, all I wanted was what he couldn’t give me: I wanted him to bring MFH back from the dead and our lives to resume as they were. And because he couldn’t do that, I was pretty sure that counselling wasn’t helping.

Our sessions were about every two or three weeks apart, enough time for me to continue my journey through grief with new experiences and emotions and to relate them to him; and he to challenge me with thoughts and ideas that he introduced slowly. There were times in our sessions where we would talk about things and I would remember those things weeks later and have a lightbulb moment.

We had a total of six sessions. It was supposed to be five sessions but I “negotiated” a sixth (he was moving across the country and I “offered” to fly and see him at his new office — I’m retired airline and I can — and he graciously scheduled a last session). Our last session, for me, was a wonderful summary of my journey with him.

We talked about a lot of things. A lot … of … things. We talked about what I would want for MFH had I been the one who died and how he would want the same for me. We talked about finding balance and, yes, purpose in life.

By far the most valuable conversation was his advice to go out and live my life. Not to close any doors. I don’t have to walk through any of those doors — now or ever — but keep them open for today and for the future. Be open to what life brings me — career, travel, relationships.

I don’t need anyone’s “permission “ to be myself. Just do it.

Thank you, Grief Counsellor. The road is still bumpy but the strength you’ve “unearthed” in me gives me hope that I can and will live a life with purpose.

❤️