Learning to Let Go

Last week I sent a birthday card to Nan. Nan is a 15-year-old who was a client of mine when I lived in North Carolina, though she was only in 5th grade at the time. Nan and I were nearly instant friends. She loved to dance, to sing, and to laugh. Her developmental disabilities meant she had the intellectual abilities of a preschooler, and her ADHD gave her the attention span of a toddler, but I loved spending time with her. Despite the fact that she could get awfully whiny and that she loved to watch "The Wiggles" over and over and over, we always laughed. She had limited verbal skills and could only say a few words here and there, but I almost always understood what she meant. I used to joke that she was my sister in another life. We somehow just got each other.

I worked one-on-one with Nan for 15 hours a week for nearly a year. My work makes me such an incredibly privileged person. As someone who worked with clients in their homes, I had the opportunity to get to know my clients at their best and their worst, to spend time with their loved ones, to be a part of their holidays. To some degree, even though I was aware of the boundaries, I began to feel a part of people's families. But when I left my job in North Carolina to move back home, I had to tell Nan--and all of my other clients--goodbye. I remember tears in my eyes as I drove my car away from Nan's house after my last visit with her.

I still send Nan a birthday card each year, and a Christmas card to her family each December. Occasionally her mother will e-mail me with an update on how she is doing. I have a picture of Nan on my bookcase, in the same frame with pictures of loved family and friends. But when I think of her, I often wonder if I will ever see her again. She has since moved to Florida, a place I have no other reason to visit. And while I would love to see her, the possibility of buying a plane ticket to Florida--when I have so many other family and friends spread out all over the country--is unlikely. One day, her parents and I might lose touch, or they may pass away and I may not know where she goes next. For all I know, if Nan saw me now, she might not even remember me.

I have always been a person who dreads saying goodbye. I still hate the thought of it. But my work with Nan, and so many others like her, has changed my perspective a bit. It's always hard saying bye to my clients, knowing that I will probably never hear from them again, never know what happens to them, or know whether I really made a difference in their lives. But there's something very beautiful about it, too. . . this idea that all of us can touch each other, if only for a moment. I will never know what happens to most of my clients, and I may never know where Nan will end up. But I'm okay with that. It's a good lesson for me in giving up control, in learning to let go, and in loving for the sake of loving. And I'll keep sending Nan cards every year, as long as I know where she is. I'll keep sending them even though I know that when Nan tears open the envelopes, her mom may say, "This is from Jennifer," and Nan might have no idea who Jennifer is.