Firsts and lasts. It seems they are always with us.
For instance, this week, the NFL will conduct its annual draft. A big to-do will be made for the young man who is drafted first. Likewise, the final draft pick, Mr. Irrelevant, will be feted with a variety of events during Irrelevant Week.
Races and elections have firsts and lasts. Gardens have first blooms and last blooms. Families with more than one child have first-born and last-born children.
Over the past couple of years, I have learned that the grieving process adds a whole new meaning to firsts and lasts.
Sure, I already knew a great deal about the grieving process thanks to my counseling-based master's degree. Because of my training, I understand the concepts of why I have reacted the way I have over the past couple of years after losing several loved ones. But even all that education didn't prepare me for the emotional gut punch of firsts and lasts.
Thanksgiving and Christmas were a bit difficult last year, as they were the first holidays I celebrated without both my parents. Fortunately, close family friends, chosen family really, included me in their festivities, so I was surrounded by love and a sense of belonging that I wouldn't have felt had I spent the holidays alone.
Shortly before Thanksgiving, I took some flowers out to the cemetery. I did so because of the holiday, but also because it almost was Mom's birthday and I hadn't been out to the cemetery since the monument company got my folks' headstone set. I had been in the hospital having one of my two unplanned surgeries in two weeks when the headstone was set.
The drive out to the cemetery is 10-15 minutes through the Saline County countryside. The whole way out, I told myself that I could do it. I could be strong and not blubber my way through the visit. I did pretty good for the first minute or so, but my emotions got the best of me and tears rolled down my face. I must have been well-hydrated that day because the tears continued all the way back to town.
And you know what? That was OK. I needed the catharsis that the crying provided. In looking back on the visit, the only reason I truly needed to be strong was to be able to face that first cemetery visit head-on. I'm sure there will still be tears when I visit the cemetery, but that first time is now over and I know that I will be OK.
Some firsts have been weirdly positive. For instance, a few weeks ago, we had our first tornado warning of the season. As I sat on the basement steps with my go-bag of food, water, and now, medicine, I realized how glad I was that Mom was not here.
Now some will think that is bad, but the reality is that Mom's safety was my utmost concern in her last few years and had she still been alive, I'm not sure what we would have done during the tornado warning. There would have been no way that she could have made it downstairs. Had she still been alive I wouldn't want her final moments to be the sheer terror of being tossed around in the air by a tornado.
As it turned out, her final moments were peaceful and she was kept comfortable by a caring medical staff. Her final words before she slipped into a coma in the emergency room due to a fast-growing brain bleed, were that her head hurt.
That comment will always stay with me, but so will a couple of conversations we had the week prior. Because of the dementia brought on by Parkinson's, Mom, in her final months, often was simple and childlike. Every once in a while, however, she was "my Mom" and we had some great talks. I will always hang on to those.
The other day, while in the kitchen, I happened to notice a grocery list on the refrigerator. For years, we had kept a pad of paper on the refrigerator and would write down grocery needs until one of us went to the store. After Dad had gotten sick and was either in the hospital or rehabbing at a nursing facility after his cancer surgery, I started keeping the grocery list on a note pad near my computer. It worked out well as I have ordered groceries online since COVID hit.
The grocery list I saw on the refrigerator the other day was Dad's last grocery list. Additionally, Mom's last towel still hangs in the bathroom. At some point, as I work through the grieving process, I will remove both the grocery list and the towel, but not yet.
Last fall, a college roommate called me out of the blue. Although we kept up with each other via Facebook, we hadn't spoken in a long time. She had a lot to tell me, including about her health issues and her grieving for her longtime significant other who had recently died. We had quite a long conversation with me mainly listening and occasionally offering words of encouragement as I thought appropriate.
As it turned out, it was the last conversation I would have with my college roommate. She died about a month later. I'm still going through the "I need to ask her about" stage and then realizing that I can't. At some point, that, too, will pass. But I will always remember that last conversation with her.
I suspect there will be a number of additional firsts and lasts as I work my way through the grieving process. Sometimes it will be tough, but they are part of who I am and I will make it through. The key will be to deal with the firsts, remember the lasts, and keep moving forward.
