Today begins the season of the firsts of the lasts for me. A season of re-mourning, remembering. I can’t help but start counting down the days for him now, for a year ago. In a recent email to my family at the beginning of this month, I wrote, “This time last year, he had 21 good days left. 21. And then agony and hell for too long. But God what I wouldn’t give to have last year back to call him every day of those last 21 days. To get him completely sound and sure and dad. To tell him I loved him every day, to allow him to tell me he loved me every day.”
Because time exists in its own personality, right? Years and weeks can feel like a superficial lover, a one-night stand; but moments, just one second, the last breath, the last “I love you,” one small touch– is all of eternity, 65 years of marriage, an entire family tree.
And I wonder if somewhere in the realm of knowing things as truth, as we all do, deep in the bowels of understanding, he knew they were the last days. I wonder what he was thinking and if he had any regrets.
One year ago on a Saturday, I spoke to my dad on the phone for the last time in the context of the man he was to ultimately be, before. Before the illness, before the pain, before our 30-day nightmare and before the inevitable silence.
In hindsight, our conversation was heart-stoppingly mundane and beautiful. In the moment though, I know I took it for granted. We spoke of our usual, coffee and books and the newly unusual, the shared pain of divorce. A back and forth of he, the dad, giving me advice, and I, the daughter and child, hearing his anger and passion for the circumstances coming through the phone, from a man who did not let people see or hear his anger very often. I felt his worry and his love in his voice, and we talked for an hour.
He said things I didn’t agree with. I analyzed it (as I am wont to do) as he needing to compensate for those things he wished he had done in his painful past, through my present.
And the sins of the father…
It was a golden hour neither one us realized was occurring. And I am so very glad it wasn’t through text, although I had just cleared out my texts, and had none remaining from him, nor voicemails. Which now, in hindsight, saddens me greatly.
We hung up and I can’t remember if we said “I love you.”
An hour later I received another phone call, this one from my brother telling me that dad was taken by ambulance to the hospital with what we thought were chest pains. Growing up in a medical household, after the shock of panic subsided, I realized there was no emergency, really. If it was the massive heart attack we assumed, he would either be stabilized or never return from his code, either scenario coming to fruition well within the 2-1/2 hour journey to La Crosse. I would either get to speak to and see my father alive or I would not. It was completely out of my control and I was paralyzed, immediately thinking about work and letting them know, running through the list of people that you have on reserve for situations like this, my 3 a.m. clan as I like to think of them.
These firsts of the lasts are the most difficult for me so far. They put me into a place of thinking about what we do with our precious time and the futility in thinking we can maximize it for value 24/7. That myth that we are in control. That futility would normally grant me permission to justify wasting my time, like stalking facebook, pursuing unrequited love (sometimes the same thing?). But it’s prompted me, as sudden deaths often do, to reevaluate my time and be so much fiercer with it.
The last conversation with my kids should always be in love. In addition, all the interactions I have with anyone, no matter how short or long, should end with love, not necessarily yes.
It means giving my time to those that are worthy of it, and by worthy, it just means that not everyone gets a yes all the time, some have to get a kind and gentle “no” and some firmer, and some a very polite “oh heeeeell no” if that’s a thing. I’m being more deliberate in those choices everyday. Finding balance. Seeking direct clarity in communication, because time keeps counting.
This mourning is not linear or gradual, it is cyclical now for me, with the random punch in the face or gut. Doubled over, I’ve learned to let the tears come. They don’t always cleanse, but they give me one moment of intense feeling, intense memory, intense anger or sadness and ultimately love. Always, always love–the thing we cannot survive without. Please bear with me as these are not the lasts of the lasts, but the most painful, first memories of the lasts.
The shaking cold that fills my bones, And I let go of my home.
Now that you’re gone I lie low, lie low in repose
And now that you’re gone, There’s a hole where your memory goes
And I’ve watched the days grow old alone All alone, All alone
When the treetops trade their green for gold I’ll call you home I’ll call you home
In my dreams The night recedes The light of day, shines on your face
But now that you’re gone, I lie low, lie low in repose But now that you’re gone There’s a hole where your memory goes And I’ve watched the days grow old alone.
When the treetops trade their green for gold, I’ll call you home. I’ll call you home. Mountains rise and fall with time, Like the love we leave behind. But you’re still gone. And I lie low, lie low in repose, but you’re still gone. There’s a hole where your memory goes. And I’ve watched the days grow old, alone. When the treetops trade their green for gold, I’ll call you home. – Call You Home, Mangas Colorado
Gently Rise, Softly Call 