Disclaimer: I don't consider myself a writer. My grammar isn't the best, my sentences are wordy, and I really don't like taking the time to re-read my writing to edit it. I have always used writing as a form of coping. I write when I'm sad. I write when I'm angry. I write when I know that the thoughts I am trying to express will just come out as an incomprehensible stream of consciousness if I try and speak them. Up until now I have only shared my written thoughts with those who they directly concern but maybe other people can relate and maybe my words can help someone, which means I have no good reason not to share them. Some of these are new thoughts, others were written months or years ago, but all of them are me.
As an infant, your life is measured by firsts: first
smile, first tooth, first word, first step, all leading up to your first
birthday. As you grow, your life continues to be defined by firsts: first day
of school, first date, first kiss, first job, first love. Firsts become
checkpoints in our lives that allow us to see how far we have come
and where we can go next.
Firsts can be exhilarating, tragic, wonderful, and
scary. But luckily our family, friends, and society prepare us for firsts. Our parent’s baby-proof
the house so our first fall won’t result in our first stitches. Our teachers
give us responsibilities so our first jobs don’t become our first fire. Our
friends share their first heartbreaks so their mistakes don’t cause our first
breakup.
Unfortunately, nobody prepares you for lasts, partially
because they are usually a painful subject, but mostly because lasts are difficult
to recognize. It’s easy to identify a new experience and label it as a first. Our
futures however, are boundless, which makes it nearly impossible to say for
certain that something will never happen again. This makes lasts sneakier than firsts.
Most of the time you don’t even realize you experienced a last until after it
has happened. It’s their disguise of commonality that can make lasts so painful. Maybe if you knew you were experiencing a last you would have
acted differently, paid better attention, or said something more. These covert lasts can leave you asking
“what if” and begging for a redo. But
there is no going back; lasts are irrevocable.
When my dad was given a terminal diagnosis, the phrase “treat every day like it’s the last” suddenly needed to be taken literally. I found
myself searching for lasts. I dreaded them yet didn’t want to let them sneak by unnoticed. Every moment needed to be appreciated and remembered. It's funny how the fear of death can open your eyes to life.
Despite my vigilance, those cruel lasts hid themselves too well. The week before he passed, I unknowingly saw
the man who held my hands during my first steps, take his last. Later, I
watched as the man who fed me my first meal, ate his last bite. Identifying
those moments as lasts was crippling. With every last I was dragged closer to the last last. I knew that no amount of preparation would be able to alleviate the pain that the final last would inevitably cause.
Somehow, sensing my incapability to endure another painful last, my dad unknowingly taught me my last lesson. Not all lasts have to hurt. Some lasts can bring you comfort. The finality that makes lasts so painful also makes them eternal. Lasts are yours to hold on to forever. They cannot be altered or taken away. My dad taught me this lesson by giving me his last gift: his last words.
