The Last Time
When the world switches over to living in grief, there’s so much that changes. Besides the obvious—the fact that a person who was once right there is not there anymore—the tiny emotion triggers are legion. I don’t know about anyone else, but I have found that grief is a lens that magnifies what used to be everyday occurrences—mundane even--into lightning rods for sudden tears and gut-punch emotions.
I run a couple of writing groups and almost every topic that affects a writer is shared because we’re writing about our lives and our ideas and our plans—things come up. After one writing prompt, a perfectly reasonable life event came up. I don’t even remember what we were talking about, but one writer remarked that we never know that last time we pick up our child. There is a last time—they got too big or they didn’t want to be picked up anymore or any number of reasons that it was the last time. But the point was, it goes unnoticed.
But for me, and I suspect others who are grieving a child, you know every single last time.
The last email I got from Annie was on March 19 and she shared a link with me about an organization that helped coordinate people who wanted to help. Like make a meal or drive to an appointment. Six months earlier, her doctor had told her to “get her affairs in order” and she reacted defiantly against that suggestion. First it rattled her, but then she rallied. Her strength carried her throughout the fall and winter until even she realized she would be needing more help. The organization she found would coordinate friends and family who were available to help out. I wrote her back that I would check it out and see what other options it had.
The last text she sent me was Easter Sunday night after I checked in with her to just say hi. She was so looking forward to coming to the family Easter brunch, but decided to go home early because she was so wiped out. Even though we texted constantly…throughout the day with questions, answers, funny memes, she was notorious for not responding, especially when information was needed stat. Like if I was at the store and forgot the kind of butter she wanted or when we were headed to the restaurant and wanted to know if she was on her way. I was so relieved to have heard from her that night.
The last meal I made her was a bowl of cereal. The day after Easter I had class, but only one student showed up and she was distraught over a boyfriend situation. I sent her home—there would be no learning that day--and I headed to Annie’s with my found time. Tony was out picking up Luca, so Annie and I had some time to just chat by ourselves. She was feeling a little better than the day before, but she still wanted to rest, so I asked her if she was hungry. Yes! She was! And she wanted cereal. Like three different kinds layered in a particular way. And blueberries—but they were out. So I texted Tony to bring home blueberries, which he did, and she ate this huge bowl of granola, bran flakes and blueberries with soy milk. Even though I didn’t know it would be the last time I made food for her, I remember feeling useful that I could do something she wanted.
And then there is the last time I picked her up. Of course I remember that.
When we met at the funeral home to make choices we never thought we’d have to make, both Tony and I noticed a bamboo urn on the display shelf. The woman helping us said it was a Living Urn—the company sent the family a tree of their choice to be planted along with the ashes of the loved one. We immediately knew that was what we’d do. It was perfect for her. And we knew where, too: in Maine, at the family cottage. When Tony left for Maine a few weeks ago for their annual vacation with friends at the cottage, he came by to pick up Annie at my house, where she’d been ever since the funeral home returned her to “our care.” I picked her up one last time and gave her to Tony so he could bring her to Maine. (Where an amazing arborist helped us find the right tree and the right spot for her.)
There are so many last-times for typical childhood events and celebrations, how could we ever remember such things? There are so many. But when you lose a child, the finality of death and the depth of loss is relentless at reminding us in great detail what they are.
At least that’s the way living in grief is for me.
Or
I have no words. Yours are heart-breakingly lovely.
Your pieces about Annie are so beautiful, Cindy. I hope they bring you comfort to write because they certainly reach out and touch so many people. Your wisdom and your love and generosity in sharing these moments with us mean so much. There are not many people who can do what you do. Thank you very, very much. And I love Annie’s tree!!