I’ve had many last days in workplaces and they are almost always bittersweet - the knowledge that I’m off to new and hopefully better things tempered by the sadness of the people I leave behind. I always make friends at work, and I always miss them after we part. The more often I’ve done this, the more resigned I’ve become to the fact that it’s really hard work maintaining these friendships once we’re no longer working together and seeing each other 5 days a week.
I feel blessed to have worked with so many lovely and amazing people (often in quite unlovely and unamazing workplaces!).
I’m extra grateful now to be working in a great workplace with loads of great people. I hope my last day here is a long, long way off.
We go forward, some join, some stay behind. Strange, and a bit melancholy the beauty of this truth. Here's to your new beginnings. Here's to them sticking.
Oh, the catch in my throat when Lady G & Henry came up. Time can be such a bittersweet thing, can't it?
I think having the opportunity to mark time by how the heartbeats outside our chest grow & thrive is such a gift. To witness my nieces & nephews rise & thrive is magic.
I hope that this Summer with Henry is packed with warmth & adventures. He's so lucky to have such fine folk on his team
Oh, the lasts I knew were coming hit like a brick. Some have gotten easier the more times that type of last comes up (moving to a new space, and leaving the old for the last time as an example. Still hard, but easier now than for the first last).
The one that still hits the hardest: saying goodbye to my heart dog. Similar to your story with Hobbes, I remember being with her until the end, telling her how loved she was and that she had to be brave one more time and then she could rest easy. I remember sitting with her on the floor in the vets office months earlier and knowing in my bones when they told us they found something abnormal we would end up with an early goodbye. I grieved the loss in so many way before she was gone, but that didn’t prepare me for when that day actually came.
At least for me, knowing a last is coming doesn’t prepare one for all the ways things change afterwards. Inevitably there is something that is so wildly different from what was expected. Or something you knew would change but didn’t realize just how large the impact would be. For me it was the silence, the instant change in daily routine from one day to the next. Logically I knew that would happen and yet I was so unprepared for the reality of what that actually was.
I know I have more known lasts waiting not far off, the exact timing a bit more uncertain for these, but soon-ish all the same. Their magnitude is immense, I know these lasts will also hit hard and stay with me when they happen. I’m not sure if it’s the reality of being faced with these lasts or simply the journey that I’ve been on, but I have come to find that I am trying to embrace and express gratitude and appreciation now while people are still here to hear the appreciation and gratitude.
I do think that appreciation is often only truly had after loss of things, but I do not believe that is the only way for appreciation to happen. I think loss of things before can shape appreciation of the present and help us hold gratitude for these new, existing things in life.
Gosh even reading this. Pet loss is the worst loss, I stand by this. I think I need to practice more appreciation before the last arrives. Don't we all?
My dad was dying. 5 children coming to say goodbye to him at my house, with my 4 children and my husband and I. We gave up our room and moved our bed to the living room so I would be near but give him quiet and privacy. The doctor gave him 3 months max, but my dad said no way he was missing opening college football weekend. The day before the games, we laughed as I gave him a shower, and he said how the tables have turned. I remember now during those last weeks how he amused me and comforted me by telling me what sounded good for dinner, so I would make it, though he never ate a bite. I remember holding his hand all night long knowing it was going to happen any second, wishing now I had called my siblings to come over too, but my husband and I held his hands as he took his last breath. I wish now I said more on our long drives back from the doctor, I wish sometimes I had cried in front of him instead of acting so brave and strong.
Lasts: I know they are coming soon with my parents but I don’t really want to admit it yet. I suppose the lasts I didn’t know were coming was the last time I picked up my boys or when they were too old for me to snuggle with them as we read before bed. Thinking about lasts was timely: yesterday, my youngest was in a car accident- thankfully no one was hurt except I no longer have a car! He was on his way to pick up my father-in-law for a family party. Thankfully, it was not a last for anyone but this reminded us how quickly life could have changed in a moment.
I know they are coming too, and it's so hard to face that truth. So much of Buddhism is meditating on these things, these truths we cannot avoid, and while I know it'll be helpful, man is it hard.
A long life is like a surfers passion to ride the waves. Each tide has endless endings (and bountiful beginnings). We understand that we may “get over” or “get through” ball busting crashes, but our approach in the moment of change determines how difficult it is to “get into” the ride from the last we knew.
An experienced surfer will “read” the patterns from wind, sun, and tide. The patience they use to judge each imminent ending, is usually rewarded by catching the next bountiful beginning …the big one they could not see.
Surfers do see the next big wave in the horizon, nor are they focused on the wipeouts of the past. They get into what is happening where they are, in the moment, focusing on the last of what we know. Yes, the importance of the “next one” is nothing more than appreciation of the last we know.
Only their reach into the wave they choose will determine their ride. That which we embrace is always more enduring than what we resist. When we resist with the part we call denial or indecision, it only extends the journey before the next beginning.
This is to learn how to “ride the wave” between the peaks and valleys. To understand and be reconciled that we cannot change the past, and have only some control over our future, but we can control our reaction to the “next one”
Acceptance of the last we knew does not mean resignation or apathy. It is simply an inner acknowledgement of how things are at the moment. To reach out and ride the waves we accept.
This is so dead on. Each tide has endless endings. My goodness. I surf, and love it, and this metaphor is so wonderful. I will always ride the next wave my friend. Always bob in the ocean and wait for it to come.
A little late to the party but I thought this one would be a heavy one that I would need to be in the right headspace for, and I was not wrong.
The hardest lasts for me that stick out are the ones that involve being a parent and watching my kids grow from tiny little boys into young men. Nobody wants you in any of the parenting books how your heart will break into a million pieces when you realize you have experienced a last with your child. The last time they need to be rocked to sleep or have their shoes tied, the last visit from the tooth fairy, the last little baby belly laugh before they turn into a preschooler, the last time they give you a shy little wave as they enter school clutching their teacher's hand. I could go on. How lucky am I to have had those moments but how selfish of me to not realize how fleeting they would be. I would go back, in a heartbeat, just to savour one more moment of this short phase in the life of my children.
No such thing as late here! I was out of town so am just now getting back to answering all these beautiful entries. It's so wild how hard it is to watch those we love grow, mature, step forward. We aren't taught this.
I’ve had a few last days at work that we knew were coming. Some were anticlimactic, one I’ve realized I don’t remember at all. The last one (last for now) was the hardest. It’s just a few days shy of one year ago. The owner of the pizza shop I worked at for almost 12 years decided it was time to close up for good. We had been short staffed for far too long. We had about two months to prepare for the last day. We only made it public for the last month. It was a month full of goodbyes. The last day came and we all hugged and said goodbye. We knew relationships were going to change, but the knowing doesn’t make it any easier. There were other lasts that night that I didn’t know were lasts. (Perhaps I’ll touch on that in a later post)
Then there’s the last time I held each of my cats. They both passed in 2019 which is crazy because the memories are still so vivid I can’t believe it was that long ago. They were both 19, I got them just before I turned 16, and they were supposed to live forever. I was blindsided when Milo got sick. He stopped eating and it broke my heart. My cats lived for food and snuggles. In that order. The vet told me he had kidney failure. I really don’t remember anything he said about possible treatments. I don’t think I heard anything he said. I took him home and sat on it for a few hours, but by that night I knew I had to say goodbye. If you can avoid it, don’t go to the only emergency vet in the area on Sunday. I sat in the waiting room for hours while Milo was in a cage in a back room. That’s what hits me the hardest, that he sat back there alone all that time. When I finally got called back I knew I had to get it over with fast. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being hungry anymore. The doctor was great but I was shocked at how fast it happened. She gave him the shot and within seconds he was gone. I handed him off to be cremated then went home and spent the next several days in a haze. My cats were born 6 days apart, so I always assumed they would go around the same time. Rambo started showing the same symptoms 4 months later. It was very strange because it was the same day of the week. It was made more complicated by the fact that he had a thyroid issue he had to take medication for 3 times a day. No appetite meant he wasn’t getting his meds. I knew it was time to say goodbye. Because it was a Sunday, I had to go back to the emergency vet. Knowing how it went the last time, I decided to wait until late in the day. Same hospital, different doctor. Same illness, totally opposite recommendation on how to deal with it. I’m glad I had my mom with me both times to have a witness to the differences. I don’t think I would have been able to live with myself without someone else there to see it. A rational mind knows that to spend thousands of dollars I don’t have to maybe prolong their lives for a few more weeks would only be for me. I won’t get into his last moments and why they were harder in a different way, but the memory of losing each of them is still so strong and I think it’s going to stay that way for a long time.
Ahhh this timing of this. I just read this amazing article about what Pizza Hut used to be in the 1980s and 1990s and it hit me hard. Then reading this, it hit just as hard. It's so bizarre how much things like that hit us, how hard the impact. And for your losses, I am so truly sorry. I hope healing is swift, and memory is long.
After reading Part 2 today, I went back to read Part 1 which I wasn't able to read until now. I burst into tears as I was reading the posts, overcome with the reflection back to me of the LASTS I have recently experienced. Similar to what Karen said in the comments here, I am grieving the "lasts" of my children growing up. Mine are older and they are starting to live their own adult lives. It's tearing up my heart in unexpected ways, and I never know from moment to moment if I will burst into tears or continue on as fast as I can in what seems like an unconscious attempt to run away from the grief.
From the time my children were little (in the early 2000s), I calculated the years they would graduate from high school and would likely complete college. 2025 was the year that my youngest was probably going graduate from college, if they went straight to it after their high school graduation in 2021. So I always knew 2025 was THE year. The year that my days of "active" motherhood would come to an end, or at least would shift dramatically. And as Kristina said in her comment, this year of LASTS has hit like a brick. Actually it feels like many bricks, landing hard and inflicting bruises all over me.
When my son (my oldest) completed his undergraduate studies, it was 2020, so he obviously did not have an in-person ceremony. Instead of heading directly to grad school as he had planned, he packed up his belongings and came home to shelter-in-place with the rest of us [two parents, amicably divorced but living in the same house (that's a story for another time), 2 sisters, and a dog]. He stayed for two and a half years, which I am now calling my "bonus years" because I had all three of my children with me in the same house, living from day to day and enjoying each other's company. This is something I did not expect to have again once my son left for college, and I soaked up each moment as much as possible! What a gift those years were.
My son won a seat in a small orchestra in Washington state where he had gone to undergrad, so I helped him move back up there in the fall of 2022. I loved visiting him there and would take the short 2-hour flight up to see most of his performances. I think I went up there 5-6 times in 2 years. I loved it. He was pursuing his own adult life, but he was close enough that I could reach him fairly easily, and he did not mind his mom coming to see what he was up to every once in a while.
While living and working in the PNW, he decided he wanted to give grad school one more shot before he felt like he "missed his window" of opportunity. He applied to the ONE school he really wanted to attend and said if he did not receive the fellowship which would cover his tuition and 50% of his housing, then he would not go. Well, he won the fellowship and headed off to a 2-year grad school program in the fall 2023. I was so proud of him and thrilled for him to continue his music studies and earn his Master's degree.
When that happened, 2025 became more significant. My youngest daughter would finish their undergraduate degree, and my oldest would complete his Masters in Music. TWO graduations. TWO commencements. TWO endings. TWO lasts, all within the span of three months.
And so I started to plan – mentally wrapping my head around it, emotionally bracing for impact, and then figuring out how it was going to work logistically. My son's final performances would be in early March in Miami and my daughter's final performances in April in New York. Then my son's graduation would be in early May in Miami and my daughter's graduation in mid-May in New York. Four trips back-and-forth across the country in three months! (Since I had to somehow keep my job which was not remote.)
To add to all of that, over the course of the two years my son was at grad school, he decided he did not want to return to the PNW but wanted to give NYC a shot, as one of his colleagues in Seattle had recommended to him. SOOOOO, at the end of May, I flew down to Miami to help him once again pack up all his belongings and make the move. We drove together for four days up I-95 and made it to New York City where he moved in with his sister. (I am thrilled they are living together, which is a beautiful consolation.)
All this time, I knew this was going to happen. I made the travel arrangements, I cleared my calendar and made arrangements at work, I shored up my heart (or so I thought) and did my best to cherish the moments as they came. The LAST recital my son played, his last jazz concert at his school, was followed only weeks later by my daughter's LAST solo performance in their program, the last group performances — I went to every single one and basked in the music, the artistry, the beauty, the emotion of it all.
With all the celebrations, all the travelling, all the logistics, all I could do was keep moving: INHALE, pack, fly, go to performances, pack, fly home, pack, fly, go to performances, pack, fly home, pack, fly, go to graduation, pack, fly home, pack, fly, go to graduation, pack, fly home, pack, fly, rent a moving van, load it up, drive through 7 states, unpack my son's entire life, help him settle in, fly home, unpack, EXHALE.
Now that I am home again, with no more events to attend, with no more pomp and circumstance, with two of my children living across the country for the foreseeable future, with my other daughter closer but living her own life, I am feeling it. There is no "summer vacation" when I know they will come home. No "winter recess" or "spring break" when I can look forward to having them all in the house for a week or more. There is only life, like a river, relentless flowing on, carrying me with it, whether I want to go or not. And my children are flowing down their own estuaries, away from me. I realize I have built my life, especially the past 14 years since the divorce, around my children. I didn't really think about building anything specifically for ME. Oops. I guess I should have gotten on that.
And now I feel like those LASTS have gutted me. I knew they were coming, and I suppose there is a blessing in the advanced notice, but it still feels like I have been stripped of something that I will never have again. Friends try to comfort me by saying, "At least they are living together!" and "Now you have an excuse to go to New York more often!" and "Now you can do whatever you want!" but none of those well-intended encouragements take away what I am feeling – alone, sad, and at a loss.
The intensity of the loss is what feels most surprising. I could not prevent the pain and the disorientation of it, even by knowing it was coming. By thinking I COULD soften the blow with foreknowledge is perhaps the worst shock, since the grief hits me over and over in different ways. Somehow I think I should not be so affected by it. I should just move on with my life and "move past it." But it's here and all I can do is live with it, move through it, and do my best to find my way amidst these feelings of heaviness and spinning. One breath at a time.
Thank you for this space to acknowledge and share my thoughts and feelings. I appreciate the opportunity to write all of this out and I am not sure I would have if not for your prompts, Tyler. If anyone has made it through this entire comment, thank you for "listening." I am grateful.
That’s a lot for anyone to deal with in such a short amount of time. I’m glad you got it all out here. I’m sure you are left feeling lost and the best thing to do is discuss it.
Thank you for this, so much. I Think when people share their grief, when they open and allow others to share theirs, the healing aspect is increased one hundred fold. I think we lean on one another, and all that leaning takes off such weight. This look back you provided all of us, is so valued, and it helps more than you know. Thank you so much for all of this, truly. We're always listening. Always.
My mother's dying. She had stage four breast cancer that had taken over her skeleton. It was everywhere. Once found, she was told she only had a month to live. ...maybe a bit longer.
Well, she outlived her diagnosis by three years.
She was able to see the scarring in her bones from the scans [she was always the curious one].
What took me off guard was the phone call at three in the morning from my Dad that he let her go after a torturous respiratory arrest.
I knew it was coming, in the far reaches of my mind, I didn't know it would be so soon after she began radiation therapy to get the pea-sized tumour that still inhabited her body [they all opted for no surgery to remove it since she had so little time. Or so they thought.]
I nearly fainted when I heard Dad's voice. I spent countless days shocked that I would never speak to her again [in the flesh]. It was horrific to my soul. Still is, as I fully recall this.
Then there was my Norwegian Forest Cat, Kismet. A fate partner and the closest I have been with any of the cats I have had. Anyone. That unconditional love. I sat with him as he let go, having his pancreas failing from diabetes that none of us caught. He couldn't be treated. We tried but it was too late. I have sobbed and still my heart aches for him.
The ones I knew were coming:
I’ve had many last days in workplaces and they are almost always bittersweet - the knowledge that I’m off to new and hopefully better things tempered by the sadness of the people I leave behind. I always make friends at work, and I always miss them after we part. The more often I’ve done this, the more resigned I’ve become to the fact that it’s really hard work maintaining these friendships once we’re no longer working together and seeing each other 5 days a week.
I feel blessed to have worked with so many lovely and amazing people (often in quite unlovely and unamazing workplaces!).
I’m extra grateful now to be working in a great workplace with loads of great people. I hope my last day here is a long, long way off.
We go forward, some join, some stay behind. Strange, and a bit melancholy the beauty of this truth. Here's to your new beginnings. Here's to them sticking.
Oh, the catch in my throat when Lady G & Henry came up. Time can be such a bittersweet thing, can't it?
I think having the opportunity to mark time by how the heartbeats outside our chest grow & thrive is such a gift. To witness my nieces & nephews rise & thrive is magic.
I hope that this Summer with Henry is packed with warmth & adventures. He's so lucky to have such fine folk on his team
So far so good. So much adventure.
YES.
Oh, the lasts I knew were coming hit like a brick. Some have gotten easier the more times that type of last comes up (moving to a new space, and leaving the old for the last time as an example. Still hard, but easier now than for the first last).
The one that still hits the hardest: saying goodbye to my heart dog. Similar to your story with Hobbes, I remember being with her until the end, telling her how loved she was and that she had to be brave one more time and then she could rest easy. I remember sitting with her on the floor in the vets office months earlier and knowing in my bones when they told us they found something abnormal we would end up with an early goodbye. I grieved the loss in so many way before she was gone, but that didn’t prepare me for when that day actually came.
At least for me, knowing a last is coming doesn’t prepare one for all the ways things change afterwards. Inevitably there is something that is so wildly different from what was expected. Or something you knew would change but didn’t realize just how large the impact would be. For me it was the silence, the instant change in daily routine from one day to the next. Logically I knew that would happen and yet I was so unprepared for the reality of what that actually was.
I know I have more known lasts waiting not far off, the exact timing a bit more uncertain for these, but soon-ish all the same. Their magnitude is immense, I know these lasts will also hit hard and stay with me when they happen. I’m not sure if it’s the reality of being faced with these lasts or simply the journey that I’ve been on, but I have come to find that I am trying to embrace and express gratitude and appreciation now while people are still here to hear the appreciation and gratitude.
I do think that appreciation is often only truly had after loss of things, but I do not believe that is the only way for appreciation to happen. I think loss of things before can shape appreciation of the present and help us hold gratitude for these new, existing things in life.
Yes, our lives with our pets are short. They remind us that life is short and to find joy in them every day.
Gosh even reading this. Pet loss is the worst loss, I stand by this. I think I need to practice more appreciation before the last arrives. Don't we all?
It's the kind that never stop ending. The constant underlying grief left behind that haunts long after the last is passed.
You're so very right. That's the love that sticks around.
My dad was dying. 5 children coming to say goodbye to him at my house, with my 4 children and my husband and I. We gave up our room and moved our bed to the living room so I would be near but give him quiet and privacy. The doctor gave him 3 months max, but my dad said no way he was missing opening college football weekend. The day before the games, we laughed as I gave him a shower, and he said how the tables have turned. I remember now during those last weeks how he amused me and comforted me by telling me what sounded good for dinner, so I would make it, though he never ate a bite. I remember holding his hand all night long knowing it was going to happen any second, wishing now I had called my siblings to come over too, but my husband and I held his hands as he took his last breath. I wish now I said more on our long drives back from the doctor, I wish sometimes I had cried in front of him instead of acting so brave and strong.
This is beautiful.
My goodness, this is stunning. Your tenderness is worth everything, every single thing.
Lasts: I know they are coming soon with my parents but I don’t really want to admit it yet. I suppose the lasts I didn’t know were coming was the last time I picked up my boys or when they were too old for me to snuggle with them as we read before bed. Thinking about lasts was timely: yesterday, my youngest was in a car accident- thankfully no one was hurt except I no longer have a car! He was on his way to pick up my father-in-law for a family party. Thankfully, it was not a last for anyone but this reminded us how quickly life could have changed in a moment.
I know they are coming too, and it's so hard to face that truth. So much of Buddhism is meditating on these things, these truths we cannot avoid, and while I know it'll be helpful, man is it hard.
Catch a wave from the last we knew
A long life is like a surfers passion to ride the waves. Each tide has endless endings (and bountiful beginnings). We understand that we may “get over” or “get through” ball busting crashes, but our approach in the moment of change determines how difficult it is to “get into” the ride from the last we knew.
An experienced surfer will “read” the patterns from wind, sun, and tide. The patience they use to judge each imminent ending, is usually rewarded by catching the next bountiful beginning …the big one they could not see.
Surfers do see the next big wave in the horizon, nor are they focused on the wipeouts of the past. They get into what is happening where they are, in the moment, focusing on the last of what we know. Yes, the importance of the “next one” is nothing more than appreciation of the last we know.
Only their reach into the wave they choose will determine their ride. That which we embrace is always more enduring than what we resist. When we resist with the part we call denial or indecision, it only extends the journey before the next beginning.
This is to learn how to “ride the wave” between the peaks and valleys. To understand and be reconciled that we cannot change the past, and have only some control over our future, but we can control our reaction to the “next one”
Acceptance of the last we knew does not mean resignation or apathy. It is simply an inner acknowledgement of how things are at the moment. To reach out and ride the waves we accept.
No one owns the surf
But I will ride the next wave
Like the last we knew
This is so dead on. Each tide has endless endings. My goodness. I surf, and love it, and this metaphor is so wonderful. I will always ride the next wave my friend. Always bob in the ocean and wait for it to come.
A little late to the party but I thought this one would be a heavy one that I would need to be in the right headspace for, and I was not wrong.
The hardest lasts for me that stick out are the ones that involve being a parent and watching my kids grow from tiny little boys into young men. Nobody wants you in any of the parenting books how your heart will break into a million pieces when you realize you have experienced a last with your child. The last time they need to be rocked to sleep or have their shoes tied, the last visit from the tooth fairy, the last little baby belly laugh before they turn into a preschooler, the last time they give you a shy little wave as they enter school clutching their teacher's hand. I could go on. How lucky am I to have had those moments but how selfish of me to not realize how fleeting they would be. I would go back, in a heartbeat, just to savour one more moment of this short phase in the life of my children.
Never too late. Ever.
No such thing as late here! I was out of town so am just now getting back to answering all these beautiful entries. It's so wild how hard it is to watch those we love grow, mature, step forward. We aren't taught this.
I’ve had a few last days at work that we knew were coming. Some were anticlimactic, one I’ve realized I don’t remember at all. The last one (last for now) was the hardest. It’s just a few days shy of one year ago. The owner of the pizza shop I worked at for almost 12 years decided it was time to close up for good. We had been short staffed for far too long. We had about two months to prepare for the last day. We only made it public for the last month. It was a month full of goodbyes. The last day came and we all hugged and said goodbye. We knew relationships were going to change, but the knowing doesn’t make it any easier. There were other lasts that night that I didn’t know were lasts. (Perhaps I’ll touch on that in a later post)
Then there’s the last time I held each of my cats. They both passed in 2019 which is crazy because the memories are still so vivid I can’t believe it was that long ago. They were both 19, I got them just before I turned 16, and they were supposed to live forever. I was blindsided when Milo got sick. He stopped eating and it broke my heart. My cats lived for food and snuggles. In that order. The vet told me he had kidney failure. I really don’t remember anything he said about possible treatments. I don’t think I heard anything he said. I took him home and sat on it for a few hours, but by that night I knew I had to say goodbye. If you can avoid it, don’t go to the only emergency vet in the area on Sunday. I sat in the waiting room for hours while Milo was in a cage in a back room. That’s what hits me the hardest, that he sat back there alone all that time. When I finally got called back I knew I had to get it over with fast. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being hungry anymore. The doctor was great but I was shocked at how fast it happened. She gave him the shot and within seconds he was gone. I handed him off to be cremated then went home and spent the next several days in a haze. My cats were born 6 days apart, so I always assumed they would go around the same time. Rambo started showing the same symptoms 4 months later. It was very strange because it was the same day of the week. It was made more complicated by the fact that he had a thyroid issue he had to take medication for 3 times a day. No appetite meant he wasn’t getting his meds. I knew it was time to say goodbye. Because it was a Sunday, I had to go back to the emergency vet. Knowing how it went the last time, I decided to wait until late in the day. Same hospital, different doctor. Same illness, totally opposite recommendation on how to deal with it. I’m glad I had my mom with me both times to have a witness to the differences. I don’t think I would have been able to live with myself without someone else there to see it. A rational mind knows that to spend thousands of dollars I don’t have to maybe prolong their lives for a few more weeks would only be for me. I won’t get into his last moments and why they were harder in a different way, but the memory of losing each of them is still so strong and I think it’s going to stay that way for a long time.
Ahhh this timing of this. I just read this amazing article about what Pizza Hut used to be in the 1980s and 1990s and it hit me hard. Then reading this, it hit just as hard. It's so bizarre how much things like that hit us, how hard the impact. And for your losses, I am so truly sorry. I hope healing is swift, and memory is long.
After reading Part 2 today, I went back to read Part 1 which I wasn't able to read until now. I burst into tears as I was reading the posts, overcome with the reflection back to me of the LASTS I have recently experienced. Similar to what Karen said in the comments here, I am grieving the "lasts" of my children growing up. Mine are older and they are starting to live their own adult lives. It's tearing up my heart in unexpected ways, and I never know from moment to moment if I will burst into tears or continue on as fast as I can in what seems like an unconscious attempt to run away from the grief.
From the time my children were little (in the early 2000s), I calculated the years they would graduate from high school and would likely complete college. 2025 was the year that my youngest was probably going graduate from college, if they went straight to it after their high school graduation in 2021. So I always knew 2025 was THE year. The year that my days of "active" motherhood would come to an end, or at least would shift dramatically. And as Kristina said in her comment, this year of LASTS has hit like a brick. Actually it feels like many bricks, landing hard and inflicting bruises all over me.
When my son (my oldest) completed his undergraduate studies, it was 2020, so he obviously did not have an in-person ceremony. Instead of heading directly to grad school as he had planned, he packed up his belongings and came home to shelter-in-place with the rest of us [two parents, amicably divorced but living in the same house (that's a story for another time), 2 sisters, and a dog]. He stayed for two and a half years, which I am now calling my "bonus years" because I had all three of my children with me in the same house, living from day to day and enjoying each other's company. This is something I did not expect to have again once my son left for college, and I soaked up each moment as much as possible! What a gift those years were.
My son won a seat in a small orchestra in Washington state where he had gone to undergrad, so I helped him move back up there in the fall of 2022. I loved visiting him there and would take the short 2-hour flight up to see most of his performances. I think I went up there 5-6 times in 2 years. I loved it. He was pursuing his own adult life, but he was close enough that I could reach him fairly easily, and he did not mind his mom coming to see what he was up to every once in a while.
While living and working in the PNW, he decided he wanted to give grad school one more shot before he felt like he "missed his window" of opportunity. He applied to the ONE school he really wanted to attend and said if he did not receive the fellowship which would cover his tuition and 50% of his housing, then he would not go. Well, he won the fellowship and headed off to a 2-year grad school program in the fall 2023. I was so proud of him and thrilled for him to continue his music studies and earn his Master's degree.
When that happened, 2025 became more significant. My youngest daughter would finish their undergraduate degree, and my oldest would complete his Masters in Music. TWO graduations. TWO commencements. TWO endings. TWO lasts, all within the span of three months.
And so I started to plan – mentally wrapping my head around it, emotionally bracing for impact, and then figuring out how it was going to work logistically. My son's final performances would be in early March in Miami and my daughter's final performances in April in New York. Then my son's graduation would be in early May in Miami and my daughter's graduation in mid-May in New York. Four trips back-and-forth across the country in three months! (Since I had to somehow keep my job which was not remote.)
To add to all of that, over the course of the two years my son was at grad school, he decided he did not want to return to the PNW but wanted to give NYC a shot, as one of his colleagues in Seattle had recommended to him. SOOOOO, at the end of May, I flew down to Miami to help him once again pack up all his belongings and make the move. We drove together for four days up I-95 and made it to New York City where he moved in with his sister. (I am thrilled they are living together, which is a beautiful consolation.)
All this time, I knew this was going to happen. I made the travel arrangements, I cleared my calendar and made arrangements at work, I shored up my heart (or so I thought) and did my best to cherish the moments as they came. The LAST recital my son played, his last jazz concert at his school, was followed only weeks later by my daughter's LAST solo performance in their program, the last group performances — I went to every single one and basked in the music, the artistry, the beauty, the emotion of it all.
With all the celebrations, all the travelling, all the logistics, all I could do was keep moving: INHALE, pack, fly, go to performances, pack, fly home, pack, fly, go to performances, pack, fly home, pack, fly, go to graduation, pack, fly home, pack, fly, go to graduation, pack, fly home, pack, fly, rent a moving van, load it up, drive through 7 states, unpack my son's entire life, help him settle in, fly home, unpack, EXHALE.
Now that I am home again, with no more events to attend, with no more pomp and circumstance, with two of my children living across the country for the foreseeable future, with my other daughter closer but living her own life, I am feeling it. There is no "summer vacation" when I know they will come home. No "winter recess" or "spring break" when I can look forward to having them all in the house for a week or more. There is only life, like a river, relentless flowing on, carrying me with it, whether I want to go or not. And my children are flowing down their own estuaries, away from me. I realize I have built my life, especially the past 14 years since the divorce, around my children. I didn't really think about building anything specifically for ME. Oops. I guess I should have gotten on that.
And now I feel like those LASTS have gutted me. I knew they were coming, and I suppose there is a blessing in the advanced notice, but it still feels like I have been stripped of something that I will never have again. Friends try to comfort me by saying, "At least they are living together!" and "Now you have an excuse to go to New York more often!" and "Now you can do whatever you want!" but none of those well-intended encouragements take away what I am feeling – alone, sad, and at a loss.
The intensity of the loss is what feels most surprising. I could not prevent the pain and the disorientation of it, even by knowing it was coming. By thinking I COULD soften the blow with foreknowledge is perhaps the worst shock, since the grief hits me over and over in different ways. Somehow I think I should not be so affected by it. I should just move on with my life and "move past it." But it's here and all I can do is live with it, move through it, and do my best to find my way amidst these feelings of heaviness and spinning. One breath at a time.
Thank you for this space to acknowledge and share my thoughts and feelings. I appreciate the opportunity to write all of this out and I am not sure I would have if not for your prompts, Tyler. If anyone has made it through this entire comment, thank you for "listening." I am grateful.
That’s a lot for anyone to deal with in such a short amount of time. I’m glad you got it all out here. I’m sure you are left feeling lost and the best thing to do is discuss it.
Thank you for this, so much. I Think when people share their grief, when they open and allow others to share theirs, the healing aspect is increased one hundred fold. I think we lean on one another, and all that leaning takes off such weight. This look back you provided all of us, is so valued, and it helps more than you know. Thank you so much for all of this, truly. We're always listening. Always.
My mother's dying. She had stage four breast cancer that had taken over her skeleton. It was everywhere. Once found, she was told she only had a month to live. ...maybe a bit longer.
Well, she outlived her diagnosis by three years.
She was able to see the scarring in her bones from the scans [she was always the curious one].
What took me off guard was the phone call at three in the morning from my Dad that he let her go after a torturous respiratory arrest.
I knew it was coming, in the far reaches of my mind, I didn't know it would be so soon after she began radiation therapy to get the pea-sized tumour that still inhabited her body [they all opted for no surgery to remove it since she had so little time. Or so they thought.]
I nearly fainted when I heard Dad's voice. I spent countless days shocked that I would never speak to her again [in the flesh]. It was horrific to my soul. Still is, as I fully recall this.
Then there was my Norwegian Forest Cat, Kismet. A fate partner and the closest I have been with any of the cats I have had. Anyone. That unconditional love. I sat with him as he let go, having his pancreas failing from diabetes that none of us caught. He couldn't be treated. We tried but it was too late. I have sobbed and still my heart aches for him.
Oh Gayle. My goodness. This hurts, and I am so appreciative you shared this rawness with us. Truly. I am so sorry for your losses.