The Final "First"

     Tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of my mother's death, and I am anxious to have the day come and go.  Over the last year I have been constantly remembering the "last" moments of our relationship.  These memories are numerous and are triggered frequently.  A seemingly insignificant action or word can now evoke a powerful emotion because it unearths a memory of the "last" time we ever did this or the "last" time we ever said that.  While these final memories can make me feel sadness, they can also soothe me with a sense of gratitude and peace.  I am deeply appreciative that I was given such a beautiful person to be my mother and I know she now lives in the paradise of heaven.

     It has been the events I classify as "firsts" that have been the most unexpected and painful to endure over this last year.  The "first" time I reached for the telephone to call my mother, as was my habit at least twice a day, only to realize that I could not talk to her anymore.  The "first" trip to the cemetery to lay flowers at her gravestone.  The "first" family gathering without her presence.   The "first" important activity or milestone achieved by one of the grandchildren not witnessed by my mother.  The "first" holiday celebrated without her. The "first" time my birthday passed without hearing her voice wishing me a happy one, the most difficult "first" moment for me by far.

      Over the last year the list of  mournful "firsts" grew and grew with only one end in sight, and that end is finally here.  Tomorrow's anniversary will not be a day when I miss her more deeply or think of her more often.  As I am mothering my own children she is never far from my mind and I will never stop wishing she was here with me.  Tomorrow's anniversary serves only one purpose.    It is the final "first."

     I remember the "last" time I spoke to my mother when she was still cognizant of my words and presence. We were in the car on a Sunday, traveling again to the emergency room, desperately seeking another miracle.  I had one hand on the wheel and one arm across her chest as she slumped forward in the passenger seat, too weak to sit up straight.  She said ,"I cannot open my eyes.  I am just so tired," to which I responded, "It's okay, Mom.  Just close your eyes and get some rest."