Lasts

There are few confounding words in the English dictionary like, last. In its different forms, it literally means to continue and end.
As a verb: "Hey, Cyndi, what did you think of that movie, Armageddon?" "Oh my God. I was so bored. It was so long. I just wanted either Bruce Willis or Ben Affleck to hurry up and die. The movie lasted forever!
As an adjective: "Hey, Cyndi, what did you think of that movie, Armageddon?" "I disliked it so much it was the last Michael Bay movie I ever saw."
By the way, both of the above statements are true. I hated the movie so much, I am referencing it 15 years later.
As a verb: Continuing forever and ever
As an adjective: Finality

I've been thinking a lot about lasts, mostly in the adjective form. Finality can be both good and bad.
Good: "YAY! I just made my last student loan payment!" (I wish)
Bad: A lot of what I've been dealing with lately.

The first three months of my grieving honestly didn't seem that bad. I had the initial shock and pain and then that dwindled as I busied myself talking to banks, filling out forms, writing emails, and making phone calls. In October, that momentum changed. The forms were complete. Everyone was notified. The house was under contract. I had nothing left to divert my attention from my grief and pain. I had completed my last distracting busy work.

The sadness seemed to hit a peak one quiet Saturday afternoon. I received a small life insurance check. I know. I know. "Oh, poor baby. You got money." It wasn't the money that bothered me. It was what it represented. Someone, nay, some corporation (a team of professionals) acknowledged that both of my parents had died. This was real. I finally recognized the finality of it all. There was nothing left. I would never have any new experiences with them. I would never receive another phone call, another hug, another guilt trip, another birthday present. All that was left of my parents were checks. It felt wrong and dirty, like someone was paying me for my loss. Like someone had quantified my dad's life and decided this was what it was worth. I spent that Saturday crying off and on. Wandering around the house, (Sera behind me, of course), crying.

Since then, I have been ruminating on lasts.

The last time I saw my mom: I was talking her through a panic attack while she lay in an ICU bed.
The last time I saw my dad: Memorial Day. He had driven me to the airport after I lost my rental car keys. Sera and I entered the serpentine line at BWI. My dad said he didn't want to stay in line and would sit and wait. When Sera and I checked in, I walked up and down the terminal, frantic because I couldn't find him. I checked my phone. I had a missed call and a voice mail, three minutes of muffled silence. I then tried to call him. No answer. I called again. He finally answered. He felt too tired to wait and still had a long drive home, so he left. It was the last time I would ever see him and I had no last good-bye. No final hug.
The last birthday present I received from a parent: Cash. It was an oddly impersonal gift from my dad. He always said cash and Hickory Farms were the most impersonal gifts to receive. But I think he was too tired to shop. My dad said he was going to buy me a new slow cooker, but he wanted me to select one. I was supposed to order it before I left Memorial Day weekend, but I forgot. Most of the cash was used to pay for the new key to the rental car. The last of it sat in my wallet for five months. I had lots of things I wanted or needed, but I couldn't bring myself to use it. It was one of the last things I had that my father held. Last week, I finally used it... to buy a slow cooker. I used it to make a pot roast. It wasn't as good as my mom's.
My last visit to my parents' house: Craig, Sera, and I were sifting through over 40+ years of memories (my parents would have been married 40 years in April). I had to decide what I wanted to keep and take back to Oklahoma and it all had to fit into the back of my parents' Mitsubishi Outlander. I wanted to keep everything. The Gremlins duffle bag I took to school in the 2nd grade. The duck decoy my brother painted. My brother's spelling bee trophy. The textbook I used when I played school. The painting that hung in our dining room for as long as I could remember. I managed to finally decide what I wanted to take. Then Sera, Craig, and I drove away and I bawled. My parents' home had always been home base. When I left my parents' house to go to college, I knew I could always come back. We celebrated holidays and birthdays there. I went home when my roommates drove me nuts. I retreated home if Craig and I were fighting. I travelled home for my dad's bleu cheese dressing and ravioli and my mom's fried beef, sticky rice, and eggs. Now I had no home base. No safe haven. And I could never come back and open the front door. Well, not without some panic from the new owners.
The last time I socialized: I honestly don't recall. For awhile, I wanted nothing to do with people. I was overwhelmed and bitter. I worried that the intensity of my emotion would push people away or that people would want to change the bitterness that became oddly addictive to me. I still don't understand my reaction to birthdays. I hated them. I didn't want to send gifts, call people to wish them happy birthday, or even write a cursory Happy Birthday note on Facebook. The only one I really wanted to acknowledge was Sera's. But as that bitterness turned to sadness, I wanted and needed people again. But I didn't know how to ask since I had made such an effort to push people away. I would try to make plans, not to talk, but to distract me. But I really wanted to talk. I really needed someone to listen. But when the opportunities arrived for people to listen, I didn't say what I needed to say. I told everyone I was fine or better. I can't exactly explain why that is.
My social calendar has been empty lately. Serenity came to visit for Sera's birthday, which was a fantastic distraction. But otherwise, since my father died, I have had a total of two social engagements. Two. T-W-O. I reached out to people. I got lots of "sures" and then "sorry, I have to cancel." I also got a lot of "we should totally get together," followed by no firm plans, despite my best efforts. It wasn't like you see in the movies. There was no outpouring of support. No one stopping by the house to check on me. The day after my dad died, I spent most of my day in bed alone. (Okay, it would have been weird to be in bed most of the day with my friends) I had already left isolated and detached by the loss of my parents and then felt abandoned by my friends. I needed people. I still need people. But I couldn't call people and tell them that I was angry with them for abandoning me because it detracted from what I really needed to talk about and I wasn't even sure it was really their fault I felt abandoned.
The silly lasts in the mail: Every Christmas, my father bought me a subscription to Consumer Reports. He lived and breathed by that magazine. My first car was not purchased until I had extensively researched it in Consumer Reports. Christmas also brought at least one present from L.L. Bean. I had become very familiar their lumberjack flannel and the five million different shades of "Heather" as a color. This week, I received both a Consumer Reports and an L.L. Bean catalog in the mail and immediately felt sad. This Christmas, there will be no Consumer Reports and L.L. Bean. Where will I learn about the best tasting (and most economical) chicken broth? What if I need an emergency monogrammed backpack or fleece lined flannel pants and I don't have an L.L Bean catalog?

On November 25, I need to face more lasts. We will finally have my father's service at Arlington Cemetery. My last parent will be placed in a small vault on the grounds at Arlington. The last time I was there was November 1, 2010 for my mother. In the past three years, I have not returned there. I have refused when asked. Although I saw her ashes placed in the vault, I have not wanted to accept that she will be in there forever. I didn't want to see her name engraved on a memorial plaque. But in a few short weeks, they will open that vault again and there she'll be. And we will be placing my father in the vault with her. They will be together again, at last and then they'll close the vault again. One last time.