Firsts & Lasts.

(Not to be confused with Barry White)

Life is made of firsts and lasts, and often pass us by.

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A missed call, and a text message. I can read it later I think, as I go back to reviewing a work document. Annotating, commenting and re-reading until my phone rings again. It can’t have been more than five or ten minutes later.

“Hey, is everything OK?” I ask. “Your brother needs to speak to you” she says. My heart sinks. In that moment, my life changed forever.

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We learn things daily, read new things, find out new information and explore the world around us. Sometimes we unearth secrets, sometimes treasures, sometimes things that were better left unfound. The odd occasion can change our direction of travel.

That evening, I discovered a new emotion, grief.

A complex and wild emotion that is hard to describe, understand and navigate. Grief found me and now, for the first time, will form a piece of my life.

Joy, sorrow, love, exhaustion, anger, excitement and many others are emotions we experience throughout our lives. Slowly becoming part of our DNA, emotions we expect to experience and don’t really second guess. We often experience them for the first time when we are young, and rarely remember that first flood of emotion. But grief? This is a whole new ball game.

Suddenly, at age 32 I have discovered a new emotion. One that I have had the unfortunate displeasure of brushing arms with throughout my life but never forced to give a seat at the table.

I’m not equipped to learn and come to grips with a new emotion in my life. I already have plenty of emotions to keep happy and under control. I’ll happily go off and learn quantum mechanics, but grief? No, thank you. There’s no guide, no handbook and no step-by-step lesson plan. I don’t even know if I am doing it right. Is this what it felt like when I first experienced joy? Did I question if my joy was real? Did I wonder if I was experiencing joy correctly? The only emotion I could potentially compare it with, is your very first encounter with love.

When we fall in love, it happens fast and unexpectedly. You don’t ask for it, Cupid hits you with his or her arrow and that’s you done for. You never know if you’re doing it right, you can’t properly explain how you feel and definitely question if you’re going mad. But with real, pure love, can come heart break. Equalling our first weary steps into grief. The only difference here being that it isn’t always in your control. No matter how hard you try, you can’t stop somebody from breaking your heart, just like loss. No matter how hard you try, you can’t keep death at bay. It feels fitting to compare love and grief, because without the one, the other would not exist.

A few weeks ago, packed with my families version of the Three Wise Men; Paxo, Bisto and Jacobs, I travelled to The Netherlands for our File family traditional Christmas - with a twist. This was to be a first and a last. Our first without dad, our last in our family home.

We’ve sold our family home. With our mother living in a care home for the last four years, we were left with little choice but to sell our home.

For twenty-six years, ever since we moved to The Netherlands, house number 3 on this street was our home. A house in which my mother built our home, the house my father returned to after his many travels, the house where we celebrated, hosted and laughed. Where we enjoyed many Christmases’, Easters, Birthdays and parties together. Although my brother and I moved out years ago, it remains a place we come home to. A place where last weekend, I closed the door for the very last time, a story for another day.

We experience so many firsts and lasts in our lifetime, but rarely acknowledge the lasts. I guess because we don’t know or don’t want to accept the last. Despite the many clichés, nobody really has time to live each day as their last or make sure they leave nothing unsaid. Frankly, it would become too draining ensuring nothing is left unsaid, and when a new day rolls around, then what exactly is left to say?

It’s easy to remember your first crush or first date. But to remember the last time you saw them, the last thing you said or the last kiss? You just don’t take them in, not knowing they’ll be your last. And that’s why, the lasts hurt. When experiencing them, in a cruel twist of fate, you never know they will come to be your last.

The lasts with my dad are painful. Not the lasts I would’ve wished for, or the lasts that I want to remember. But nevertheless, they are the lasts. The only cliché that remains is ‘if only’. If only I had booked my flight for a few days earlier. If only he had held on a few days longer. If only we had spoken on the phone.

If only I had remembered that with every first, comes a last.