the firsts and the lasts

 

The first ever snuggle in our home

The last

Recognizing the firsts is easy:

Your child's first steps.

Your first date.

Your first kiss.

Your first night in a new home.

Knowing what the last will be is much harder.

But a year ago today we knew. 

It's been exactly 12 months since Rico left our house. He'd live another 11 days at the hospice center, but he would never come back home - not the way we wanted.

I'm not sure if we were fortunate or unfortunate to realize we were at the end. Nika had to go to school that morning, knowing that it was the very last day her dad would say "Have a great day at school Nikabear" I had to trail behind his transport, carrying everything he loved about our house like I was loading a pyramid for his next life. Noah and Kaia had to come home from college to a house without their dad inside of it. 

No more goodnight hugs.

No more games of Telestrations with Rico drawing way too many arrows.

No more double checking how to tie a tie confirm single break pant cuff.

No more listening to Rico singing Zorba the Greek when he made spinach puffs.

No more birthdays.

No more snuggles while watching Impractical Jokers.

No more midnight kisses.

No more of a lot of things.

To say I am falling apart would be an understatement. It's like I don't believe the world deserves to keep moving if it couldn't save him. He wanted to live more than anyone I've ever known.

Until he didn't.

We had talked about the fact that it was ok if he was ready to go, talked about what he wanted the end to be like, but still, I wasn't ready.

Six days after he moved into Reflections "Commune for Aging Hippies", I arrived at the front door, just like I always did after getting Nika off to school. I was met by his nurse Virginie who said, "He's been asking for you for hours, and I just want you to be prepared."

"For what?"

"Well, he kept saying 'Is my wife here, is my wife here?' And I told him you were on your way, and that you'd be here right after you took care of your little girl. He said, 'OK, well when she gets here, I'm going to ask her if it's OK to die, and if she says yes, I'm going to do it right now."

In hindsight, I feel like I should have cried - but I didn't.

I laughed.

Only Rico.

Only he would presume to start and end things exactly on his terms. But then I was instantly scared because - only Rico would be able to make it happen.

He did not die that day. He lived to see an outside daydream trip to Hawaii, two more coffee cakes from his friend Michael, coffee with Tom, five more visits from his kids, five more snuggles and tuck-into-beds from me, hours of good music, three visits from friends, one Mama Mia movie, and too many kisses to count.

The next two weeks will be hard. As some of you know, I have a memory situation that doesn't allow me to just recall a big feeling, I am fully immersed. I can see everything, hear it, feel the sensations even taste it. It's a blessing and a curse. It means I will always be wrapped up in our big love, but it also means that I will relive these things forever, sometimes without warning. A calendar of lasts is descending on us, and I'm recalling every single one. 

Thankfully, I am also recalling your love and how it saved us all, right through the end.