The first.
When you’re in the process of losing someone you love—even if you’re unsure of the how and why and when of it all—every moment is profoundly precious. Every second feels fleeting, and every word spoken, every memory formed, becomes a sacred gift.
At the same time, every breath becomes heavy. With every interaction holding the possibility of becoming the ‘last’, every single second feels loaded. You are acutely aware of every ‘last’ conversation, ‘last’ meal shared, ‘last’ goodbye. But the true cruelty is that often, until the last ‘last’ has passed, you really have no idea how things will unfold.
In the months before my mum passed away, I caught myself hyper-focusing on every small detail, doing my best to stretch and shape each moment so that it would be etched in my memory forever. I was terrified of forgetting how it felt to touch the soft skin on the back of her hand; how, even with her eyes closed, she would smile as I washed her face and brushed her hair; how the soft wool of her cardigan held the smell of her every time I hugged her close. I became desperate to stop time in its tracks, fooling myself that if I remained entirely present, it would soften the blow of losing her one day.
While agonising and futile, during active grief like this, I found that there was simply no other way to exist. You are at once in the present and the past, finding yourself lost to nostalgia even when the person you love is still standing right in front of you.
The future simply doesn’t exist yet. It is impossible to imagine how you will move through the world ‘after’, as the concept in and of itself is too nebulous to even take shape in your mind. You are both terrified of the future and hurtling towards it without any ability to control your path.
But when your loved one eventually does pass away, a strange thing happens. Almost immediately, your attention is diverted from all the moments you recognised as being the ‘lasts’ to all the experiences that are now the ‘firsts’. And honestly, it’s difficult to articulate just how profoundly painful each ‘first’ truly is.
There are the obvious ones, of course—the first anniversary, the first birthday, the first Christmas. And as my mum passed away in early November, my calendar was peppered with many of these momentous ‘firsts’ that I had no choice but to navigate quickly. My daughter’s birthday fell just a week after I had lost my mum, and truthfully, I just wanted to do the bare minimum to mark the occasion and move on as quickly as possible.
In my experience, whilst painful, sure—I felt I had braced enough to get through these big ‘firsts’ without falling to pieces. Instead, it was the smaller ‘firsts’ that crept up on me from deep in the shadows. The first time I went to text my mum, forgetting entirely for a second that she wasn’t on the other end to receive it; the first time I said her name out loud in conversation; the first time I miscounted how many sets of cutlery I needed at the table; the first time I cried and admitted to myself that the only person who could truly soothe my sadness was her.
Each of these ‘firsts’ was laced with a sorrow that I was unprepared for—but more than that, they were lonely in a way that I could never have anticipated. How was anyone to know that behind closed doors, I was navigating such darkness?
Still, there were a few friends who did—and so I want to say thank you.
Thank you to the friends who reached out even when it probably felt uncomfortable to do so; to those who recognised seemingly insignificant dates that would be marked with pain; to the friend who dropped by my door before Christmas with the most thoughtful card, recognising that this year might just feel that little bit tougher than the many merry Christmases to come; the friend who continues to text me with almost daily welfare checks, just to make sure I slept okay, recognising that even though weeks have passed, my grief remains raw to the touch; to the friend who shouted me coffee and then slipped me a massage voucher without blinking, knowing somehow that while I might not be able to heal the ache in my heart, I could at least try to heal the aches in my body; and finally, the friends who instinctively know that despite appearing fine most of the time on the outside, my heart still feels bruised and is trying to beat its way through the pain.
I’m sure that the ‘firsts’ will continue to find me, and that despite my best efforts to brace, I’ll be unable to. But I also know that with each wave of grief comes relief and surviving each ‘first’ is really all that is required of me. As for living alongside them, maybe that comes later.
💛 thank you for sharing these words Ashley, I loved reading it and could feel all of it - that doesn’t quite reach the depths of what I want to say, you know? Xx