First. Last

Sometimes the first time you do something is the only time you do it. Reasons differ, but it happens. Maybe you got on a roller coaster and wound up getting sick so you promised yourself never again. Maybe you had a peanut butter sandwich and ended up being horribly allergic so you avoid peanuts for your entire life, never to taste them again. Maybe you kiss someone and it’s the worst kiss of your life. You may kiss again but you probably won’t kiss them again.

Sometimes, there are things you can only do once; these things are not choices but are things that are impossible to do more than once. Losing your virginity, going through puberty, and...dying. All things that are first and last experiences. My most recent experience was one I was far too young for.

I died.

No surprise there, right? The thing that nobody tells you about death is that it’s a peaceful torment. You watch as others go though life, experiencing all the firsts there are to experience. It’s bittersweet to watch those you left behind getting to experience all the things you never did and all the things that you loved.

I never would have guessed that watching my daughter grow up without me would make me happy. She was the cutest little thing when she was born. Gazing down at her in my arms, I never imgained I’d be leaving her so soon. I was given three years. And they were glorious. The first time she laughed, the first time she crawled, and then her first steps. These were all things I got to experience while I was breathing and they were magical moments. Even now, though, eighteen years later, she is still glorious.

Her high school graduation with her father sitting as close as he could manage, leaning forward until he was practically breathing on the guy in front of him. The single tear that rolled down his face before falling from his chin was both beautiful and torturous. I knew, that that tear would have meant something very different if I had been there, breathing, with them. I could see it all on his face as he watched out baby girl cross the stage and receive the diploma she had worked so hard for. He was wondering why I coulnd’t have been there with them, but what he didn’t know was that I was. Of course I was. I wouldn’t have been anywhere else.

I was even prouder, when she crossed the stage a second time, to the roaring applause of her peers, receiving the degree she had literally shed blood, sweat, and tears for. The degree that would get her one step closer to her goal, medicine. She wanted to be an OBGYN. This time, the tear that ran down her father’s face hurt even more. He had not yet moved on, and I wasn’t sure if he ever would.

You see, the day I died, I wasn't the only one my husband lost. I had been carrying our son when I was rushed to the operating room for an emergency cesarean. Neither of us made it out. He died inside me and I died on the table. The opportunity to raise a son had been stolen from both my husband and myself. An experience that would never be. A first time that would never come to pass.

There are some on this side that say it will be impossible for me to move on to the next place after lingering here for so long. I disagree. I'm only waiting for one thing. My husband. This instance of separation will be the last. Never again will we spend such a time apart. And when he finally joins me, in many, many years, it will be the best first I will have ever been lucky enough to experience.