Last times

I'm playing a morbid game, chasing memories as I go through each day, identifying the last time Sandy did various things. I can't help myself. For example, the last time:

On Whidbey Island, December 2010

• she drove - Saturday, June 11, to her therapist's office and back
• she was in our car - Tuesday, July 5, when we came home from the oncology visit where we learned that we were out of options
• we stayed in the cabin on Whidbey Island - last December, for our 15th anniversary
• she read a book - in the hospital in late June, she finished reading Bossypants by Tina Fey, and she described it as the perfect book for her short attention span and frequent pain
• we went out to dinner - Friday, June 3, my birthday, at Cafe Flora. A great evening, as Sandy wasn't having much pain and we were able to walk down Madison together, thoroughly enjoyed our meal, and then took the bus home up the hill (the last time we rode the bus together)
• she rode a bus - Wednesday, June 15, home from acupuncture before her first brain radiation appointment later that afternoon (and she'd have caught it in front of Bailey Boushay House, where she'd die just a little over a month later)
• she talked on the phone - three months ago today, on July 12, at Bailey Boushay, talking to her cousin Tim and his wife Shannon on her mom's cellphone
• she posted to livejournal - Saturday, July 2
• she ate - 2:30 a.m. Thursday, July 14
• she drank water - 6:30 a.m. Thursday, July 14, when the nurse complimented her on how easily she tossed back and swallowed her pills. A few hours later we couldn't rouse her to take more pills, and later that morning, she refused food and water.
• we biked together - May 29, to Broadway for the farmer's market
• she slept in our bedroom - the night of June 28
• she used her blue walking sticks - June 17, at Urgent Care, before being admitted to the hospital
• she got out of bed - very early in the morning on July 8
• we gardened together - Sunday, June 5
• she was at her computer in the TV room - June 28, and it was only for a few minutes
• we walked home together (from anywhere further than the car) - June 16, from Urgent Care, relieved that she hadn't had a stroke, and hoping the docs were right and that the severe pain and nausea had been a complicated migraine, and that the rest of radiation would go smoothly. She was in a good mood, tired but not in pain, optimistic. As we waited for the stoplight at Madison, she talked about how well-behaved her nausea over the past few weeks had been - that at least she vomited immediately rather than suffering for a while. I think of that walk every time I wait for that stoplight, several times a week.
• she took a photo - around June 22, taking pictures of the flowers she'd been sent in her hospital room, planning to post the pics to livejournal
• she took a breath - shortly before 1:20 a.m., July 19, more than twelve weeks ago now.

It's a neverending game. Once a life has ended, the last times don't change. I can find broader categories (the last time we traveled together) or narrower ones (the last time she ate a hamburger). I honestly don't know whether it's comforting or maddening, but there's an unavoidable accounting in my head. It's probably a combination of wanting to remember every moment of her life, wanting to reassure myself that she was here and took up space, and needing to integrate the reality that she won't be doing any of those things again.