skype grief ambush

When something triggers an unexpected wave of grief, it is often called a "grief ambush."  The weeks and months after Ryan's death were filled with these unending waves of grief - any familiar sound or memory or object could send me into a horrific wave of grief.  After awhile the waves become so familiar that you learn to recognize the wave, ride it out, and keep on keeping on.  It is part of just surviving.  With time the waves became fewer and further apart.  And at some point they just kind of taper off and largely disappear.  But occasionally something will still catch me by surprise and there arrives one of those familiar waves again.  I had not even realized how very long it had been since I have been hit by a strong wave of grief - a grief ambush - until just Thursday afternoon when I was blindsided by a fresh wave.
I had a skype meeting online on Thursday afternoon for one of the classes I am taking.  And for some reason I could not get the skype application to load on our desktop computer.  Knowing my meeting started in only a few minutes, I quickly grabbed our laptop computer and pulled up the skype account there.  Apparently I do not use skype or the laptop vey often because as I logged into the account, the call log still had, right near the top of the list, the call I had with Ryan on June 22, 2016.  It was a complete shock to see his name pop up on my screen like that!  I had to look closely at the date and realize what it meant.  This video call was the very last time I ever saw Ryan.  He died less than 48 hours later.  The call log says we talked for 48 minutes and 36 seconds that Wednesday afternoon.  (I blurred out the other contacts on the call log screenshot here for privacy.)  Seeing his name on that call log hit me like a ton of bricks. I took this screenshot of it, then quickly focused on my meeting, trying to hold back the huge wave of emotions hitting me to deal with after my meeting.
I did make it through the hour long skype meeting, despite my emotional brain fog.  And afterwards I closed out the skype application, not wanting to think about the call log and how seeing Ryan's name there had startled me so much.  But as I look back now at that screenshot from Thursday afternoon, I remember that conversation with Ryan - those precious 48 minutes and 36 seconds.  I remember telling Ryan about our day and how much we missed him and that we were looking forward to seeing him that weekend.  I remember him on the screen, sitting in our loft in our home in Texas talking to us, with the kids Legos and schoolwork table in the background behind him.  And I had no idea at the time of that conversation that I would never see him again.  I had no idea that would be our last skype conversation.  I had no idea that in those 48 minutes and 36 seconds he was beginning to battle the worst pain of his life and was somehow being so incredibly strong for us.  I had no idea that I would not get another chance to look him in the eye and say "I love you."  I did not even know we had talked for 48 minutes and 36 seconds - the exact length of the call was new information to me.  It hurts that I do not remember every detail of that conversation.  It hurts to see his name listed as a call contact that I can no longer call.  Every "last" is a source of pain.  I remember the weeks and weeks of pain, as I would wait for my cell phone to buzz with a call or a text for Ryan - my head knew it would never happen but it took my heart weeks to let that reality sink in.  Seeing his name on the call log this week kind of brought back that similar type of pain again. What I would not give to have another 48 minutes and 36 seconds to call that contact again.
The funny part though is that even though I feel pain from this grief ambush, I am almost glad to have it.  It has been months since something about Ryan has surprised me or caught me off guard like this.  I know that seeing his name pop up unexpectedly in places is going to happen less and less, as I have uncovered almost all the "surprises" or information I could collect.  It almost seems like another kind of grief to realize that the waves of grief are fading...  So I hang onto this little bit of pain, just for today, clinging to Ryan with one more "last" that I do not really want to let go of.