Last week my beautiful friend Meredith shared the sound of her twelve-week-old fetus' rapidly beating heart. This tiny promise of life, growing stronger each day, so well-loved and already adored. Even though this will be her second child, it too will have many firsts. Don't we all?

The milestones in each of our five baby journals include numerous "firsts;" first tooth, first steps, first birthday, the first day of school... It almost feels like we are wired to set our goals on being first from the very start.

Then there are always the seconds. The silver medal earned by the Olympian who missed first place by only seconds. The second child who, despite living in the first child's shadow, surpasses the older sibling in accomplishments. Successfully passing the bar exam the second time around. But sometimes we miss the first two chances, opting to settle for being third.

Not me. I want to be last.

When there is a long line ahead of me, being last allows me to take in those I stand behind. I find we can learn so much from others when given a chance to have a casual chat by happenstance. More than anything else, when I am the last in line I'm afforded yet another opportunity to encourage those in front of me. For example, there are many survivors of abuse whom I've come to know from both my facebook pages: Iamdanaandrews (Facebook.com/iamdanaandrews) and Men Are Abused 2 (m.facebook.com/MENAREABUSED2/). Most are much younger than I. Rather than take my place in the front of the line and tell them about my abuse, I'd much rather stay back and listen to their stories. That's how they can be best supported. That's how I can honor their journeys.

Fifteen years ago today, being last was unequivocally one of the most monumental days of my life.

On March 4, 2003, I brought our three youngest children to visit my dad in the hospital. It was his 74th birthday. He was so thrilled to have this serendipitous visit with us, and yet also very surprised to see me. As the unplanned and intended-to-be-aborted second child, I was inconvenient, and the subject of their abuse. My mother was the active participant while my dad was the enabler. A Child and Adolescent Psychiatrist, my dad intrinsically knew what he was condoning, yet he too was the recipient of my mother's abuse. This scenario prevented us from developing a healthy relationship. I was never to be "daddy's girl;" my mother saw to that. My dad never formed much of a relationship with our children either. How pivotal it was when he saw us walk into his hospital room.

Our hour-long visit included the kids and their grandfather sharing their journeys. He was completely lucid, and his love for us was evident in every moment we shared. And then it was time for us to go. It was also time for him to go.

As we left to return home, I looked back at him, and we both said, "I love you." Suddenly he excitedly declared repeatedly, "Things happen so fast!" They did. Mere moments later the heavens unfolded to welcome dad as he took his final breath. We were the last ones to share his last moment of life. After all the years of resentment towards him for not protecting me from my mother, and not insisting that we forge a father-daughter relationship, I realized that ultimately it was the last moment we shared that truly mattered.

March 4, 2003, was the last day I spent with my father. It was also the first time I let my heart grieve what would never be, while embracing my blessings... like being last when it really mattered.