I had a fantastic weekend, full of love, faith, hope, and good company. Friday, I left the Awaken event with painfully devastated eyes. I wept the entire time. As soon as I crossed that threshold, I was overwhelmed with safety. I was in a safe place to cry, scream, yell, anything; I was safe. I didn’t have to give a weak smile that said, “nice to see you, yeah, I’m alright.” Head above water, all right. Grasping for reasoning, but head above water. I could look around with palpable pain on my face, and I wasn’t going to be questioned. Hardly anyone knew me. A few familiar faces gave hugs, but the rest were practically strangers. Most would say to themselves right now, “I don’t know them, they probably think I’m nuts, or I look terrible in front of strangers.” That doesn’t resonate with me anymore. I’m actively attempting to lose interest in others’ perceptions of me. I’m simply going to be ok with being me. That is the goal.
When I try to hold it together, especially in public where there are crowds, I look for an object to center my focus. I think about that object, analyze it, study it, and focus on the thing to keep myself emotionally in check. During Awaken, I was blessed to watch an artist transform a blank canvas into her vision. It was glorious. I wish I had noticed it from the beginning; I sat most of the time with my eyes closed or looking at the floor so my hair could drape over my face, attempting to hide. Once I noticed the painting, it had a tree on the right, later made into prairie weeds or some type of long grass and a few stems. I felt called to look around as I was pleading to hear Archer’s voice like others say they have. I watched the painter as she started using pink, later to be blossoming flowers. I wrote about the color pink originally on Archer’s caring bridge. During his hospitalization, I learned that his favorite color was truly pink. It wasn’t a response that his sisters coerced him into saying. When I saw that pink settling on the canvas with such intent, I realized Archer wasn’t as far away as I thought he was.
Saturday, a few of us, seeking safe surroundings and resources, attended a fundraising event in Sioux Falls. This ministry helps the unfortunate members of a brutal club. A few testimonies were shared from parents who have opened their grieving selves up to other parents who have lost a child. One testimonial, in particular, had me focusing on objects that refused to keep my attention. One object was a glass tip bowl sitting on top of the pianos that would soon be the entertainment. The bowl reflected a stage light. That was intriguing, but not enough. There was metal tile art on the wall behind the speakers. I studied the leaves. A string of lights floated through rafters in the ceiling; I counted those. I held a can of seltzer that had 56 tiny bubbles on the bottom of the can. Nothing held my attention during this testimonial. Turns out, this woman speaking has an Archer in heaven too. I can’t help but smile because I can see Archer’s perplexed face when he meets another boy with his name. When my focusing techniques didn’t work, I let loose. No reason not to; many people around me were. I tried so hard to hold it together.
There are things you do after your child dies that you would never have thought of doing before they left. A picture of Archer has been on display in my kitchen since it was taken. Likely a year ago. Tonight, I realized that picture could be lost to me if it carelessly fell from the cupboard door. Not only could it be lost, but I could never replace it. We walk through life carelessly, feeling the protection of replacement. We bought a gun safe recently to store things about Archer safely. His medical records, his ashes, our thumbprint necklaces that will be given to his siblings, his EKG, his preschool work, random pictures, and so much more. The thought behind the gun safe is that if our house were ever to catch fire, what we have of Archer is safe, for a little bit at least. We call it Archer’s safe.
We take the act of replacement for granted. We’ve been shown our entire lives that lost things can be replaced. Our lives are so beautifully designed, and there is no refund policy or replacement guarantee. Do you mean to say I can’t make a bad choice, derail friendships, and break promises left and right? Just imagine you did one of those things, and the very next day, you lose your life, maybe leaving one too many regrets and broken pieces for others to pick up. Or sad memories. This act is the opposite of a first impression but more of the last impression. That is difficult for us adults who should really know better by now. We’ve had many years to perfect these ways of life that we choose. Our gained wisdom should be bountiful, but it’s like a mountain going up and down, sinking into deep ravines, and then reaching the sun. Up and down throughout life, uncertain, full of regrets and remorseful actions.
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