Not My Funeral

I have a problem with conforming. Listening to the advice of others, that part is easy. I nod and tell myself they're probably right...but then, I don't take it. That has earned me the title "thick-headed, stubborn, naive, ignorant" and probably other expletives at one point or another in my life. But I just can't. I have to know how it all plays out. I don't like "what ifs", I think either "I knows" or "you were rights" are more my style. 

I have been wanting to go back to the funeral home for a long time now. Specifically, THE room. The one where my tears were so plentiful, they eroded any hope for a normal future. Where I buried my soaked face in his casket and breathed in the smell of embalming fluid instead of four week old baby. Where his rubber like hand was held so tightly that I shuddered at the sight when I let go. It looked nothing like the hand that would flail past my face while he ate, somehow always finding my hair and grabbing hold. Where I read him scriptures and repeated "this is not goodbye. It's not." But that dimly lit room with dark red draperies and brown wood paneling taunted me. His funeral was over, but this was surely mine. I would never leave this cold, dark, uncertain space. If it wasn't for my then husband telling me it was time to leave, I might still be sitting there today. I would have waited an eternity because as long as his body was there, I reasoned there was hope. 

So despite the attempts of loving friends and family who told me I should never return when I would casually mention the idea of going back, I knew I would do it eventually. I couldn't ignore the curiosity within me. "Maybe it would help? Maybe I will feel him close to me. I'll never know unless I go." 

It was an insignificant Wednesday. I parked my car across the street from the funeral home, and I looked out the window, wondering how many more lives were being held captive in that place. I had only meant to walk into the sub shop across the street, but I looked at my passenger seat and saw his bag of things, all of the things the funeral home had given me. Every final memory was sitting next to me, and I knew it was time. I felt a little foolish, and wondered if I would even be allowed inside. From the outside I boldly walked across the street, on a mission to put my lingering curiosity to rest. But on the inside, I started to listen to those words of warning I'd been given. "What if I don't come out? What if walking into that room undoes two and a half years of hesitantly yet consistently putting one foot in front of the other. Even with nowhere to go, I knew I had to keep moving. What if I'm stuck?" 

"But what if I run?" 

I held my breath and opened the door, knowing the smell, that distinct smell of hopelessness and tragedy and heartache was about to punch me in the face. 

I scanned the entryway expecting to come undone as a flood of memories that room held came rushing back...but they didn't show up. It had changed.  

(Before I continue, if you don't know, you should know that Isaiah's "colors" worn to his funeral were brown and blue, which is an entirely different story in itself, as well as a blue butterfly holding so much significance in his short life, in the butterfly release at his funeral & in the years that have followed.) 

The place was like a dream. Brown and blue everywhere. I felt a bit like Belle on Beauty and the Beast, tiptoeing through silent halls, curious and filled with enchantment. I saw butterflies. Blue butterflies everywhere I looked. Sculptures and paintings, tissue boxes, and slideshows. My eyes started to fill with "God, why did I ever doubt you" tears when I saw a man walking towards me. The last time I saw his face I must have looked much different, as he didn't recognize me. "Glenn, it's me! It's Savannah! You know, um, you took care of Isaiah for me. I'm his mom." 

He happily obliged my requests to sit in that room, and so I nervously carried my son, a bag of his final memories, and a thankful heart towards that door. 

I laid his things out carefully on the floor and I sat down Indian style looking around, bracing myself for the flashback of pain. But instead I felt peace. 

I spoke to Isaiah like he was sitting on my lap. I whispered and I cried and I smiled and I laughed inside at the blatant metaphor. 

It's been two and a half years and everything has changed. That room didn't keep me there. It set me free.