Paint by numbers
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Amanda, our guest writer this week, lives in a suburb of Minneapolis with her husband and 3 living children. Her daughter Reese Christine Duffy was stillborn in November 2014 due to an umbilical cord accident.
And just like that I stand holding her paint brush, its bristles moments from finding themselves submerged for the first time. Devastatingly, the paint dried up. The numbers faded from my sight, and the image was left to my imagination. A blank slate though only moments before, the brush’s bristles had been hovering above the first color, eagerly anticipating being submerged for the first time. This marks the beginning of her life’s paint by numbers. Parents get the honor of starting the painting and then leave it to the child to fill in as they grow and expand. Not all of us are so lucky.
Parenting your dead child is like painting by numbers but there are no numbers to paint by. All the rules and directions have been lost. How does one know what color comes next? What is the image we are trying to complete when the baby we grew died? We are left guessing. What would their favorite color be? Is purple supposed to fill in this space? What about green? Maybe it’s yellow? Maybe in years 2, 3, & 4 I’ll use purple, and years 5, 6 & 7 maybe orange? Does this look right? What if I made a mistake? I can’t start over, even though I’d give almost anything for a do-over that might result in a living you. A paint by number I can see come to fruition in living color.
The image we are promised is vivid, each year gets a distinct color. Some years we use the same color, filling in slowly and surely until finally, after all the blood, sweat and tears, there is a full image peering back at us. The image in front of us is unique and beautiful. Even a parent who isn’t an artistic person can look at the painting and know exactly what it is: their child, grown and in living color. There are always some spaces painted in with colors unintended, often signifying a time of growth or struggle. Ultimately, those spaces add depth and complexity to the image. They make that painting uniquely defined. They make that child uniquely themselves.
When our children are ready, we hand the brush over to them. It’s their turn to fill in their numbers for themselves. It’s a rite of passage. Unfortunately, some of us forever hold the brushes for our children. An honor that I am profoundly grateful to have and one that carries an impossibly heavy burden.
When my child tragically died, her canvas was wiped clean. The image that was is now gone. It’s tempting to quit painting because, as her mother, I am left guessing with no confirmation that I’ve chosen the colors correctly. No little voice telling me “Mama! I love the color NEON PINK! Use more of that!” No little voice reassuring me that I am helping to complete the picture in the way intended. I’m using only blind intuition, pain and deep abiding love.
I am one of the few that carries Reese’s brush. There is a beautiful understanding knowing that her painting will be complete the same day as mine, brushes laid down, our stories ending together. Bonded by life and death.