THE MEDICINE OF MEANING
Our goal was to get him home as fast as we could. Mitch had days to live, but there were times at the hospital he was so animated, we wondered if the doctors misdiagnosed him. But, like a thief in the shadows, symptoms of heart failure would suddenly emerge and turn the happy boy we knew into someone distant. Someone very, very sick.
Just moments before this photo, Mitch was laughing. My sweet daughter, Laura-Ashley, made cupcakes to cheer him up. She handed one to him, but Mitch turned his head and said, "I'm not feeling well." In his heart, Mitch wanted to eat one – but at this moment, his world was being turned upside down.
I'll never forget meeting with a team of specialists as we were preparing to leave. Each took their turn, educating us on what to do under certain circumstances. If I thought taking a newborn baby home to live was overwhelming, I had no idea what it would feel like to take our baby home to die. The instructions were soul-crushing. If something medically scary happened, there was no ambulance to call, no future hospital visits to offer a glimmer of hope. Just a constant stream of medicine to erase from my son's mind oxygen hunger, morphine to whisk away the pain of organ failure, and other drugs to buy a little time.
The nutritionist was about to tell us what Mitch should eat; she paused as if to remember Mitch only had days, then said, "You know what, it doesn't matter. Let him eat whatever makes him happy." I nearly burst into tears as my heart fell to the floor, bleeding and writhing. Medicine had taken us as far as it could. Nature, faith, and fate were all that was left.
While Mitchell's physical heart was failing, his spiritual heart remained tender and teachable. As parents, our spiritual hearts were being tested. But then, a beautiful paradox emerged as our son became our teacher. If Mitch could face death with a humble heart, we could, too.
Some wonder (even criticize) why I return to these moments, detailing agony and trauma. As if to retraumatize myself with each story. What I've observed about trauma is that it's first like a rapidly spreading cancer, weaving its tendrils into our minds and hearts, then it lies dormant. Seemingly invisible. It feeds off inattention and misdirection. I believe trauma can be seen to some degree, but the bulk of its roots seem to live in the deeper parts of our psyche. As far as I can tell, trauma thrives in the unexamined shadows of our souls, unexplored and misunderstood. If left unattended, the ripple effects of trauma can turn into waves and disrupt us for the rest of our lives.
I visit these moments to discover and untangle trauma, removing its poisonous dripline, root by root. Is it uncomfortable? Of course. But so is dressing a deep wound. And with each time I apply the medicine of meaning, I heal a little. Sometimes a lot.
So why this moment? This moment taught me what being courageous looks like. Sometimes having courage looks like being sick, sad, or tired. Sometimes courage shows up as tears and overwhelming heartbreak. Fake courage puts on a mask and cape and pretends it doesn't hurt. True courage is admitting we're trembling at the knees while mustering the strength to take one more step. And if we don't have the strength for one more step – that's quite alright. We can rest a moment and take another step tomorrow.
Separate from pain, trauma will likely come to us all in one form or another. We may not be able to change our circumstances or avoid outcomes, but we can change what meaning those experiences have for us. And that's an act of courage, too.