TOMORROW WILL BE LESS
Journal Entry: February 10, 2013
Today was a mixture of grief, peace, fear, and love. Mitchell was so happy to be home. It was almost dreamlike. There were no hourly stats being taken by a nurse. No more chaotic mess of cables wired to his body effectively chaining him to his bed. No monitors with alarms that signal the biological horror show that is playing out under the surface of his skin. Just smiles and 100% focus on family.
For the most part, Mitchell was comfortable today. He was able to play with one of his best friends. We made more Legos, cuddled, played UNO, built a base in Minecraft, had lots of conversations, played other video games, watched a movie, and just spent time together. At this very moment, I can hear his sweet little voice in my mind …. as if it were an audible sound. I love the sound of his voice … the way he thinks.
So we try to live each moment as though it were our last. We will only have now – for tomorrow will be different, it will be less. Certainly, less of something and more of another . . . but it will be less, nonetheless.
To me, it is strange to think that ~15 years ago there were 4 less people on the earth . . . and I was quite content without them. But now that I have them, I cannot imagine a day without them – not even a minute. There’s the saying: “Making the decision to have a child - it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart walking around outside your body.” I always admired that quote – but now it has taken on a much deeper meaning.
Mitchell’s left eye became very blurry twice; once in the morning and a second time this evening. The second episode was more intense and lasted longer than the first. Our nurse informs us that his profusion is so low that organs will begin shutting down very soon. It looks like his vision may go soon. He is getting dark rings under his eyes. We’re also told it won’t go away and will get worse. Sometimes his chest pounds so hard it looks like there’s someone inside his rib cage trying to violently punch their way out. Those are scary times. Very scary.
The truth is, grief comes in massive waves … almost instantly …. and without consideration or apology. And between the agony of the inevitable and moments of calm, I sometimes feel a panicked rush ... the horrific feeling that I need to race to do something else for my sweet little boy. Oh ... how my heart wants to... I yearn to save him. My mind understands what’s happening and why. But my heart sometimes desperately searches for a way out … something we missed. Then, it occurred to me in a moment of profound spiritual peace … that perhaps in all my rush to save my boy, a greater purpose to all this suffering is at play … and in the end, he will be the one who saves me.
There is a transformation occurring. Something profound. His life, his sweetness, his goodness … it is changing me. And I want to be a better husband, father, friend, and human because of him. His short and tattered life has a divine purpose. And while painful now, all will be made whole in the end.
NOTE ABOUT THIS ESSAY:
I’ve been getting messages from a lot of readers lately sharing their grief, wondering if they’re normal (if there is such a thing), and if the night will ever end. My heart goes out to everyone who suffers in whatever way they suffer. I wish I had the power to heal others – that is my heart’s deepest desire.
I thought I’d share a sacred journal entry exactly 8 years ago today. This was my grief. This was my son. I share this journal entry for those who sit on the edge of significant change. I stand with you in the sacred space of your suffering.