ON DYING & COMING ALIVE
Mitchell was not okay. Sweet Natalie helped him drink from a straw as my sister held his body steady. I took this photo on March 1, 2013, at 1:42 PM. A few hours would pass before he ate his last meal and then slipped into a sleep from which he’d never wake. By midnight, he was gone.
Just a few days prior, Mitch said in a slurry voice while lying in his bed, “I don’t think I can survive.” He closed his eyes and we thought he was sleeping – unaware he could still hear us crying quietly at the side of his bed. A few minutes later, Mitch trying to comfort his mother said, “It’s okay Mom.”
Last night marked the 10-year anniversary of my sweet child’s passing. Ten years of grief. Ten years of gratitude. Ten years of growth. Ten years of heaven and hell.
Something remarkable happened in his room that night. As Mitchell’s body started to shut down, the muscles in his face began to relax in a way I’d never seen before. Near the end, his face was almost unrecognizable. His rib cage began to bulge – as though his heart had enlarged, and his body looked deformed. Little Marlie, his puppy of only a few weeks, curled under his hand as if to comfort him. I have a sequence of photos that show Mitch softly moving his fingers through her fur. He couldn’t open his eyes anymore, but he would softly squeeze our hands when we spoke to him.
It broke my heart. I struggled to find meaning in the moment as darkness surrounded me. By this time, I’d been crying for days and my lungs were so very sore – it felt as if I had the flu.
As each hour passed, little Mitch inched closer to death and the spirit of his room began to transform into something that felt like a busy train station. I felt the presence of others I could not see. They provided no comfort to my weary soul – I only sensed a gathering. Later that night, several different people came to our door and dropped gifts off for Mitch – unaware he was actively dying. They send me text messages to let me know they’d dropped something off - and each, in their own way, commented on how they felt. One of them said, “I don’t know what’s going on in there, but I felt like I was walking through a crowd of angels.”
I don’t pretend to know what happens in that place beyond the hills. Any more, I have more questions than answers. But I’ve also had experiences that I cannot question – only wonder in awe that there is more to our existence than meets our mortal eyes.
Since my little boy died, a large part of me has died also. And I’m glad of it. In the last 10 years, I’ve learned that we must die a hundred times during our life – if we’re to truly be alive. I know so many good souls who go about their days checking boxes, living vein routines that seem more like ruts, going about their lives like zombies, yet thinking they’re alive. Sometimes it’s easy to confuse existing for living.
“If writing was my therapy, curiosity was my therapist. Curiosity taught me to ask better questions – questions that sought to understand the meaning of my experiences and see connections between them. ”
Grief, which is trauma in slow motion, transforms us for better or worse. Some point to their trauma as an excuse to be hateful, disloyal, or stuck in a lesser life. Others find ways to use that hardship as if to polish the gemstones of their soul.
Early in my grief journey, I learned to surrender to grief moments, not fight them. I didn’t just surrender to grief moments; I made time and space for them, often when writing. Each time I grieved, a part of me died, and a new part of me came alive.
If writing was my therapy, curiosity was my therapist. Curiosity taught me to ask better questions – questions that sought to understand the meaning of my experiences and see connections between them.
For years, wave after wave of sorrow came crashing down, thrashing my soul. Sometimes it was hard to breathe. But I surrendered my mind and heart to the ebb and flow of the emotional tide. Each time, I’d find my way to the shore. Sometimes, I’d find others drowning in grief and I’d tug them back to shore, too.
10 years have passed. Every so often, the realization my son is gone hits me. It’s not like I forget. I think about Mitch every day. But knowing something has happened and feeling its consequence are entirely different experiences. When that realization hits me, when it brings me to my knees, I do my best to surrender to all the feelings. Rumi taught, “The cure to pain is in the pain.” I have experienced the wisdom of his words.
Grief is so much more than being sad. I’m not even sure it’s an emotion; I know it feels like it, but I sense it’s much more than that. As far as I can tell, grief seems to be a spiritual and mental struggle to adjust to absence. We don’t grieve for things we have – we grieve for what we lost.
Today, my heart grieves for Mitch. Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before: “Do not cry, I’m in the other room” or “Life is but a blink in the eternal scheme.” Those platitudes are hardly useful to those who grieve. The last time I checked, life is the longest thing I know in mortality. If you want to help those who hurt, don’t talk to them about blinks and eternalness. Instead, honor their suffering by mourning with those who mourn, in the present moment. Hold space for their brokenness as they squint through tears to find their broken pieces and put themselves back together again. The battle of grief is difficult enough – and is made more complicated when those close to us don’t honor the pain that is present. Recognize the sacredness of suffering – and you may discover something special about your loved ones and about yourself.
So much has changed since I lost my boy. The truth is, I’m more joyful than I’ve ever been. I see further than ever before. The pain that carved caverns in my soul has made space for a kind of joy and aliveness I never imagined – not even in my sweetest dreams.
Today, I sit in the contrast of grief and gratitude as I celebrate my little boy. My deepest teacher.