THE TRUTH ABOUT TRAUMA

When the funeral home employees rolled my son out our front door, I nearly collapsed with grief.  This was the same door my son stood gleefully by on Halloween to hand candy to children.  He was a giver of the sweetest sort – and he found more joy in giving candy to kids than getting candy for himself.  This was the door Mitchell’s best friend would knock and ask to play.  This was the door our hospice nurse told us Mitch was about to die … and in that same moment, heaven-sent an angel to bear up our broken hearts.

When I first became a father, I wasn’t prepared to be a parent.  Who is, really?  I quickly discovered that when you have a child, your life changes.  Forever.  It doesn’t simply change because you’re responsible for the well-being of a baby; it changes because your soul multiplies.  Once someone has a child, they stop belonging to themselves.  It’s as if part of our soul is cloned, and whatever happens to our child may as well happen to us.  We’re pained when they hurt, overjoyed when they’re happy, and when they die … our very souls shatter.  Though we may put our pieces back together, eventually, we’re never the same.

I was terrified of this moment.  I knew this time was near, so I tried to put it out of my mind and live in fragile moments that remained.  We didn’t know if we had five minutes,  five hours, or five days with our son, we just knew that he was on the thinnest of ice and it was about to break.

Suddenly, in a blink, I found myself watching two strangers roll my sweet son into the bitter winter’s air.  I was mortified.  Incredulous.  I was just talking to Mitch the day before, and he was very much alive … so sweet, tender, and innocent.  As they loaded my boy into the back of the vehicle and drove away, panic shot through my body, tears rolled down my cheeks, and began to freeze.  I physically gasped for air as though I was watching my child in the act of being kidnapped. 

As they drove away, every part of me wanted to run down the street and stop them.  I wanted to say, “Please, let me get in the back with my boy.  He must be so scared, cold, and lonely.  I need to comfort him during this difficult time.”

I cannot conjure the words to describe the trauma I experienced at this moment – and the subsequent traumas of grief I felt a million times thereafter.  I wept so hard that morning I threw up. Then, I wept even harder, and I thought I broke a rib.  Although the sun was rising, the long night of grief was only just beginning.  Over the next few years, I learned some painful truths about grief.  I learned some truths about trauma.

You learn to live with fear.

Grief and fear feel identical in many respects.  C.S. Lewis said it best, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”  Looking back on the early years of my grief journey, I was living in a deep, emotionally traumatic state that felt like fear.  And when the night came, I felt feelings of terror.  Every. Single. Day.

Deep grief is prolonged trauma.

If ever you get impatient, wondering when your friend or family member who grieves will get over their sorrow, if you’re ever tempted to think it’s time for them to move on, remember that grief is trauma in slow motion.  Everyone on this planet would do well to remember Shakespeare’s observation, “Everyone can master a grief, but he that has it.”

Others will move on, but you will not.

Another brutal truth about trauma is that for spectators of sorrow, empathy has a comparatively short shelf-life.  Others will move on, as they should.  But you will not.  At least not for a very long time. 

 Perhaps the best counsel to those who suffer is this: don’t expect others to understand your sorrow or to linger as long as your sorrow will.  They cannot – for after all is said and done, the journey of grief is traveled by one. 

To the spectators of sorrow, don’t expect the one who suffers to move on at your leisure or burden-free pace.  Remember that it is they who carry the weight of sorrow – a weight you cannot imagine, not even in your nightmares.  If you’re to serve them, you can lift their weary hearts with words of compassion.  I’ve found that saying, “I’m sorry that you hurt.  I care,” is enough, and more.

It Gets Worse, Sometimes Much Worse, Before It Gets Better

I’ve said this often: death is the easy part; it’s the aftermath that’s hardest.  So, when you see someone who's lost someone – know that they’ll need your love, compassion, and empathy gently at the funeral and the months to come – but more profoundly in the lonely years that follow. 

 I’ll repeat the last part: they’ll need your love more profoundly in the lonely years that follow.

Time & Healing

When it comes to the trauma of grief, time doesn’t heal.  Instead, time creates space for us to heal if we tend to our wounds with care.  I think of trauma like the adrenaline one might feel just after a ride on a terrifying rollercoaster.  It takes time for fear to leave your body.  The first 15 minutes we feel the trauma course through our veins – but over time, we go back to our regular state of serenity.  The mistake we sometimes make is thinking the death of a loved is the rollercoaster.  It is not.  It is only the beginning.  The rollercoaster of trauma comes from feelings of self-doubt, regret, endless what-ifs, and longing to see our loved ones again.  That trauma is a ride that takes many, many years to fade away.  

Trauma Shatters You

Trauma doesn’t just break a part of you; it shatters many parts of you.  Sometimes all of you.  Yet, somehow, some way, we gather our broken pieces and slowly reassemble ourselves. Depending on the nature of loss, it can take many, many years.  We are never the same person on the other side of trauma – instead, we become a mosaic of our former selves.  Sometimes jagged and fragile as our pieces begin to set into their new arrangement.  But always, we emerge a new kind of beautiful.   

The truth about trauma is that until we experience it first-hand, it isn’t just harder than we imagine; it’s harder than we can imagine.  Yet, another hopeful truth about trauma is that it lessens over time – how fast and how much is determined by a multitude of factors, most of which are under our control. 

At first, I wondered if the sun would ever rise and that I might live out my days in the dark shadow of grief.  There was a time I used to look at this photo and weep.  Today, I look at this moment and say reverently, “I remember you, son.  And I will spend the rest of my life trying to honor yours.” 

Early in my grief journey, I often wondered, “When everything hurts, how will I know I’m healing?”

There was a time, not long after his passing, and for some time after, the very sight of Mitchell’s things was painful to see. I remember his Velcro-strap shoes sitting on the edge of his bed. They were, by design, light as a feather so he could walk more easily. The moment I saw these shoes, they reminded me how difficult walking had become for him. Each step in the hallway at school was a risk; the slightest bump from another child could have sent him falling fast to the floor. Without the strength and coordination to break his fall, he would hit the ground hard. His muscles were getting weaker – and time on his feet more precious. These tender shoes were a reminder of his fragile existence and a symbol of his mother’s love.

When I saw these shoes, I wept like a child. I would have done anything to trade places with him.

Though these shoes were painful to see, for a time, I’m not one to make rash decisions – especially with memories. I could have, like others who cope with grief, swept everything away. I could have swiftly removed anything that might have brought back memories that hurt. While that can be a valid path for some who grieve, I chose a different path. I chose to sit with my pain. I wanted to look at the things that hurt me and healed me, for both are my teachers.

For the first two years, I wept every single day. I didn’t cry. I wept. So-much-so, my lungs were sore and I felt like I had a persistent flu. Every. Single. Day. When we left town, I felt an existential panic leaving my son at the cemetery. It was nightmarish. When it rained, I wanted to race to the cemetery to protect his place of rest. Somewhere deep inside me, I felt a flurry of worry – that if I didn’t have the power to protect his life, at least I could protect him in death. Grief has a way of triggering irrational feelings from a very rational pain.

For me, darkness covered the whole earth; and though I walked among people, I was living in a different dimension. Within the first few months of my son’s passing, I wrote an essay entitled “Walking on Jupiter” where I described the gravity of grief, the thinness of the air, and the difficulty of living. Earth, with all its pedestrian concerns, seemed so very far away. At the same time, I could carry a conversation with a smile … and were I to shake your hand, you probably wouldn’t know the nightmare I was living. Everything hurt.

In private, it felt like I was consigned to an eternity of sorrow. Everything hurt. Even sleep hurt; every morning and night, as I’d drift in and out of sleep, I felt the unbridled panic and sorrow of my son’s passing. It would play out in my mind like a vivid dream and I couldn’t tell if it was happening in that moment or if it happened in the past. There was something about that in-between stage of consciousness that left me especially vulnerable.

It wasn’t long in my grief journey I learned that healing hurts – and that was the first vital step for me. I found if I gave myself space to grieve, the darkness would pass sooner. Moments of acute grief, at least for me, was like a building sneeze: the sooner I let it out, the better I felt. Even still, the general heaviness of grief weighed on my shoulders like a led blanket no matter how much I sneezed.

As far as I can tell, healing isn’t discernable day-to-day. Like getting older or gaining/losing weight, we have to step away from the mirror for a minute. And therein lies the curious paradox of healing: that opposites can be true at the same time.

For example, I’m a believer in living an examined life. That means looking in the mirror and studying what I see, including the things that hurt me. It’s not enough to simply look at our pain, but how we look at our suffering makes the difference. At the same time, I’ve discovered that we must also look away and get busy living. To do one at the expense of the other is to thwart and sometimes deny deeper healing. For me, the choice to look or live has a kind of ebb and flow about it; a delicate dance of the soul.

How do I know I’m healing when everything hurts? I start by recognizing this: if I’m hurting, I’m probably on the path to healing. For one cannot heal without hurting.

The rest is up to me. Sometimes I look, other times I live. Together, they help me heal.

Mitch had passed a few hours prior, and we each spent sacred time saying goodbye to our boy. His body was beginning to change, and it was disturbing to see. I was frightened by the spectacle of it all. So, I called the funeral home and asked them to hurry. Soon, in the dark of winter, I’d hear a soft knock on our door that would usher a kind of trauma we weren’t prepared to experience.

The funeral home employees were kind and professional and went reverently about their work. They entered Mitchell’s room and slid a sheet under his body, then lifted my sweet boy onto a gurney, then strapped his body in. They covered his cold form with his blanket – not to keep him warm, but to show respect for a little boy who had gone too soon. I suppose they covered him, also, to soften the blow.

Natalie stood at the foot of Mitchell’s bed with a look of horror and disbelief on her face. Indeed, it was a horror show. In the long nights that would follow, my dear wife would weep and say, “I don’t want to live.” The long night of grief had just begun – and a long night it would be. As a husband and father, I scrambled to keep myself, my wife, and my children together.

In truth, I don’t need this photo to remind me of this horrible yet sacred event. The memory of this night is seared into my mind and soul – written in the most permanent of inks. I keep it, however, not to wallow in sorrow – but to stay sober about life. To stay centered in the heart and soul.

The other day I had lunch with an old friend and colleague. We talked for a while and covered a lot of ground. It isn’t my practice to speak of Mitch or grief with people unless they ask. But, somehow, our conversation turned toward Mitch, and we started to talk about life and loss. My friend had lost his sister many years ago, and though he grieved her loss, he didn’t understand the degree of sorrow his parents felt. He tried to understand – but until you experience it – it cannot be fully understood.

At one point in our conversation, I observed the spectators of grief – you know … the ones who, from the comfort of their own life, say things like, “Isn’t it time to get over it?” Or, “Just be glad you’ll see them again in the next life.” These, and a million platitudes like them, only cut deeper into tender wounds of the soul.

I said, “There is a kind of darkness one comes to know when they lose a child. And when you walk through that wilderness, you eventually come out the other side a different person. You change. Suddenly, the world is different. The pettiness of people and so much of what consumes society is both pedestrian and trivial. It’s like someone who knows only simple math is trying to tell you how to solve an abstract problem with theoretical physics. Suddenly, their level of understanding is elementary – and you are in graduate school, whether you’re ready or not.”

I went on to say that when I hear people talk of people ‘moving on,’ I want to say, “Okay, here’s a thought experiment. What if I told you to leave your young child (or grandchild) on the corner of a busy road and never look back? What’s more, you only have a few weeks to stop loving them – then, you must never feel after them. You must stop talking about them and act as if they never existed. Move on. Get over them. Impossible, right? Why? Because we love them – and that love is forever. So it is with grief. Yet, so often, grief feels a lot like love with nowhere to go – and it hurts to hold it in.”

We both had tears in our eyes. He could see my pain begin to surface, and he said, “I think I’m beginning to understand what my parents felt … and feel.” I smiled and told my friend that grief, like love, doesn’t end. Though our conversation was met with tender feelings – it was also healing and bridge-building. Talking helps. Remembering can be soul-soothing.

The death of a child is exactly similar to the birth of a child. It changes you forever. In the same way, your life is multiplied by their very existence; it is divided by their absence.

A grief remembered is only love trying to find its way.

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Motionless, Natalie stared through our front window for the last time. To say our home was filled with memories would be a gross understatement. This was the same window Mitch would peer through to see Trick-or-Treaters before he opened the door and smiled as he handed other children treats; the same window Mitch would yell out, "Hey Mom, look at the storm coming!" This was the same window Mitch would see his best friends, Luke, Derek, and David, who'd come over to see if he could play. Perhaps most poignantly, this was the same window we saw Mitchell's body being rolled away by the funeral home.

 I didn't know how to comfort my wife – or if she even wanted it. I could tell she stepped into a deep place, so I honored her space and allowed silence to become my teacher.

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 Earlier this spring, we sold our home of 15 years; it was time. We only had one child at home, and we felt the gentle tug, an almost spiritual invitation that it was time for a change.

 When I took this photo of my wife, our family was on the edge of a significant change. This was the home we built specifically to help Mitch cope with his muscle wasting disease. We poured concrete wheelchair ramps, customized a bathroom with room enough for a wheelchair, built a caretaker's apartment, installed a wheelchair ramp to our deck, and so much more. In many ways, our home was a symbol of love; we built it not only to raise our family, but so we could catch Mitch when his body fell.

 There was no way of knowing all our efforts would be in vain. We couldn't see into the future and know our little boy would die long before he required any of the preemptive things we did to help him. Yet, I'm not sure those "wasted efforts" matter. I've learned that what we get for our efforts is far less important than what we become because of our efforts. (Henry David Thoreau) At the end of the day, everything we did to help our son was a symbol of love and devotion – and we were changed because of it. Nothing else mattered. Looking back, I do it again. A million times, even to infinity, I would do it again – if not for anything but to know my son.

 So, we sold our home and almost all our furniture. We purged. We simplified. Then, we packed what remained, and we took a big step into the unknown. The days and months that followed were especially difficult for my wife – but we grieved over the change. To us, our home was more than a place to sleep and break bread, it was a living journal, and every corner of that place was filled with richly layered memories.

 We rented a small Townhome in a neighboring city and began looking for our next home. We wanted to move back home (to Herriman) to be close to Mitch and the people & community we've grown to love. Thankfully, we found a place we love. It's different in almost every way. Very different. But we're almost empty-nesters – and soon, perhaps even this place will be too big. Change is good – if not for anything but to remind us that everything is temporary. Everything ends.

 Yet, the longer I live and the further I step back, I can't tell the difference between a beginning and an end. Anymore, they've become one-in-the-same.

 For those who have read Mitchell's Journey over the years, you'll recognize you had a front-row seat to my personal therapy. I was both the patient and the therapist at once, working through my pain one sentence at a time. Writing was, and ever will be, my way of processing. Writing is my therapy.

In the next few weeks and months, I want to share some of the things our family did to process our grief and make meaning of suffering. In addition, I have at least 150 (actual) stories I'm writing about Mitch and the things I learned from him. Also, there are many other things and awakenings that have happened in the past 8 years; I want to write about that, too. I'll still write of grief. But I have so much more to say about hope, healing, and living an examined life.

 Sitting on the edge of change can be bewildering on a lot of levels. What's more, Mitchell's Journey has taught me healing our wounds requires a unique blend of hanging on and letting go. That blend is as individual as our personalities. It's not my place to tell someone what to cling to and what to let go of – that balance is the deeply personal work of the soul. But perhaps, if we can talk about it openly, we can each find our own broken pieces and learn to create a new mosaic of ourselves. Something more beautiful and dynamic than we now imagine.