Ever since Mitch was a toddler he loved to feel the wind in his face. He loved riding 4-wheelers more than he liked a Sippy Cup filled to the top with undiluted juice - and he loved juice. It was as if his soul wanted to drink in every moment of mortality possible, before it was too late.
I took this photo a few weeks after Mitchell’s diagnosis. We drove to my mother’s ranch in Southern Utah to tell her the news in person. I cried that night, and many nights thereafter.
During this trip I remember looking at my sweet little boy in disbelief – wondering if hospital staff made a clerical error and Mitchell’s diagnosis belonged to someone else. Everything seemed impossible. Impossible because he looked so healthy, there was no way he had a fatal disease. Impossible because I was scarcely prepared to be a father, how could I possibly care for someone so sick? It was impossible because my heart was already tender.
I will never forget this moment one mid-summer afternoon – it was the most perfect of days. Mitch screamed out with excitement as his mother helped him drive a mini-4wheeler as fast as it could go. It wasn't all that fast, but to Mitch, he may as well have been going the speed of light. I couldn't help but notice how Mitch would place his hand half on the handlebar (to feel like he was steering) and half over her hand (to feel the safety of his Mother’s touch) – he was so happy. I remember also looking at my sweet wife who was having such a good time watching her little son enjoy the thrill of the moment.
I wished at this moment my sweet wife could see herself through my eyes. This dear woman who carried a heavy and broken heart for her son yet put on a smile so as not to frighten him was stronger and more beautiful than she knew. This loving mother who often wondered and worried if she was doing it right was doing things perfectly. She did it right, not because she didn't make mistakes, but because she loved her children – and love nourishes. Love heals.
If ever my wife has a moment of self-doubt, and we all have them (heaven knows I have plenty), I want to point to this photo and say “Look at the life you gave our boy! I love and honor you. Thank you.” If only she could see herself through my eyes.
I borrow the words of Paul Brownlaw who once wrote, “There shall never be another quite so tender, quite so kind as the patient little mother, nowhere on this earth you'll find her affection duplicated.”
Such is true of every mother who loves her child, and the world is greatly blessed because of it.
A very kind follower from the UK recently asked if she could write an article about Mitchell's Journeyin THE HYPE MAGAZINE. We were so touched by her thoughtfulness and desire to share Mitchell's story. Her article was beautiful and tender and we were humbled to read her words.
This is her article: http://issuu.com/hypeprivate/docs/shrewsbury_hype_7
Pages 31-32
The days were long but the nights were even longer. With the prospect of days to live, weeks if he was lucky, we did our best to keep our chins up and held our tears at bay for times he was napping. Sometimes we had to excuse ourselves from the room and walk down the long half-lit hospital halls and weep because we couldn't contain our sorrow any longer.
To Mitch we were the strong parents he knew and trusted … ever filled with answers, healing balms and love. But inside we were children ourselves frightened of what tomorrow might bring; frightened by the invisible monster that wasn't just under his bed, but in it.
The doctors had stabilized Mitch with Milrinone, a drug that helped his weary heart find rest. After a few days they wanted to see if Mitch could be weaned from the drug. It would take a little over an hour before the effects of being taken off the drug made manifest. We simply had to wait and see.
Just as the doctors took Mitch off Milrinone my children came to visit – which was a welcomed distraction. My mother, who had come to care for our kids at home, sat on what appeared to be a rolling chair. If you weren't paying much attention you wouldn't notice it was in fact a portable toilet. As we sat and talked for a while Mitch started to sing a line from a popular YouTube video “Sittin On Tha Toilet” – which song he loved to laugh at and sing. We instantly burst into giggles because of the way sweet Mitch was drawing attention to his grandma. He was so observant, so very funny. For the next hour Mitch was smiling and we played word games and laughed together.
We had just taken a bedside family photo (seen in my most recent post OUR SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS). Mitchell’s sense of humor was in full bloom and I was startled by his intelligence and his renewed sense of comedy. We enjoyed a moment of pure bliss – the stuff rich lives are made of. Mitch was off the drug and seemed to be doing fine. Could it be? Perhaps this was a glimmer of hope; maybe the doctors had it all wrong … maybe they made a mistake and his heart wasn't really failing. For a moment we wondered if a catastrophe had been avoided … that perhaps we could resume life as usual as an invisible family who just wanted to be together.
Then, in the blink of an eye something changed and it seemed as if a dark cloud rolled between us and the brittle bliss we knew moments earlier. Mitchell’s countenance changed and tears filled his eyes. In an effort to lift his spirits, Laura-Ashley handed him a cupcake she earlier made for her little brother. Mitch wanted nothing to do with food. It was clear he was crashing and getting very sick in a big hurry. We immediately told the doctors to resume the medicine so our boy would feel better. Our hopes for the future were dashed.
Suddenly I saw with horrifying clarity the pebble upon which Mitchell’s life clung. The abyss that was inching to devour our son finally had its mouth gaping wide open and roaring swallow him up. I fought back the tears as I saw my little boy suffer. Inside I was a little boy, too – I was helpless to save him and desperate to trade places with him.
Two days later we would make our final journey home so Mitch could live out the remainder of his days in the comfort of his own room and in the arms of our love. Soon, Mitchell’s weary, valiant heart would grow fainter until it suddenly stopped. And we would find ourselves with weary hearts of another kind. Over the coming months and year our hearts, which carried the burden of grief and sorrow became wearier still.
I suppose it’s only human to wonder why a little boy who was so innocent and pure was made to suffer and die. Might it be better he live a full life and do much good in the world? What does God have in mind? What does He see that I do not? Surely I cannot comprehend the infinite with my finite mind – but I have a spiritual assurance that transcends mortal experience. Still others blame God for their sorrows and turn their already weary hearts away from the very thing that can truly give us rest.
At least for me, I have come to realize it is more productive to stop asking “why” … to dispense with the idea that I am entitled to a life free of sorrows, as if I should be the world’s only exception. Rather I ask “what am I to learn from this?” Perhaps when I lack insight it’s because I’m not asking the right questions or I’m not listening. The invitation to us mere mortals is to seek and we shall find - to knock and doors will be opened to us. But we must do the seeking, we must do the knocking.
Spiritual assurances aside, my heart remains weary with sorrow. I miss my little boy … I see his empty bed and little shoes and I weep. Though I know Mitch is in that place beyond the hills, I want him here with me … in my living room and within my loving embrace. Grief is such an inferior word.
My heart is weary with sorrow, my soul in need of rest. Though I stumble over pebbles, each day I do my best. While I travel Mitchell’s Journey, without him by my side, I can see the path now … I can see with Heaven’s eyes.
I don't know how my wife did it - she was so very strong. Ordinarily I can compartmentalize my emotions because I have a deeply rooted belief that cool heads and calm hearts are more apt to make the best decisions. That mindset has served me well over the years but the prospect of losing my son ripped my heart out and threw it over the hills into a briar patch of molten sorrow. Happiness seemed a universe away, perhaps forever out of reach.
In the face of my son’s death my wife put her emotions to the side and learned all she could to help Mitch. She was every-bit a hero to her family and son. I tried to be strong but when I looked at my wife I quickly realized the sheer giant I had married so many years ago. I truly stand deep in her shadow.
We had been at the hospital a few days and learned Mitchell’s life was about to end. My wife and I were mortified and unprepared for the descending hell that was thrust upon us. We told our older children the news but decided to tell Wyatt at a later time – for he was so young and we didn't want him to scare his older brother by saying anything prematurely. All Wyatt knew at the time was that Mitch was in trouble and very sick. Within less than a month of this photo my sweet little boy would pass away and my heart would be lost in a wilderness of sorrow. I would need to find my way out … somehow … some way.
The other day my wife and I sat at the foot of our bed and started talking about how much we miss our son – I saw a grief in her eyes that was just as tender as the day we lost Mitch. She told me how hard it has been for her and that she is worried memory will fade. I knew exactly what she meant. Her face expressed a grief that came from the deepest wells of human experience. We wept together – for we both wade in those heavy, dark waters. How, then, are we to find happiness when someone was so woven into our own happiness is gone?
Despite the profound burden of loss I carry, I believe I’m entering a new phase of grief – not because a year has passed and we've crossed some magical threshold, or that others tell me it is time to move on. The truth is, you don’t move on and leave grief behind … you just learn to carry it differently. But something is changing inside me and that change is good. I believe the same is true of my wife. Oh, we still hurt every bit as much as the day we lost our son, but we are taking on new feelings that seem to be a counterbalance to sorrow. We have felt genuine, liberating, and fulfilling happiness.
Over the last few days Ethan and I practiced Lacrosse and I marveled at his awesomeness, Wyatt and I made some funny videos that had us crying because we were laughing so hard, and Laura-Ashley and I talked for a few hours while she practiced driving. These simple moments with my family have brought me so much joy. I love spending time with my wife and children and I would rather be with them than any other humans on the face of the planet … and not a day passes they don’t hear it 100 times. I have an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love for my family – and that brings me deep happiness; a kind of happiness that never wears out or fades, never goes out of fashion, a happiness that is endless and enduring.
While I have discovered happiness again there remains a hole, a missing soul that I miss terribly. In the absence of my precious son, I will continue to explore my joys and sorrows. Be warned, I still have things to share that will be hard to read. Some have suggested I share only happy moments moving forward – but that I will not do. Hell happened. And I will talk about it. My hope at the end of this Journey, however long this road, is that through exploring the many aspects of grief and sorrow others may find my clumsy mileposts and offer some relief they are not alone. Each journey is so different, each sorrow so unique, but perhaps Mitchell’s Journey can help as others navigate their own troubles.
Notwithstanding my deep sorrows I have found happiness. Not because I felt entitled to it, but because I sought after it. True indeed are those prophetic words, “seek and ye shall find” for in them are required actions that unlock truths and make them mine.