This summer Mitchell’s Aunt Sonya married a wonderfully loving man. On the evening prior to her wedding we attended a family gathering at my in-laws to celebrate the union of two noble souls who each had their share of hardship and sorrows and were blessed to find one another. It was a moment of rest and reunion, a celebration of love and family and a testament that clouds do break even though the storms of life can seem to last forever.
As we sat in the warm shadow of the hills there wasn't a breeze within 100 miles, I’m sure of it, and the sounds of evening began to softly fill the air. It was a beautiful evening … the kind of evening Mitch, who loved nature, would have come to me and said “Dad, you have to come outside and see this.”
Each of Sonya’s brothers and sisters took turns offering well wishes and honored a woman who spent her life in the service of others. Many made reference to our fallen son and recognized her tender relationship with him. There was a spirit of love and gratitude that night that seemed to reach the heavens and beyond. On this evening an ordinary backyard became hallowed ground.
When it was Natalie’s turn to honor her sister she struggled to speak through emotions that weighed heavy on her soul. Sonya was a faithful friend to Natalie and in many ways a second mother. She was also one of Mitchell’s most ardent champions, always looking out for his medical needs and helping us navigate a bewilderingly vague landscape of “what’s next”.
Natalie told her sister how much she loved her and how grateful she was for being there in times of trouble. Two conversations were taking place; one was spoken and the other felt. On the one hand there were words of love and appreciation and on the other feelings of tremendous sorrow. At the end of her tear-filled tribute, I remember seeing my wife hug her sister and they both wept at the loss of a little boy they loved deeply. The look of love and anguish on my wife’s face broke me.
I found myself taking more photos than normal this day so as to hide my face that, despite my best efforts, was racked with emotion. All I wanted to do was crawl inside a bush or a forest or a deep cave and water the earth with my tears. Yet despite the pain of this moment, seeing my tender wife suffer a parent’s greatest loss, I also saw beauty.
Aristotle had it right when he said we become what we repeatedly do.
In this moment I saw two women who spent their lives offering love and grace to others and in turn they received the same from many. Sure there have been some dark souls who didn't reciprocate their tender love and goodness. But they never let the darkness of others get to them nor the hardships of life make them bitter. They continued to love and lift others freely and make the best of whatever difficulties befell them. These two women became what they repeatedly practiced.
We often think of shields as being hard and impenetrable. But there are other shields that cannot be seen and sometimes they present themselves as an earthly paradox. Some shields are strongest when they are soft; and in matters of the soul it is a paradox with a heavenly promise. In their case, these two women became what they repeatedly practiced: soft and graceful. And when hardships came and threatened to destroy them, the grace and goodness in their hearts became a shield unto them. The softness in their hearts protected them from becoming calloused, hardened or resentful. Instead of letting life’s hardships make them bitter, the grace in their hearts made them better.
As I think upon this tender moment I cannot help but see great sorrow by the loss of my son. But in the depths of this sorrow I also see grace. And where there is grace there is beauty.
I think it's safe to say that 1 out of every 10 thoughts is not about my son.
I have been to many funerals in my life; my father passed away when I was 18. That was hard. Since then I have experienced all manner of loss – but I have never known a sorrow such as this. And as much as I would love to take one, there are no shortcuts.
I once wrote in my journal: “I’m not sure which is heavier: all the granite on earth … or grief.” I can say with confidence that it isn't granite.
Our hospice nurse, who is no stranger to loss, encouraged us to allow grief to take its course – all the way to rock bottom – and from there we could begin to rebuild our lives. I don’t know where “rock bottom” is or what it feels like. I only know that I’m still falling down the rabbit hole of grief. I’m not spiraling out of control, but I can tell the bottom is still a great distance below. And sometimes, when I least expect it, it is difficult to keep my breath.
The day Mitchell’s headstone arrived was surreal; I remember taking my wife to see it that evening where we learned a new definition for sober. I remember how hard it was to breathe that day – my chest and lungs exhausted from weeping. Every time I entered the cemetery tears would invariably flow. Like a teething baby, the front of my shirt would be drenched with tears.
I can go to the cemetery now without crying – at least not the entire time.
This summer has been a blessing for me, personally. With my kids at various summer camps, etc. circumstances were such that I could spend many evenings by my son – even if only for a moment. I knew he wasn't there -- but I so wanted him to be. And while I sat by my son’s remains, I was able to reflect and sort out many thoughts and feelings and write about them. The cemetery became something of a second home to me. The grass a warm carpet and the atmosphere, comforting walls of serenity. When I look back on my summer months trying to process my own grief, I have good memories. Healing memories.
Things are changing now. As fall inches toward winter each day the grass seems to grip the cold and hold it like a grudge … a whisper of colder air to come. And, for a season, I will miss those warm evenings by my son.
When I leave the cemetery I invariably look through my rear-view mirror to see my son’s headstone before I drive away. In like manner, I have found myself looking through the rear-view mirror of my own life. I look back not to dwell on hard things and sadness but to learn from my own experiences and hopefully become equipped to make better decisions in the future.
I have heard it said so many times before that “no parent should bury their child” … but that kind of reflection does nothing for me, or anyone. Life shows us in painful abundance that hard things happen … and sometimes we must bury our children. I would give anything to have my baby back – but I cannot. And wishing won’t make it so. So, rather than focusing on what “shouldn't happen” or the apparent unfairness of it all, I find myself looking through the rear-view mirror and then to the future … trying to learn from this incredible hardship.
As I tumble down the rabbit hole of grief I anxiously await rock bottom. And on my way to that unfamiliar place I am healing a little and hopefully that healing will give me the strength to break my fall and lessen the impact.
As much as he loved water, Mitchell was always nervous about the ocean. I remember watching him walking out into the surf just past his ankles, putting his hands on his little hips and thinking for a few minutes. There he stood with his cute little Star Wars shorts and swim shirt, thinking about the adventure that lay at his feet. The waves were small but still intimidating to him because his muscles were weak and uncoordinated. The cold surf would brush up against the bottoms of his shorts and he would hold his ground and giggle as he wrestled with his watery opponent.
He wasn't that interested in going out much further and I often asked him why – to which he would respond with a half-smile and he would look in the opposite direction. It wasn’t until he was home under hospice care when he finally told me why he was afraid: sharks. When he finally told me I briefly chuckled, then my eyes welled with tears and I kissed his forehead and hugged him and said “Oh, son, how I love you. I would have jumped in front of any shark to keep you safe.” Feeling emboldened by my willingness to protect him, he then asked if we could watch Jaws together.
“Like a swimmer who encounters a powerful rip current, thrashing about and fighting the current will waste energy and pull you to the bottom of the sea. But relaxing and allowing the current to take you, as painful and scary as it seems at the moment, keeps you near the surface and conserves energy for that swim back to shore when the current has passed. Managing grief is not much different. ”
Before I lost my son I thought I could empathize with those who might have lost a child. But I soon discovered I was merely dabbling in phonetics and wordplay and that there is no word in the human language that can adequately describe the pain of that kind of loss. I want my son back so badly sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of grief and sorrow.
I have become a student of grief and am learning how to swim every day. Along this difficult journey I have discovered that grief feels much like wading in the ocean with its many, many currents: sometimes there are peaceful warm moments, other times powerfully sad undertows, plenty of rain, cold pockets and occasionally crushing waves of sorrow that leave you disoriented and scrambling to breathe.
I have observed others, who grappling with their own profound grief seem to be drowning while fighting the powerful emotional currents. While I am new to this loss, their struggle is intensely familiar to me … and I feel like I know those currents all too well.
At least for me, I am learning to allow the currents of grief and sorrow run their course. Like a swimmer who encounters a powerful rip current, thrashing about and fighting the current will waste energy and pull you to the bottom of the sea. But relaxing and allowing the current to take you, as painful and scary as it seems at the moment, keeps you near the surface and conserves energy for that swim back to shore when the current has passed. Managing grief is not much different.
Before Mitchell passed away our hospice nurse offered council on managing grief. She was quick to point out how some people tend to medicate their sorrows with various addictions. Her council was to allow grief to take its course, in a healthy way. There is no pill, no drink and no preoccupation that can save you from grief. As Robert Frost once said, ‘The only way out is through’. And, in truth, shortcuts are only a mirage.
But alas, all of this remains wordplay. For the truth is, treading the sea of grief is bewildering. It is cold. It is lonely beyond measure. There is more salt in my tears than all the waters of earth. And somewhere out there … far into the horizon, even to infinity, my son lives. Every part of me longs to see him and hug him once more. And as I look to the captain of my soul and swim how I ought, I will find him again. But the sea of grief remains vast … how deep I know not … how treacherous yet, I know not. I only know that I’m not drowning … and for now, that will do.
We just returned from a family vacation that was gifted to us by some generous colleagues with whom I work. While on our trip I took a photo of this sunset on the shore of the Pacific Ocean and wrote in my journal: “Good night little Mitch. You are always on my mind. And while I know you're not lost at sea, sometimes in my heart you may as well be.”
I then posted this photo and that caption on my personal Facebook page and a dear friend wrote: “Consider him your lighthouse now... so you can make it back home...”
As I pondered his words I felt the truth of them and gratitude filled my heart.
I have been blessed with a little boy whose short life has sparked a light in my heart and another light far into the horizon. And when the skies darken, as they surely will, and the sea of life thrashes and threatens to destroy, I will look to the light within me and then to the light a great way off. My compass. My lighthouse. My son.