Goodnight little Mitch.
Mitch nervously reached for his mother’s hand, unsure of the adventure that stood before him. Natalie whispered, “It’s okay, Mitchie, mommy will help you.” This was Mitchell’s first day of pre-school and his first step into the brave new world that lay just beyond our fence. Mitchell’s little Spiderman backpack, tenderly filled with his blankets and favorite treasures, would bring him comfort while he was away from home.
It isn't uncommon for children with DMD to need a little boost at the beginning of their school career. Little Mitch attended a pre-school for kids who needed that special boost. It didn't take much for Mitch to catch up and become mainstreamed. But his first day was delicate.
Natalie wanted Mitch learn independence, so she arranged to have the school bus make a special trip to pick him up. Each day she would help Mitchie board the bus, get his seat belt on and then kiss his face. Mitch would smile and say “Bye mommy.” Every single day, as the bus left our neighborhood my noble wife would jump in her minivan and shadow the bus that carried her precious cargo. She could have easily drove him to school each day and avoided the hassle of boarding and un-boarding – or she could have had the bus bear the burden altogether – but Natalie traded inconvenience for love.
Because climbing stairs was difficult [almost impossible] for him, she would greet Mitch at either stop and lovingly help him on or off the bus and into class. But she didn't encourage this routine to help him transfer from bus to pavement (others could have helped him with that), she did this so Mitch could learn to believe in himself – to know he could do hard things. That he was always capable of more.
I marveled watching Mitch hold his mother’s hand on his first day as he took unsure steps toward a new adventure. But even more, I marveled how Mitch became a little more confident and surer with each passing day. That was the gift she gave our son.
Within about 7 years of this photo Natalie, with a broken heart, would hold Mitchell’s hand before he passed away: loving him, encouraging him and letting him know she was there – like always. At my son’s bed I heard her say those same words she lovingly said on his first day of school, “It’s okay, Mitchie, mommy will help you.” This time Mitch would take nervous steps toward a brave new world, just beyond a different fence. Because of his mother, who traded inconvenience for love, Mitch knew he could do hard things.
Today is Mitchell’s birthday. He would have been twelve. When I think of all the gifts he was given as a child, there was none so great as what his mother gave him. The gift of confidence and assurance. The gift of love. For those are gifts money cannot buy – and oft purchased by inconvenience and love.
We will be doing something sacred in honor of Mitch this morning. Tonight we will go to The Olive Garden as a family and enjoy his favorite meal. Though my heart is broken and heavy, I am grateful for my son and my wife – who taught me how to love and so much more about life.
When I look at this image I can’t help but be reminded of the meaning of life. I can see the Father of my soul do the same things to me: from holding my hand as I take nervous steps into the unknown, to the whisper “It’s okay, I will help you” and “You can do hard things.” I sense a greater purpose to everything.
I get a lot of messages from caring people who wonder how my wife and other children are doing. I understand that question. Because this blog has focused heavily on Mitch and my own grief process, people are left to wonder whether others in my family are being left behind.
Though I have thousands upon thousands of stories yet to tell and photos to share of Mitch and his journey, I recognize Mitchell’s Journey didn't end upon his passing. The echo of Mitch and his life continues to be felt in our family. I will share some contemporary snapshots of our family and life in the coming months - because we, too, carry Mitchell's Journey in our hearts. His journey has forever changed the trajectory of ours.
I have recognized an interesting trend on Mitchell’s Journey. At first this was a quiet, ordinary place to post. Then came the holocaust of losing my son. Out of curiosity many came to watch someone die. But now, I see more and more people coming to watch how to live.
But what is living? It is hurting. It is winning. And losing. It’s trying each day to be a little better than we were the day before. Sometimes, when I walk on Jupiter, I can only hope to catch my breath and not be crushed under the gravity of grief. At least for me, I have come to believe living is loving. For without love, we are dead inside.
Though I write almost exclusively of Mitch here, I have just as many memories and just as many photos of my other children. Each journey is just as unique and wonderful as my fallen son’s.
So, this is us. We’re imperfect, sometimes a little unsure of ourselves, sometimes a lot. But we are always real. We would give the shirt off our back for someone in need and wish we had enough shirts to blanket the world with warmth and love.
Although we miss Mitch with all our hearts, in our brokenness we have learned to love deeper and appreciate each moment with greater clarity.
We don’t do family portraits very well. But we dance in the kitchen, we cry on the couch. We walk to the park and love to hang out. We fight a little. We laugh a lot. If ever there were an end to a rainbow, I have hit the jack pot.
Most importantly, we love.
Always.
As a young boy I was told I might have, with a little luck, some once in a lifetime opportunities. Inspired, I began to search after them – for they were sure to promise novelty and happiness. But what were they? Are they rare? Are they for the lucky ones? Would I be so lucky as to stumble into one at some point in my life?
Sure enough, over the years, I've encountered them. Some were as unique as I imagined. Sometimes I blew it. Other times I drank those opportunities in. Being human, I am sure some have passed me by.
Then, one day, my sweet wife and I were at a park with my kids and I had a moment of clarity and realized they weren't rare at all and that I was surrounded by them. It occurred to me at that moment my family was just that - a once in a lifetime opportunity. Every moment with them was unique and fleeting. I don't get to do my days, or my hours, or minutes over. I realized I will never have now again. Suddenly, my eyes were opened and I saw my wife and children anew.
Mitchell was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I pray I never took him for granted or squandered the time I had. As much as I tried to appreciate each moment, I am pained that I did not. But making mistakes is part of being human - and I am learning to live with that.
I loved my son the best I knew how, and I hope he felt it.
I remember sitting at the foot of Mitchell’s bed as he was nearing the end of his life. His heart was weary and his body was giving up. Believing my son was sound asleep I began to think about my life with Mitch and his hopes and dreams that he would never realize.
My heart broke that my son, this once in a lifetime opportunity was coming to an end. Once again, I wept a broken father’s tears. As I wept in sorrow I caused the bed to shake a little and Mitch asked, “Dad, why are you crying?” I wiped my tears and tried to laugh it off because I didn't want to frighten him. But I was so very frightened to lose him. So very scared.
A few days later my son … my little buddy, my soul mate was gone; this once in a lifetime opportunity.
I don't know how many more once in a lifetime opportunities I will encounter in my life. I know each day with my wife and children are just that - and I will try harder to make the most of my time and let them know how much I love them in my every word and my every deed.
This much I do know … when I see my son again in that place beyond the hills, I will run to him as fast as my legs will carry me. I will crush mountains and drain the seas to clear a path so I can have my son back with me. I may trip and I may fall, and if my legs give out … I won’t stop, I will crawl.
And when finally I reach him, I will embrace my boy like I always did … with all the love I have … and could ever hope to give.