This was Mitchell’s last time at his grandmothers – the place, other than home, he loved to be above all others. I’m not sure if it was the chocolate cake from Costco she would get especially for him, or the small 4-wheelers he could ride into the woods, or if it was the escape from life as he knew it, maybe it was the unbridled love he received – but whatever it was, he wanted to be there.
As we stood at the door and said goodbye my mother reached behind Mitch, who is as shy as he is sweet, and kissed his cheek. I could tell Mitch felt so good inside. I think everybody deserves to feel good inside.
I captured this tender moment with my phone. As we left her place there was a certain heaviness in my heart. I didn’t know where my feelings were coming from – I just sensed something was happening. Something significant. As we drove away I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat. Had I known this was his last trip there, I would have begged to stay another day or two. My mother said after we left she just sat on the floor and wept. Perhaps her soul, not knowing the end was coming, was being prepared for this loss.
It was the last few days of November and the Christmas holidays were just around the corner. I could tell Mitch was excited to see what Santa would bring –but he was even more excited about the gifts he was going to give everyone else. Mitch always gave to others freely. I think deep inside he felt no matter how much he gave, he always got more in return.
Even when Mitch was home on hospice, he spent his hard-saved money on a collection of Warheads (very sour candy) and gave them away. I remember sitting with him on the edge of his bed as he separated the flavors. He softly pointed to the blue raspberry ones and said almost in a whisper, struggling to breathe, “These ones are rare. They’re my favorite.” He then grabbed my hand and put the precious 3 candies in my palm, then closed my fingers and pushed my hand back to me. I said to him, “Oh, no Mitchie, these are yours. You keep them because I know you love them.” As I reached to give them back he pushed my hand back to me with a gentle smile and said, “No, you keep them. And I want you to eat one right now.” My heart sank a little because I wanted him to have his favorite treats, but I realized in that moment that letting Mitch give was the gift he really wanted.
So, I opened one quickly and put it in my mouth. Mitch began to smile and giggle as I puckered and writhed over the intense sour candy that was destroying my taste buds. Mitch finally burst out in laughter as he saw me cry out “I can’t take it!” For Mitch, giving was a win to him. And seeing me almost gag over the super-sour candy was a second win that paid dividends of giggles and laughter.
I still have those other two candies in a special box that contains treasures from Mitch.
Mitch reminds me daily what it means to win. Sometimes life gives us double-wins when everything turns out as planned. Other times we do our best and appear to fail; but if we are honest and do our best we have already won, regardless of the outcome. What is winning, really? It is doing the right thing – no matter the cost. Mitch always did the right thing. And more often than not, he won twice.
With all his double-wins, my little boy lost his battle with life … yet he won his soul by the way he lived it. And, by the grace of God, while I stumble and fall a million times as I chase after my son, I hope to hold him once more. I hope to look into his innocent eyes and thank him for helping me understand to do good and be good is what it means to truly win.
Goodnight little Mitch.
Tomorrow we run in your memory.
Forever I run to you.
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.