Natalie and I sat beside Mitch last year and reminisced about our sweet son. It is rare we take selfies together (or alone) but this moment was an exception because we wanted to remember the moment.
As I took this photo my sweet wife turned and kissed my cheek. I was so touched by her spontaneous love and affection. I thought to myself, “How could I be so lucky?” Then I couldn't help but think how Mitch and my other children have been blessed, comforted and shaped by my wife’s goodness. If she could make me, an adult, feel good inside … I can only imagine what she does for our children.
So we sat on the grass and laughed at the funny things Mitchie did; our hearts swelled at the sweet things he said and we cried because we yearned to have our son back. Though our hearts were heavy with grief, they were also overflowing with love.
Among the many things my son taught me, one of them was gratitude. Mitch had many opportunities to complain how unfair life was for him; but he chose to see the good.
Mitch often said, “I’m the lucky one.” And though the death of my son has broken my heart into a million-pieces-and-one … I want to say to him, “No, my son. You were my child. I’m the lucky one.”
Last night I went on a date with my sweet wife. As we were driving we saw a beautiful sunset and pulled over so we could enjoy the canvas of light that was disappearing before our eyes. Mitch was a fan of sunsets, too, and we couldn't help but think of our little boy and how he would have enjoyed seeing what we saw.
To our left was a most beautiful array of warm colors as the sun was slowly descending; to our right were storm clouds (not seen in this image) that had all manner of deep blues – the contrast was stunning. As my wife walked down a dirt road to take in the sky I couldn't help but think of our journey to find a new normal. Though I didn't see Jupiter with my eyes, I could feel its tug nearby.
Later that evening I posted this photo I took with my phone to Instagram with the caption, “In Search of Home” making a veiled reference to a recent post about our journey from Jupiter, “Should I live out my days marooned in some place between the punishing gravity of grief and the near weightlessness I knew before, I will count myself blessed.”
This image isn't meant to be sad, nor is it a cry for help; rather, it is a symbol of progress, our journey with grief and our search for a new home. It shows we no longer live on Jupiter with its thin air and crushing gravity, though it is close by and the pains of loss shuttle us there often. The point of this image is we don’t live there anymore yet we search for a new home in an unfamiliar place.
For us the world remains unfamiliar on so many levels. The most mundane things remind me the world we once knew is no longer. When we go out to eat or see a movie as a family and we’re asked how many to our party, I often say “six” then quickly correct myself … “Oh, I mean five.” I never knew a simple number could hurt so much. And then there are those who naively say, “It’s been a year, it’s time to move on” … yet they know nothing of such a loss. They remind me that even the people in my life, however well intentioned, live in some other place much different than my own.
What I've come to understand is the journey of grief is as unique as the individual bearing it. I have known death; I have lost a parent, family and best friends, but nothing has acquainted me with deep grief like the death of my child. That is an altogether different, catastrophic sorrow – there is simply no comparison. Yet, I think I have discovered something about grief: we don’t make a journey through grief … instead we make our journey with grief. Once we appreciate the force of that distinction we realize we never get over the death of a child we just learn to carry it differently.
I have witnessed how having a child changes one’s life forever. In life there is simply no equal to the experience of having children. As I've noted earlier, 12 years ago Mitch didn't exist and I was quite content without him … but now that I've had him I find myself struggling to find a way to live without him. Because of Mitch, and my other children, my world has forever changed.
In the grand scheme of things, it seems humanity needs our children as much as they need us – for we are both teachers and students to each other. My children have taught me patience, sacrifice and the deepest meaning of love. Had I forgone the opportunity to have children I would have missed out on the greatest miracle in all the universe.
I have so many new stories to tell about Mitch and his journey. I don’t tell these stories to wallow in sorrow and I don’t tell them for fear my son will be forgotten – I tell them because they are what’s in my heart at the time … and if someone else can find their way through their own struggles, it is well with me.
Though I may speak of grief [often through my grief] know that I do not live in a constant state of sorrow. Let this image become a symbol, not of sadness but of progress … that the journey continues as we search for a new home and a new normal.
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It was late August and we somehow managed to survive our first summer without our son. Saturday morning had come and it was a beautiful, almost dream-like day when we went to visit out son’s place of rest. A few moments prior to this photo I captured Marlie sitting at the foot of Mitchell’s headstone staring at it. After a few moments Natalie quietly sat by Marlie. This little girl, this furry friend to our son and family, looked up at this broken-hearted mommy.
I know dogs are intuitive for I have seen their intuition with my own eyes. This same puppy, much smaller at the time, never left Mitchell’s side while he was sick. And the night Mitch passed she curled around his head as if to comfort him – like a mother would cradle her baby. Now there was another person that needed comfort – a mother who was dying on the inside. I wondered at this moment what Marlie was thinking – did she know that Natalie was in pain? Sometimes I think so.
I sensed Marlie missed Mitch because I would often find her laying on his bed as if to wait for him to come home. She would lay on his pillow in the same way she did when Mitch passed away. I was always saddened to see that.
A few weeks after Mitch passed away a dear friend of our family and mother to one of Mitchell’s best friends, Carter (who I will write about soon), approached us and asked if she could start a 5K run in honor of Mitch called “Miles for Mitchell”.
We were so touched by her thoughtfulness. Natalie loves to run - it is her way of coping. Before Mitchell passed away he said in a soft, almost breathless voice, “Hey mom, you can take Marlie running with you every day. I think she would like that.” Mitch wished he could run like other kids but his muscles were too weak. Natalie kissed Mitch softly and said, “I sure will. I will run with Marlie.”
Natalie has kept her promise and runs every day with this sweet little dog.
We were overwhelmed by the love and support from our local community, neighbors and friends last year. They rallied to help us in a time of crisis and great need – and we were deeply humbled and taken to our knees. That run, Miles for Mitchell, did so much for Natalie’s heart on her path to healing. For she was surrounded by people who cared, who loved her and felt after her broken heart. I suspect this year's run will do the same for her. And that makes my heart glad - for she hurts, too.
For those who want to attend our second annual Miles for Mitchell, the run will be held May 3rd. You can find more details on www.facebook.com/MilesForMitchell or you can register here: http://tinyurl.com/ka5qu89.
Last year the run was aimed at helping our family pay off medical bills and cover funeral expenses – for which we were deeply grateful.
This year, and every year hereafter, we will run to raise awareness for DMD and its catastrophic outcomes, to support Mitchell’s Journey, and help others who hurt.
Marlie, who once brought great comfort to Mitch, now brings a measure of comfort to us.
Only a small measure, but a measure nonetheless.
For that I am grateful.