A few years ago Mitch came dashing into my office and said, “Dad, come quickly! You have to see the most amazing rainbow.” I put Mitch on my back and quickly carried him upstairs to our front door. Indeed there was a rainbow, and it was beautiful. A summer storm had just broken and the afternoon sun revealed a most amazing spectacle of light against the backdrop of deep storm clouds and mountain shadows.
Mitch pointed to the array of colors and shadows and said, “Isn't it amazing, Dad?” I kissed his forehead and said, “Yes, son, it is amazing; but not as amazing as you. You, little boy, are more amazing than all the rainbows combined.” Mitch reached up and gave me a tender hug.
I stumbled into this photo recently and was brought back to this sweet exchange with my son. As I looked at this photo I had a moment of clarity that is difficult to describe; clarity about love and loss, grief and coping, and life after the storm. I am new to all of this grief stuff and I am sorting it out a little every day.
Recently I've been thinking about the notion “Your loved one wouldn't want you to be sad.” I believe this is an abused and confused statement. Surely our loved ones want us to be happy, but they also understand our sorrows in ways we do not - and it isn't necessary to feel guilt or veiled shame for hurting. Hurting is hard enough.
I believe Mitch knows, with great clarity, every tear I shed is a symbol of the deep love I have for him. They are also tender prayers to my Father that my weary heart might someday find rest. I believe our loved ones who have passed on, if they are permitted to see our sorrows, don’t look upon us with pity or disappointment that we hurt, but rather deep understanding. For they know the depth of our grief is matched only by the depth of our love. Yes, they want for our happiness, but they also understand our hurt. I believe they reverence our grief more than we appreciate.
At least for me, coping with grief isn't about faux bravery or denying my most tender feelings for my son. It isn't about somehow stepping out of the shadows of sorrow – as though such shadows don’t exist. Coping with grief is about learning to see the light despite the inescapable shadows of sorrow.
I see the light.
In my quest for peace and understanding I am learning that it’s okay to hurt, so long as I don’t hurt myself.
I remember looking across the alter at my wife as I held her hand and said “I do”. We made a promise that we would love and support each other the best we knew how; in sickness and health, in death and everything in between. On that special day, it never entered our minds or hearts that we would have a child who would be a cause of so much joy and so much sorrow. I just held my sweet wife’s hand at the alter and thought myself the luckiest guy on earth.
Fast forward about 15 years and my sweet wife and I found ourselves almost in the same position, only this time we had our dying son between us. We didn't see this coming the day we married. Few do.
As I held my son’s hand and looked at two souls I loved with all of my heart, I was reminded of our wedding day and the promises I made. I knew I wouldn't be perfect, but I would be true. Together we would stumble and fall, but always, we would see each other through.
Mitch was having a painful procedure performed by the hospice nurse. He was nervous and wanted it to be done quickly. At the time, Mitch wasn't aware we were desperately doing all we could to buy him another day, or hour. If ever our son walked on thin ice, it was never as thin as this. As the procedure began Mitch squeezed my hand and I gently gave him a hand hug to let him know I cared. My tender wife caressed his face and kissed his cheek to let him know she was there.
Brave Mitch wore his Call of Duty shirt my sister gave him as a welcome home gift. I couldn't help but think my son a fighter of a different kind, far behind enemy lines. His biological enemy, Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, was merciless and invisible and eventually gave him a fatal blow. There are no medical weapons, yet, to defeat such an enemy. DMD is aggressive and 100% fatal – it is only a matter of time before there is none.
Two weeks later I would once again hold my boys hand in much the same way as this day … with my wife quietly weeping at his side as my best buddy was slipping into oblivion.
I've spent a great deal of time contemplating the notion “time heals everything.” I have had many tell me time does heal and just about as many (even after 50 years) say it does not. Which, then, is true? I say both – but both statements are answers to different questions.
Healing and restoration are not the same. I believe those who eventually make peace with death come to know the difference. I wonder if part of the struggle of grief is confusing restoration with healing.
Were I to talk to a war veteran who lost a limb 20 years ago, I am rather confident time will not have restored him. Surely there will be healing; the site of injury will seal up and scars may fade over time, but his limb will still be missing. It will always be missing.
I have lost a child who depended on me for protection and love; I would have rather lost all my limbs, my sight and hearing than lose my son. For me, losing Mitch is infinitely worse – for a child is more than a limb, they are an extension of your heart and soul. Like a lost limb, he will always be missing from my life and I must learn to walk and live without him. At least in this life, I am coming to terms that I will not experience restoration, however much my broken heart desires it.
Like an amputee, I will always be missing a part of me. Yet, thankfully I am healing. There has never been a day, or an hour, I don’t think of Mitch … that I don’t reach for him. I have, at long last, finally reached a point with grief where there are days I do not cry. However, I seem to make up for those days when I do cry. But I don’t cry all the time. Until recently, I used to. The passage of time will not restore my son anymore than an amputee can regrow a limb, but time will allow my wounds to close if I dress them properly.
One day, in a time and place different than this, I will see my boy again and I will fall to my knees and weep. Until such things are restored, I am thankful that time and patience has seen the bleeding stop. The site of my wound is as tender as it’s ever been; tears and heartache are just a memory away. But, with heaven’s help I am healing, however slowly, a little more each day.
In moments of profound grief, when I fall to the earth and can’t help but weep, I will remember the promises I made and promises I shall keep … on the day of our wedding when I held my wife’s hand, and this very moment when I held my baby made of sand. Come whatever, come what may, I will stand beside you until my dying day.
My dear wife wanted to take our kids out last night so we could spend time as a family. Ethan is on a scout trip, but Laura-Ashley and Wyatt were with us. We visited a nearby pond Mitch loved to visit and capture sunsets with his iPod. Soon I will start exploring his iPod with his many photos, videos and other things he created. I will share some of that here, too. It is sure to be a tender, emotional experience.
Natalie and Laura-Ashley ran to the store to get a loaf of bread while Wyatt and I waited on the dock. Wyatt and I talked about our plans for the summer and I was as excited to spend time with him as any person on earth.
It wasn't long before the girls returned and we began to feed the gaggle geese and all manner of web-footed creatures that seemed to know the party was just about to start and came racing to the dock. Our aim was to throw little pieces of bread near the baby ducks so they could eat first. These baby ducks were so little, fast and light they could almost run on top of the water. They were so very cute. Mitch loved baby animals.
I loved last night. I loved every second of it. There couldn't have been a more perfect night. Well, if Mitch were with us, in the way we want him with us, it would have been whole. But, like my friend and author John Michael Stuart taught me about what it means to be human, “Perfect is a relative term.” With what we had, last night was perfect and for that I am grateful.
My heart was at peace last night because I was so grateful to be surrounded by people I love with all my heart. I’m just an imperfect man and I know I am hard to live with at times – and I am grateful they still keep me. Although imperfect I love my family perfectly – at least I think I do. That is until I fall deeper in love with my wife and kids and realize all the love I thought I knew was just beginning. To my surprise the depths of love grow deeper still.
I miss my little Mitch and I am slowly learning how to live without him. One of the great challenges for those who grieve the death of a child is learning how to reconcile the past, make peace with a painful present and look to the future with a hope of an easier tomorrow. No small task.
I love the words of Elana K. Arnold, “Perhaps that is where our choice lies -- in determining how we will meet the inevitable end of things, and how we will greet each new beginning.” It seems to me that is the quintessential story of life; a series of painful ends and hopeful beginnings – and how we respond to them shape us in ways we do not yet realize.
I am grateful for each new day, a chance to begin again. Yet, I needn't wait for tomorrow to begin again … for every moment of every day is a chance to begin anew.
Last night was a blessing; for there was peace in my heart, beauty all around and most importantly more love than I knew what to do with. Every moment I am learning, and when I stumble with grief or life, I choose to begin anew.
It was April 2012, Mitchell’s last spring, and we were about to head home from our annual Easter trip at our family ranch. A few weeks prior I had returned from a business trip in Honduras and was so glad to be back with my family. The US State Department issued a travel warning indicating the risk was critically high, having the highest murder rate in the world. While there I was careful, but I found the people of that country beautiful, kind and my heart went out to them. I fell in love with their people and wished only to help them. Coming home was especially sweet because I realized how blessed I have been. The lyrics to the song “Because I have Been Given Much, I Too Must Give” kept playing in my mind.
While I have enjoyed traveling the world a little, I have discovered how much my family is my world. I would sooner explore the peaks and valleys of family life with them than visit all the wonders of earth.
As I took this photo of my kids I remember feeling the genuine, unrestrained love among these children. My heart sang. Mitch surrounded by siblings and a cousin proudly wore the soccer jersey I gave him as a souvenir from Honduras. Unlike his siblings, Mitchie would wear his souvenirs long after my other kids moved on from theirs. It wasn't that my other children were ungrateful; Mitch just had a heart that was more sentimental than the average person. While he loved getting things, he appreciated the meaning behind things even more. You could give him a paperclip and say, “I got this for you because it reminded me how sweet you are.” Mitch would treasure that simple paperclip as an emblem of affection. Sweet Mitch was the keeper of many virtues; chief among them, gratitude. I love that little boy.
At this moment I had no idea we would have less than a year with our son. No one handed me a memo that read, “Mind your moments, it’s later than you think.”
A few weeks from this photo we would get just such a memo from Mitchell’s cardiologist that read, “Beware: Mitchell’s heart is in trouble.” We had hope medicine would slow the catastrophic muscle wasting to his heart, but we were awakened to the harsh realities of DMD, once again. I remember not sleeping well the night we got the first memo. I went to my computer and put this video together. (vimeo.com/42931543) In many respects, this was my first real post on Mitchell’s Journey. Sure I’ve back-dated some early photos, but this was my first, clunky attempt at sharing the gravity of it all.
Within six months of this photo, we would get second memo that our son was in serious trouble and was at risk of sudden death. Within 10 months, a memo our son would die any day. Then, a few weeks later, the end.
I wonder how often life has handed me a memo and I ignored it because I was too proud, too preoccupied or simply chasing squirrels. I have always tried to manage life’s memos, but being human I am sure I missed some. I know I cannot change the past, redo missed moments, nor can I undo my mistakes however big or small; but I can own my moments … from this moment to forever. I get it now. I got the memo.
I cannot wait for the day I get the memo that says “Your son is just around the corner.” For I will run to him with paperclips and kisses and a heart overflowing with love. I think I will cry. Forever.