We're off to another camping adventure as a family. On the way up the canyon we reminisced past camping trips with Mitch and laughed and smiled. This is going to be a great weekend.
The night before Mitchell passed away we sensed time was running out. As the sky quickly darkened the air grew eerily cold … and with each breadth, we felt a heavy, somber feeling grow within our hearts. That abyss that was inching to devour our son had its mouth stretched wide and was beginning to swallow him up.
We were preparing to cuddle with Mitch in his room and read him stories to comfort him when we received a call from his best friend and next-door neighbor who wanted to see if he could play. Unaware that Mitchell was already slipping away and was coming in and out of consciousness (mostly out), we asked this young boy if we could speak to his mother. We told her Mitch didn't have much time and that perhaps her son would want to come over one last time. Within a few minutes of that call, this young boy came over to say goodbye to our baby, his best buddy.
Mitch absolutely loved Luke. Whenever he heard his friend knock on the door Mitch would yell out, “Lukey!!!” Mitch was always excited to spend time with him … so this last visit would mean more to Mitch than I think Luke realizes to this day.
What I then witnessed in the quite of Mitchell’s room was the most tender interaction between two young boys I have ever seen. It was a sacred exchange between two boys made of clay – each being shaped by experience, hardship, sacrifice, and love.
Lying on the bed was our young boy much too young to die. Standing next to him, another young boy holding his hand, bearing his young soul … much too young to say goodbye. It was not my place to ask God why such heavy things were required by hands of these two innocent souls. Instead, I began to ponder deeply and pray in my heart to understand what we were meant to learn from this hardship.
These aren't the only two children to experience this, and they won’t be the last. But they were our kids … and we loved them so. It hurt so very much to see.
This young boy, who had loved Mitch like a brother and faithfully served him with all his heart told Mitchell how much he meant to him, that because of Mitch he learned what it meant to be a true friend and that he would never forget him. Luke struggled to hold back the tears, his voice was broken with emotion, as Mitchell lay unable to move or speak. His eyes barely open, my little son listened to tender words of affection and friendship. My wife and I wept as we witnessed love and friendship in its purest form. I knew that Luke, Mitchell’s faithful little friend, was breaking inside.
Afterward, I hugged him and told him how much my wife and I loved and appreciated him. I told him I was sure if Mitchell were able to speak he would tell Luke that he loved him like a brother and that he appreciated how he was always there to help him when his muscles were too weak, and how much it meant to him that he always cheered him up when he was sad. I told Luke that he taught Mitchell and his parents what it meant to be “your brother’s keeper” and that we were so grateful to him.
Later that evening I couldn't help but think of that tender experience between these two young boys who were forced to grow up much too fast. I pondered the meaning of human suffering and the difficult experiences we are sometimes required to endure. I have learned to appreciate an old Jewish proverb, "Don't pray for lighter burdens, pray for a stronger back". It would seem that in all religious texts, no matter one’s religion, God makes no apology for pain and suffering. In fact, I have come to understand there is a sacred relationship between suffering and spirituality if we learn to listen and endure it well.
I admit the burden of losing my precious son has my knees trembling, hands shaking and my soul in tremendous pain. There exist no words in the human language to describe the depths of this sorrow. It is simply, utterly, bewilderingly heavy. But, like all suffering, the sting of that pain can make way to a deeper compassion toward others, a greater capacity to love, a stronger desire to reach toward God and understand His purposes.
The truth is, we are [all of us] no different than these two little boys. We are all made of clay. And with each choice we make, each reaction to events in our life, we carve out something beautiful or something hideous – something that loves or hates. We need only look at our own life experience to know this is true … we have all seen some let the clay in their hearts harden and become brittle or unmovable. Others allow the tears of suffering to keep their clay soft and pliable.
It has been an agonizing 1 year and 7 months since I have seen my precious son. My clay is still drenched with tears and soggy. One day the tears will eventually dry and I will do all that I can to remain pliable.
When my kids were younger we used to play a game when I made down my bed for the evening. They would each stand in the corner of the room as I chucked our decorative pillows at them ... a kind of domestic dodge ball.
I would always sail the pillows at Ethan as hard as I could because he was so nimble and fast. To Mitch, I would pretend to throw them hard but would then softly lob them so he could either dodge or get brushed by a pillow as it flew by. Mitch would laugh so hard - I can still hear his giggles in my mind. Wyatt, he would sometimes want to throw pillows with me and other times have me throw them at him. Last night, in memory of Mitch and the good times, Ethan and I took up this old tradition and we laughed.
I took this photo with my iPhone as I threw pillows at my son. Although the image quality is poor, it is the substance that counts.
It was so hard to see our son slip into oblivion. I’ll always remember how lovingly Natalie held Mitch as he struggled to breathe and keep balance. Mitch was taking medicine to erase from his mind oxygen hunger – without it he would be panicked, breathless, and gasping for air. It was a medicine of mercy. As Mitch descended further into the abyss he began taking other medications to erase from his mind the pain of organ failure and the panic of dying.
We were not prepared for such things; we knew how to make macaroni and cheese, play UNO and swim in ponds. We knew how to laugh and play, do homework and tell stories at bedtime. We didn't know how to manage the symptoms of death – let alone watch our little boy die.
My dear wife demonstrated a bravery and steadiness that humbles me to my core. She was soft and tender to Mitch and never did anything to scare him – even though in her heart she was terrified beyond measure. Occasionally I would find her in our closet weeping next to a pile of tissues – but around Mitch, she was steady and sure.
Although my sweet wife and I did our best to prepare for the holocaust of losing our son, I discovered it wasn't possible to intellectually or emotionally prepare for such a loss. Yes, I knew it was coming and I wept in sorrow anticipating the loss of my son – but, with all the sorrow I knew at the time, I at least had the hope of another moment. There was always hope of another something – and that kept the true weight of grief at bay. It wasn't until Mitch was gone that the true weight of grief broke every part of me. All the sorrow I knew before, anticipating his death, was but a foretaste of a much deeper pain to come. That was when my heart was hurled into oblivion.
I have learned the true hell of losing a child happens in the aftermath, long after flowers and casseroles – that is when it’s hardest. And it is hard for a long, long time. It isn't hard for want of sympathy, it is hard because he is gone. Really gone. Days seem to stretch eternal and night, with its promise of sleep, is a welcomed escape from oblivion and the heaviness of grief.
For the next year and a half I found myself slipping in and out of oblivion. The first 12 months were absolute oblivion – there were more moments of tears than no tears. Thankfully that is not the case today. I still cry every day, but I no longer cry all day.
I find myself slipping into oblivion at the most unexpected times. Although oblivion is no longer home to my broken heart, it is a second home and my heart will take residence there without any warning at all.
In fact, just yesterday I was in a business meeting discussing many important topics related to our future as a business. At one point, without warning or provocation, I was taken over by a profound sense of loss. “He’s gone. Mitch is actually gone.” I found myself quietly gasping for air thinking to myself, “I can't believe he’s gone.” It was a wrestle of the soul. I tried to push those feelings aside so I wouldn't erupt in tears in the middle of our meeting in front of the other men. By the time I reached my office and shut my door, the floodgates opened. I wept as though I just lost him.
I don't know how to grieve any more than I know how to watch my child die. I just know how to make macaroni and cheese and play with my kids. I know how to cuddle by the campfire and dream up bedtime stories. I don't know how to live without Mitch – but I don't have a choice in the matter. Each day I take a step forward – and each day is a little better than the day before.
I miss my son – every moment of every day I miss him. I wish I didn't have to go through this. And though I find my heart in oblivion at the most unexpected moments, I'm somehow able to find my way back to that path of healing, that path of peace, and thankfully I haven't lost any ground.
Somewhere on the other side of all this hell, is heaven. I seek after that.