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.
We had just gone to the mountains to take some family photos. This was the day we took our last family portrait, save the one taken by a dear follower 2 days before Mitch passed away. That was a family portrait of a different caliber – one that we reverence.
I generally avoid posed photos because I much prefer raw captures of life unrehearsed. Besides, nothing is more fatiguing to others than to have someone say “Okay, everyone stop what you’re doing and look at me so I can take a semi-candid photo of you smiling.” I would rather photograph someone laughing at the dinner table, food-in-mouth, than take a staged photo where hair and makeup are perfect but illusory. Over the years I have captured tears and triumphs, sadness and glee … moments that are difficult to look at and send me to my knees. But these images are my life, they are what I see – and I will always take them unapologetically.
So, on this day, for some reason we felt it important to take some family photos and I am glad we did. What you see here is a photo of me taking my daughter’s portrait on the left, and the exact photo I took on the right. I was unaware Mitch had another camera trained on me and he took this photo of me taking a photo. Mitch had seen previous images I had taken in Nicaragua where one of my colleagues took a photo of me taking a photo and I had done something similar to what you see here. I remember pointing to that Nicaragua photo set and saying, “Mitch, can you see what a difference perspective can make?” I continued to tell my son that so often with life it isn’t what you see, it’s how you see it. Mitch, having seen what I had earlier done tried to recreate that same juxtaposition. Well done, son. I miss you.
I have always wanted my children to learn how to see with their true eyes; to understand a fundamental truth … that so often it isn't what we see that matters, but how we see it. So much of what plagues humanity, it seems, is seeing things from a single, myopic perspective. There is a saying that goes, “Those that hurt others, hurt.” Perhaps the solution to those who compulsively gossip, who say and do harmful things isn't to retaliate in-kind, but to recognize they are hurting, too, and seek to discover the sliver in their soul that is causing them pain. And if we’re listening, if we stop looking only at what we see on the surface and change how we see, perhaps we can truly help others. I have discovered the best way to disarm someone is to love them.
It’s not what you see, it’s how you see it. In the case of these images, neither are wrong, they just tell a different story. And although this photo is not of my son, one of these photos was taken by him and tells a story about my boy – what he chose to see. So, this image serves as a reminder to mind my perspective, always.
I can chose to look up on the death of my innocent son as a horror story and raise my fist toward God. That act of defiance will not change a thing, nor will it change Him; instead turning my back toward my Father would change me … even poison me. I know that there is a greater plan at work, so I will endure whatever lessons patiently. I just wish it didn't hurt so much. Yet, I sense there will come a day that I will yet see my sorrows differently. They will no longer be the source of my heartache, but the contrast needed to truly appreciate that sacred reunion with my son; for I cannot know great happiness without knowing great sorrow.
As I travel through my wilderness of grief, I will always look to the heavens to find my way. I will search for, count and chart our tender mercies as an evidence of God’s love – despite what we are asked to suffer. And though I am certain to see more sorrow in the years ahead, I will remember that it isn't what I see that matters, but how I see it.
Thank you Mitch, for taking this photo and reminding me so poignantly.