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.
In my garage hang 5 shovels that were used, as a matter of ceremony, to bury my dear son. Every day I come home I see them. I can’t NOT see them. These shovels are now symbols of what matters most and the price my family paid to be reminded of such. When I see them, suddenly material things are worthless to me; the pursuit of fame and attention, ring hollow and lame; and all the tinsel and chatter of the world lose their luster and powers of persuasion.
I just see 5 sacred symbols, still bearing dirt from the burial site, and am reminded of one missing boy I would do anything to see and hold again.
I don’t keep these symbols visible to agitate already tender wounds nor do I use them to fixate on the pain of loss; the kitchen table with an empty chair does that well enough. Instead, these shovels keep me focused and clear-minded. They remind me of the realities of life and also point to my most treasured relationships. Each day I leave my garage remembering Mitch and I make a promise to do better than the day before – to make whatever time I have on this earth matter. When I return home I am reminded to talk a little softer, to listen more intently, and to love more visibly … for everything, and I mean everything ... is temporary.
I made this video just after Mitch passed away vimeo.com/61500841 wherein these shovels were shown.
These symbols keep me sober and sane. They remind me to never dig a pit for my neighbor or intentionally cause harm to others, but rather to take compassion and help dig others out of trouble and help where I can. They remind me that I, too, will one day be laid to rest and I will be held accountable for my choices … for the help or harm I caused others.
I hope to never hurt another but always help ... and if I'm lucky, to build a soul with heaven's help.
The funeral director told us it was time to close the casket and suddenly I gasped for air and tried to hold back my tears - but nothing could stay my sorrow. This was it. I wasn't ready to look upon my son for the last time – to say goodbye to his little body, his sweet face … this little boy I used to cuddle, hug and laugh with. My youngest son, Wyatt stood beside me and watched me in grief and sorrow tuck his older brother one last time.
I carefully pulled Mitchell’s favorite blanket up to his chin, like I did every night, and said “I love you little boy … my sweet son. Oh, how I love you.” I cried a father’s tears … and until that moment I had tasted no deeper tears. I had never known so great a sorrow as to say goodbye to my child. Sweet Mitch trusted that I could keep him safe from harm. He thought there wasn't anything I couldn't do. When he looked at me he saw superman. When I looked in the mirror I saw a broken man. But I tried. God knows how hard I tried. But I was only human.
Months later, my oldest son, Ethan, came into my office while I was writing an entry for Mitchell’s Journey. I was unprepared for the interruption and my eyes were red and filled with tears. Ethan asked, “Dad, are you okay?” I immediately tried to be superman and put on a brave face, wiping my eyes and said, “Yeah, I’m okay” … as if to suggest all was well and that I was simply rubbing my tired eyes. But Ethan was discerning and knew better … I could tell by his expression he knew I was grieving.
In that moment I thought to myself, “What good do I do my children when I pretend?” I realized I do him no favors when I am not being real. I paused a moment then looked Ethan in the eye and said, “Actually, I’m not okay. But I’m okay. Do you know what I mean?” Relief washed over his face and I could tell he not only understood but that he was glad I was being real … as if it gave him permission to be real, too. I wanted my son to know that it is okay to hurt … that you can be “okay” but “not okay” and that’s okay.
Ethan and I talked about Mitch for a while and he shared some of his sorrows about losing his younger brother. We both cried together. I hugged Ethan and let him know how much I loved him – every bit as much. We crossed a threshold with grief that day. My son knew it was okay to hurt and that pretending otherwise serves nobody, not even ourselves. To the contrary, we do a great disservice when we pretend.
I had a moment of truth a few years prior when I read the words of an 18th Century French writer who observed, “We discover in ourselves what others hide from us, and we recognize in others what we hide from ourselves.” When I read those words I vowed to retire my masks and get real.
I've tried to have similar exchanges with my other kids. My children, each unique, process their grief differently. And that’s okay, too. In all things I want to be real with them – for it is when we’re real that we become equipped to deal with real life.
I am still walking on Jupiter. The gravity of grief is great. The air is thin and my tears fall as generously as spring rains. Yes, I have moments of sweet relief and happiness is returning – but grief and sorrow linger. I cannot run from sorrow any more than I can run from my shadow on a sunny day. I must learn to live with love and sorrow – there seems no other way.
I’m okay … but I’m not okay … and that’s okay. That is part of being human.
The days were long but the nights were even longer. With the prospect of days to live, weeks if he was lucky, we did our best to keep our chins up and held our tears at bay for times he was napping. Sometimes we had to excuse ourselves from the room and walk down the long half-lit hospital halls and weep because we couldn't contain our sorrow any longer.
To Mitch we were the strong parents he knew and trusted … ever filled with answers, healing balms and love. But inside we were children ourselves frightened of what tomorrow might bring; frightened by the invisible monster that wasn't just under his bed, but in it.
The doctors had stabilized Mitch with Milrinone, a drug that helped his weary heart find rest. After a few days they wanted to see if Mitch could be weaned from the drug. It would take a little over an hour before the effects of being taken off the drug made manifest. We simply had to wait and see.
Just as the doctors took Mitch off Milrinone my children came to visit – which was a welcomed distraction. My mother, who had come to care for our kids at home, sat on what appeared to be a rolling chair. If you weren't paying much attention you wouldn't notice it was in fact a portable toilet. As we sat and talked for a while Mitch started to sing a line from a popular YouTube video “Sittin On Tha Toilet” – which song he loved to laugh at and sing. We instantly burst into giggles because of the way sweet Mitch was drawing attention to his grandma. He was so observant, so very funny. For the next hour Mitch was smiling and we played word games and laughed together.
We had just taken a bedside family photo (seen in my most recent post OUR SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS). Mitchell’s sense of humor was in full bloom and I was startled by his intelligence and his renewed sense of comedy. We enjoyed a moment of pure bliss – the stuff rich lives are made of. Mitch was off the drug and seemed to be doing fine. Could it be? Perhaps this was a glimmer of hope; maybe the doctors had it all wrong … maybe they made a mistake and his heart wasn't really failing. For a moment we wondered if a catastrophe had been avoided … that perhaps we could resume life as usual as an invisible family who just wanted to be together.
Then, in the blink of an eye something changed and it seemed as if a dark cloud rolled between us and the brittle bliss we knew moments earlier. Mitchell’s countenance changed and tears filled his eyes. In an effort to lift his spirits, Laura-Ashley handed him a cupcake she earlier made for her little brother. Mitch wanted nothing to do with food. It was clear he was crashing and getting very sick in a big hurry. We immediately told the doctors to resume the medicine so our boy would feel better. Our hopes for the future were dashed.
Suddenly I saw with horrifying clarity the pebble upon which Mitchell’s life clung. The abyss that was inching to devour our son finally had its mouth gaping wide open and roaring swallow him up. I fought back the tears as I saw my little boy suffer. Inside I was a little boy, too – I was helpless to save him and desperate to trade places with him.
Two days later we would make our final journey home so Mitch could live out the remainder of his days in the comfort of his own room and in the arms of our love. Soon, Mitchell’s weary, valiant heart would grow fainter until it suddenly stopped. And we would find ourselves with weary hearts of another kind. Over the coming months and year our hearts, which carried the burden of grief and sorrow became wearier still.
I suppose it’s only human to wonder why a little boy who was so innocent and pure was made to suffer and die. Might it be better he live a full life and do much good in the world? What does God have in mind? What does He see that I do not? Surely I cannot comprehend the infinite with my finite mind – but I have a spiritual assurance that transcends mortal experience. Still others blame God for their sorrows and turn their already weary hearts away from the very thing that can truly give us rest.
At least for me, I have come to realize it is more productive to stop asking “why” … to dispense with the idea that I am entitled to a life free of sorrows, as if I should be the world’s only exception. Rather I ask “what am I to learn from this?” Perhaps when I lack insight it’s because I’m not asking the right questions or I’m not listening. The invitation to us mere mortals is to seek and we shall find - to knock and doors will be opened to us. But we must do the seeking, we must do the knocking.
Spiritual assurances aside, my heart remains weary with sorrow. I miss my little boy … I see his empty bed and little shoes and I weep. Though I know Mitch is in that place beyond the hills, I want him here with me … in my living room and within my loving embrace. Grief is such an inferior word.
My heart is weary with sorrow, my soul in need of rest. Though I stumble over pebbles, each day I do my best. While I travel Mitchell’s Journey, without him by my side, I can see the path now … I can see with Heaven’s eyes.