It was a cold January afternoon when a kind man walked up our steep driveway with a tattered cardboard box in his arms. Inside that box was a tender, shivering puppy for one sick little boy. Mitch was so excited to have a little furry friend to call his own.
I think on some level Mitch was beginning to feel increasingly lonely because all of his peers were moving far past him. It wasn't that they didn't care about him … to the contrary, his friends loved him. But as they were getting older and physically stronger, Mitch was growing increasingly weak. The world Mitch used to know was beginning to pass him by and he was beginning to feel more and more isolated. He didn't complain about this, but as his father, I knew what was happening. I sensed it as only a parent can.
About a week before my son passed away he lay on the floor in tears saying how much he wished he could do in real life what he was only able to do in video games. He had just played a skateboard game and wanted so much to do those tricks “for real.” My heart broke as I saw my little boy long to be like every other little boy. Life and hardship would take that away from him and that pains my heart.
I don’t know what drove my father-in-law to give little Mitch a puppy, but the timing of that gift was nothing short of miraculous. Two weeks later Mitch would go to the hospital, then be sent home to die. This little puppy was such a comfort to Mitch. I will share more about those tender mercies in future posts, and some are especially tender, but there is no doubt in my mind this little gift was an act of inspired kindness. Heaven’s hand was very much in this gift.
I posted a short video of that sweet exchange here: vimeo.com/58228257
At some point, as Mitch was getting to know his puppy, I turned my camera toward my father-in-law and captured this image. This good man, who bore the scars of age and experience on his face, stood quietly against the wall and seemed to find great joy in the happiness of my son. I love everything about this photo … not that it is a good photo (because it is not) … I love this image because it captured someone in the very act of goodness. This is what goodness looks like.
I admire the person who thinks less about heaping riches unto themselves and instead looks for ways to love and lift others. I am convinced the key to a rich life isn't found in what we keep, but instead what we give.
I think there’s a special place in heaven for this good man. When I grow up, I want to be just like this man. For he is good and he has a rich life.
As Thanksgiving nears, I can’t help but be overwhelmed with gratitude. Though I lost my son, a little person and friend most precious to me, I am grateful I had him in the first place. I am grateful for my family, true friends and all of you. I am grateful for goodness.
Little Mitch was so cute this night. He always loved to take baths … I think in part because he was able to float in the water and that helped him feel a little relief from the relentless tug of gravity. As his muscles grew weaker from DMD, any rest was a good rest.
I always loved sitting with him, playing with toys on the edge of the tub. Whenever I spent time with Mitch or my other boys, the little boy in me would emerge and we would get lost in imagination. I could care less about a football game or stretching my legs to the news … my world was (and remains) my family. In an instant the bath was no longer a tub, but an ocean with an ever changing landscape of bubbly mountains. The faucet became a mammoth waterfall and the various bottles of shampoo, towers to a soapy fortress. Our adventures were epic and endless.
I'll never forget the sound of my son’s voice pointing to the tender spot around his PICC line saying, “Dad, I wish I didn't have to have this.” He paused a moment, catching his short breath and said, “Well … at least I’m alive.” I smiled softly as my eyes gushed with tears and then ran down my face. I kissed his forehead and quickly excused myself, then slid my back down the hall and wept like a child.
Little Mitch was just glad to be alive yet I found myself wanting for death because losing him hurt so much. I pleaded that night to my Father; I cried out like a child and wet my pillows with my tears. That night, and endless nights since, I visited the darkest parts of the human soul.
Those words will haunt me the remainder of my days: “Well, at least I'm alive.” Mitchell’s words were a declaration of gratitude for what little he had, not a complaint about what he didn’t have. If ever I’m tempted to complain or get discouraged, I will remember those fateful words of my son … “At least I'm alive.”
Some might ask why I continue to post stories such as this … stories wrought with profound sorrow and loss. It begs the larger question as to whether revisiting painful moments like this agitates a wound that may otherwise heal if left untouched. But, what does it mean to not touch the wound?
The truth about grief, especially the loss of a child, is you can never not touch the wound. That is a fiction, in Shakespeare’s words, “told by an idiot.” Not a day passes I don't think of little Mitch. Were you to ask any parent who lost a child, no matter how many years have passed, you will most likely hear them say what I just said; that not a day passes they don’t think about their lost child. Not a single day.
Every day, those who grieve the loss of a child touch the wound. It is normal. It is unavoidable. It is part of healing.
I think the key to processing grief isn't about not touching the wound … pretending it doesn't exist. That’s impossible. Rather, it is how we touch and dress the wound that matters. I can say with confidence, every day I'm healing on the inside. Yes, my heart is still broken and tears flow regularly – but I'm not as broken as I was a year ago and I'm grateful for that. Make no mistake, I'm still broken … broken in ways that are deep and rending and will take a great deal of time to mend. But I'm mending … and guess that’s the point of healing. Progress, however fast or slow, is progress.
At least for me, part of my own grief journey is journaling. I don't write to fixate on sorrow. Instead, I write to process these moments in my own mind and heart and determine what meaning they have for me. With each painful moment I address the pain of my wound, then I dress my wound with meaning and context. That, with Heaven’s help, is how I choose to heal.
Though the pain of losing a child is so great at times I may wish for death, I seem to always come back to the thing my son figured out at the age of ten, “At least I'm alive.”
I am alive … and I intend to make the most of it.
I thought I had grown accustom to the emotional whiplash that is felt when someone you love is on hospice. One moment you think the nightmare has ended and the next you are reminded it is only just beginning. So, as I sat with my tender son who leaned into my arm, I wondered quietly if the doctors had it all wrong … that perhaps we dodged a bullet. Suddenly my son moved and I saw the cables coming from his arm … cables that reminded me it wasn't a dream, but that I was living my worst nightmare. I didn't realize how nightmarish grief would soon become.
Baby Marlie, ever the faithful comforter, sat patiently and lovingly on Mitchell’s lap. She was always quick to kiss his little fingers ever so softly, which Mitchell loved so. Though my heart sank, I realized I was in the presence of two tender beings who were meant to be together – even if only in passing. One sick little boy about to die and travel to that place beyond the hills, far from mortal view; and a newborn puppy who had just arrived on a mission of mercy and comfort, a little friend who would stay behind after Mitch left us to comfort our hearts weary with grief.
These two little ones were unaware they were passing each other in opposite directions, but for a moment they gave each other comfort, and I thank God for that.
Though I have seen many tender mercies along Mitchell’s Journey, evidence of God’s love and care … a wondrous life filled with little lifts here and there … I cannot deny the immensity of the struggle. As we saw death approaching I knew it would be hard but I scarcely understood how hard it would actually be.
I remember, while in the depths of sorrow, kneeling at my bed in tears praying to God to free us from the struggle. I prayed mightily unto my Father and my words stretched far into the heavens begging for my son to be spared, and if not, that my son’s passing would be quick, if he were to suffer. I even begged God that I could take my son’s place – for I would gladly lay down my life so my little boy could live. Though the specifics of my prayers were not answered in the way I asked for them to be answered, I know my Father heard the intent of my heart and I know He felt after me and had compassion. I have come to understand His answers to my desperate pleas were wiser than anything my mortal mind could conjure up. Sometimes we must be reminded that He is God and we are not – and we must put our trust in that.
Ironically, my son’s death, as impossibly painful as it has been, has breathed new life into my soul. I have a sobriety about … everything; and losing Mitch has given me a deeper perspective on the purpose of life that I didn't have in my earlier years. Oh, I had book knowledge, but now I have experiential knowledge … and there’s a difference. Though I wish so badly to trade those lessons back for my son … I cannot have Mitch back – not in the way I want him. I pray that I don’t waste the life lessons my son has taught me at so high a price. For all that happens in this mortal place has a divine purpose in the grand scheme of heavenscape.
As I contemplate the struggle of grief and sorrow, of death and sickness and everything that hurts, I am reminded of the circumstances of a baby chick about to hatch: they must break through their shell on their own. Any attempt to chip away the shell for them, in an attempt to make their life easier, is not only counterproductive but often fatal. The very act of their struggle strengthens them so they can survive on the outside. In fact, the time it takes to break free is also vital for their bodies to adjust to their new life. Any effort on our part to hasten the hardship will rob them of their struggle, the struggle designed to make them stronger, and they often die.
Like those baby chicks who struggle to break through, I know at some point I will come out on the other side of this stronger. While I might be tempted to pray to God for an easy way out … that He might chip away the shell of hardship and sorrow and hasten the struggle, I know better. Instead I pray that He gives me strength equal to the task - for I know it is in the struggle we are made stronger. But what a struggle it is.
I am a weary traveler on a broken road. I don’t feel strong - in fact, I'm weaker than weak. I often collapse in sorrow and grief, and when I’m alone, I quietly weep. But like those baby chicks that are destined for a life on the other side of struggle, I will fight on. God willing, I will fight on.
When Mitch called out to me at the hospital and asked if I would cuddle with him my heart melted. As father and son, we cuddled all the time, but this time was different because I knew his heart was failing and I didn’t know if it would be our last. My sweet wife took a photo of us with her iPhone as I handed Mitch a teddy bear she gave him. My little boy smiled as I kissed his forehead and softly hugged him. I wouldn't have traded that moment with Mitch for all the money in the world.
At this moment Mitch wasn't aware his life was at its end. That was a burden we would quietly carry for a few more weeks so Mitch could live as normal a life as possible. To our dismay, we couldn't protect him from the inevitable, but we could protect him from worry and fear – and in this instance, my wife and I felt that was best for Mitch. We eventually told him, but we wanted him to be happy for just a little while longer. That was our gift to him.
In the coming weeks we began to witness the miracle of the afterlife – that our son was being spiritually prepared for his own transition. I will write of those experiences another time – but there is no doubt there is more to mortality than we can see with our mortal eyes. So much more.
Even still, I find myself wrestling with grief in the most unexpected ways. Just this morning I awoke at 4:30 in a sheer panic, wanting to save my son. When I realized he was gone and I couldn't save him, I wept. I used to wake up every morning in a heart-pounding panic … thankfully those mornings are less frequent. But they still happen, and when they do, they are soul crushing. I dislike those mornings because I have to relive the shock and horror of my son’s death as if it just happened.
Just a few days ago Herriman City experienced some flooding and I was told it affected part of the cemetery. That evening, as I left work, I drove to the cemetery as quickly as I could, worried about how the flood affected Mitch. I couldn't get there fast enough and wanted to help my boy. I knew he wasn't there – but in my heart I wanted him to be. I was grateful his spot wasn't affected, but my heart went out to others who were. Even in death, I yearn to protect my son and am pained that I cannot.
Although I want so badly to protect my son, sometimes, when my soul is quiet and I’m listening with my heart, I realize the opposite is true … that now Mitch is protecting me.
One day, in what feels an eternity from now, I will see my little boy again. And I will weep. I will also realize that he is no longer a child – that, in fact, the opposite is true: the soul of my little boy is much older than I ever knew.