There are a lot of moments in life I wish I could do over so I could do them better. Then there are some moments that are so wonderful I want to do them over so I can re-experience them. This was one of those moments I wish I could do over.
It was January 9th, 2013 when my sweet wife sent me a text message about a lunch date I had with my son that day. Because I’m an impulsive memorist, I screen captured her message the moment I received it. Looking back, I’m so glad I did.
This was just a few short weeks before Mitch went to the hospital for end-stage heart failure. On this day Mitchell’s school invited parents to have lunch with their kids in the cafeteria. I had known about this for a few weeks and I was so excited to hang out with my son. At his request I brought him an Arby’s sandwich, curly fries and a chocolate shake. That was his favorite, and mine too.
As we sat in the cafeteria Mitchell’s aide, Alex, asked if he could sit with us. I was excited to have him spend time with us so I could learn a little more about how Mitch was doing at school. Mitch liked Alex and trusted him and seemed to always feel safe around him. Alex doesn't know it, but Mitch talked about him at home often and our hearts were always relieved that he had him as a friend and aide.
Mitch, being soft and shy, sat at the table quietly dipping his curly fries in a generous pool of Arby’s sauce and saying hello to the kids who wandered by and waved at him. I loved to see Mitch in his element and to see that he had friends all around who cared about him. I was also able to watch Mitch play UNO during recess and was reminded that life doesn't have to be perfect to be great. I know that little Mitch had a great life and that soothes my broken heart.
At one point during our conversation Alex started to tell me something about Mitch and his older brother that touched his heart and in turn touched mine. He said that every day, without fail, Ethan (his older brother) would come up to Mitch at lunch and say hello and give him a brotherly hug. Alex mentioned how that act of kindness affected him and he started to tear up. This grown man, a retired commercial pilot and former military officer, who has seen more in his life than Mitch and I combined was moved to tears by that gentle act of kindness between two brothers. I remember being almost moved to tears by what Alex said and how it affected him. I was grateful then, and remain today, that this good man was part of my son’s life.
I was also reminded that Mitchell’s Journey was so much more than the journey of my broken boy. As I wrote in a recent post … “I used to envision life's journey as a single, straight path. But the older I get, the more I'm beginning to see, just how intertwined our lives really can be. Life is not a path to be tread by one, but a web so intricate and woven … it is, I am certain, heavenly spun.”
This was my last school lunch with Mitch … almost 2 years to this very day. I wish I could go back in time and drink in this moment more deeply. I wish I could do this day over, not because it was bad, but because it was that good. I can’t think of a single business meeting that was more important than spending time with my son at this very moment. This day was an investment in time and attention that is paying dividends far beyond grief and loss.
The truth is, I've made a hundred million mistakes in my life. In so many ways I identify with the phrase, “O wretched man that I am.” But once in a while I get things right. On this day I got it right. I spent time with my son and lived what I valued – and that is worth more to me than all the treasures of earth. On top of that, I spent a moment with this good man who loved my son and shared something I wouldn't have ever known … and because of that, I learned a lesson of love that day I shall not soon forget.
So, although I wish I could do this day over so that I might re-live the love that I felt for my son, because I did my best to be with him, instead of wishing for what might have been, I can at least be grateful for what has been. I can’t re-do moments – but I can re-live them in my mind and heart. And that’s close enough. Today and forevermore, I hope to live a little better than the day before – so that when I am old and tired … anxious to pass over so that I might see my little son again … I hope to look back and be glad I lived the life I lived. Perhaps when I truly have heaven’s eyes, I'll look back and want to do my life over … because, despite the weight of grief and depths of sorrow, it was that good.
In the summer of 2012 Mitch attended his last Cousin’s Camp where he was given a medal of honor for bravery. During the camp’s closing ceremony, his grandpa Garth called Mitch forward in front of the other cousins and awarded him for a quick decision that may have saved the life of one of his cousins.
The year prior Mitch and his cousin Ray were riding 4-wheelers when Ray’s vehicle tipped over and pinned him to the ground. They were quite a distance from the ranch house … far enough away that any cry for help would have gone unheard. Immediately following the accident Mitch hurried his 4-wheeler back to the ranch to tell some adults Ray was in an accident and in trouble. Because Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy weakened his muscles, little Mitch was powerless to lift the 4-wheeler from his cousin to help him personally. So, he did what we could do by racing to get help. Ray was seriously injured and bleeding internally. It was thought by his ER doctors he may not have survived more than an hour if left untreated.
Mitch didn't think much of his actions – he was only concerned for safety of his cousin and did what he thought anyone would do. Because a year had passed from the accident, this event was far from Mitchie’s mind. As far as he was concerned, all had been forgotten. But many of the adults didn't forget and they sought to help Mitch feel appreciated and special. They didn't need to do this for Mitch, but they did it anyway and I can’t help but feel this a tender mercy for my struggling son who often wondered if he would ever amount to anything.
I feel a wide spectrum of emotions when I look at these three images. On the left, our shy son was being given a gold medallion as a symbol of honor and appreciation from a loving Grandfather who cared deeply for his grandkids. Then the image of Mitch (top right) with his cousin, Ray … back together again, so they could laugh and play. On the bottom right is an image of Mitch was surrounded by cousins with arms linked cheering for him.
They gave the greatest gift anyone could ever give: they gave their love and they gave it freely. Mitch would later tell me his thoughts of this day with tears in his eyes – grateful for the love he felt from others. Though confused by the attention he received, he felt special and that was a gift greater than anything material.
When I was in college I had a dear friend teach me something powerful about labels. She would often say to me “you’re nice” in response to something I might have said or done. At first I was startled by that label because I never considered that I might be nice. And if I wasn't, after she labeled me, I sure wanted to be. I learned quickly that we often become what we’re labeled – and whenever she called me nice, I only tried harder to be nice to everyone.
So, on this warm summer day, Mitch was given a label much like my old college friend gave me. In every way that mattered, Mitch felt they labeled him. He felt like they said, “You are brave. You are good. You are loved.” These labels lifted Mitchell’s spirits and gave our little boy who was unable to much, a deep feeling that he mattered.
I hope on that fateful night, as my son’s life faded away and his spirit drifted to that place beyond the hills, I hope that this experience at cousin’s camp crossed his mind and gave him comfort and courage. I hope he felt the love and encouragement from those around him who cared. I hope those labels gave him the courage to look into the light, far past the darkness that was swallowing up his tattered body.
Sometimes I wonder what might have happened to my son’s soul when he crossed over to the other side. Perhaps there was a reunion of another sort. Maybe my earthly father greeted him and gave Mitch an emblem of courage; perhaps family long gone may have gathered round him and said “You did it! You were brave. You were good. You are loved.” Whatever happened, I am certain my son felt the goodness of Heaven above.
Parenthood … the most curious of things … how our love and concern for our children reaches far beyond those living. Though he is gone to a place that cannot be seen, I am still concerned about my son’s well-being. Such is parenthood. Such is love. I suppose it’s not too different from the worries of our Father above. For we, too, are loved.
About a year ago I was on a flight to some place. I remember looking out the window and taking this photo of the arid landscape I called home. I then looked forward into the cabin of the plane and I saw over a hundred people sitting in their chairs flipping through magazines, scrambling with digital devices, working through puzzles, watching movies and engaging in various conversations.
There was no way to know what personal challenges each passenger was dealing with, but my guess was many of them worried and struggled because they’re human, but few of them were in crisis. Many of them seemed anxious to get to their destination so they could move on with their life. I then looked out the window again and wondered how my life could continue. I missed my son and the weight of grief loomed heavy on my soul. It felt like the weight of a million planets tugging with sorrows pull.
The once familiar desert 30,000 feet below felt foreign. The passengers all around me felt like strangers from a distant land. The world around me seemed so provincial. The mad dash for wealth, material things and the endless distractions that turns life into a numbing dream … all of it rang hollow. The meaning of life was suddenly monumental. I didn't care about anything but my wife and family and my heart ached deeply for my fallen son.
Yesterday I spoke with a man who runs the world’s largest grief organization. He asked me to be one of their keynote speakers at their next conference a few months from now. As we spoke he asked me how I was holding up and I responded that the answer to that question depends on the day, and sometimes the moment. He, being no stranger to grief, said he understood exactly what I was saying.
Today I find myself between two worlds: Earth, the world I once knew before losing my son … where the gravity of everyday life was tolerable and familiar; and the world after, where I found myself walking on Jupiter, struggling to live and breathe under the crushing gravity of grief. I live somewhere between those two places. Neither are home and I don’t sense they ever again will be, but I frequent them often.
At least for me, grief has evolved … more accurately, I have evolved. My grief hasn't changed ... it is still very difficult. The pain of my son’s death is just as soul crushing today as it was the day I lost him. It isn't difficult because I think about it, you see – it is difficult because it happened and he is no longer with me. In many ways, I miss him even more today than I did a year ago. However, my ability to carry grief has changed. I don’t know how or why, all I know is my grief journey is entering a new phase.
In 2015 I will be writing more stories of Mitch and his journey, for I have many, many to share. I will also be writing about the evolution of grief and our family’s journey through the shadows of death and how we are learning to find a new normal.
I am no longer afraid of going to sleep or waking into feelings of terror – though I regularly experience moments of terror. I no longer cry every day – though I still have frequent, intense moments of weeping. And though at times my eyes may seem dry, rest assured that my soul still cries.
For as long as I love my son, grief will be my constant companion - so I am learning to co-exist.
While he was living, I don’t think little Mitch knew how much his life meant to me. I've discovered it isn't possible for our children to know how much they are loved. It seems one has to become a parent to truly understand the depths of that kind of heavenly love.
As I find myself between two worlds, I am learning to take up residence here. I can see things today that I have never before seen … for grief has changed my sense of being. Strangely, though I ache for my son, I find this new place, though painful at times, a heavenly one. Now, if only I could hold my son …