Every-so-often I drive by the mortuary and am reminded of the moment I saw little Mitch for the first time after he passed away. When we first entered the room we saw him lying on a table, lifeless and cold on the far end of a dimly lit room. The scene was something from a nightmare I was afraid to entertain, even in my mind. I struggled to find my breath as I swallowed the lump-turned-basketball in my throat. I stayed back so Natalie could have her time with Mitch – for I knew a mother’s love was sacred and different from mine.
When it was my turn to be with Mitch my heart tumbled into a deep abyss and it seemed for a moment my soul was certain to drown in the darkest waters. I wished so badly to wake my son that I might hold him and tell him I loved him – but he was gone. Tears streamed down my neck this day, and for many months after. I had just entered a phase of grief where I wept every single day for almost 2 years. I didn't cry. I wept.
So when I drive by that mortuary or simply reflect upon my own experience with loss I am reminded of the fragility of life. Not that we die – for I have seen plenty of death in my life and I don’t need to be reminded that life is perishable. Rather, I think about how easy it is to die a little on the inside, long before our bodies perish. We die from addiction and distraction, grief and anger, and a myriad of other things that would rob us; stuff that will take life away from life.
I don’t post on Mitchell’s Journey because I’m stuck in grief or that I fixate on death and sorrow. I am just trying to examine my life and discover ways to become truly alive.
I wish I could say I lived a life of no regret – but I haven’t. I don’t think it’s possible to live such a life because we are human and flawed. In fact, I am wary of the man or woman who says they lived a life of no regrets because such a tale is born of fiction and self-deception.
Regret is an unavoidable human condition. It is the wanting for a different outcome and the pain we cannot make it so. Regret is a measure of grief. It is part of grief. Regret is part of being human. Yet, I don’t believe, being human, the purpose of life is to cling to regret, guilt or self-loathing. Life is hard enough and I have come to believe it is well enough to do your best and forget the rest.
Do I wish I would have been different when Mitch was with me? Absolutely. Do I have regrets? I have many. But I am learning to forge those regrets in the fiery furnace of sorrow and build a new resolve that is sharper and stronger than I have ever known.
Each time I meditate and write about grief or an aspect of my son’s life and death, I am learning to trade regret for resolve.
One day, when I look back from that place beyond the hills, I know I will be glad I lived the life I lived. Not because I didn't make mistakes, but because I learned to turn regret into resolve. A resolve that is teaching me how to truly live. A resolve that is leading me home.
On those days I am especially weary in grief, stumbling over pebbles and struggling to breathe … I can hear a loving whisper, “Rise my son, for your time is not yet done. You aren't learning how to walk, but rather how to run.”
We had just finished speaking at our son’s funeral and my little boy’s body was rolled to the vehicle that would lead us on the longest, slowest, most painful drive of our lives.
It had only been an hour since I saw my son and the funeral director closed the casket, never to be reopened again. I longed so deeply to rescue my tired son from the cold.
There were so many layers to grief this day. Grief weighed heavy because I lost my son, who was in so many ways my best little friend. My grief was compounded because my wife, who has the most gentle and tenderhearted soul I have ever known, ached in ways I cannot comprehend. I grieved for her … for a mother’s love is unique … a mother’s love is deeper than deep. However much I was pained by the death of our son, I know this good mother ached infinitely more. I also grieved for my fallen son, who wanted so much to live but whose life was cut short. I grieved for my other children who, confused and full of sorrow, lost a dear brother they adored.
As I looked at my wife, she seemed to stare into the horizon as if to wonder how life could possibly continue. In my heart, I felt that way, too. Ethan stood stoic, peering into the back of the hearse at his younger brother, his best friend, trying to make sense of loss.
If ever I was tempted to feel like an utter failure, this day only amplified that. The days and months ahead would grow dark with grief. The pitch of night would, by comparison, seem light.
All the provincial things I thought weighed heavy on my shoulders suddenly seemed light as a feather. Crushed by the gravity of grief, I found myself stumbling over pebbles and gasping for breath. There were days that would follow I even wished for death.
Grief? Grief is just a flimsy word to describe the unimaginable. The indescribable. Grief is a pebble of a word, a grain of sand, even … hewn from the mighty Everest of sorrow. It points to a pain that simply defies words.
Ever since we lost little Mitch I have spent a great deal of time contemplating the wages of grief. At first, it felt like the wages of grief were only hopelessness and deep, dark sorrow. One can’t help but ask themselves “why my child?”, “why not me instead?”, “why in the first place?” The question I hear most often is “Why would a loving Father allow us to hurt so much?” I suppose we may never know (at least in this life) why some are required to suffer greatly while others are not. One thing I do know, for certain, is our Father loves us, and He loves us a whole lot. I know because I have felt it all along our journey, even deep in my wilderness of grief. In the darkest corners of my soul, He has offered me hope and peace.
The wages of grief are not always easy to see – especially when our vision is smeared by tears, pain and misery. Though painful beyond belief, grief is teaching me things I would have never learned in comfort and relief. Painfully, it is shaping me, and with heaven’s help it is not breaking me. And with each tear I shed, I am beginning to see things differently.
I still wrestle with grief every single day, but I am learning to carry my sorrows in a different way. Deep in the wilderness of grief I may be tempted to feel forsaken and alone … but when I quiet my soul and listen, I hear my Father and my little son leading me home.
Leading me home.
Night had fallen, and so had our hopes for one more day. My weary, tattered son lay in his bed unable to move and barely breathing. Within the last 12 hours his heart had greatly enlarged which caused his chest to protrude; he looked deformed and it was disturbing to see. The candle of life was dim and flickering by the winds of change. I could feel the coldness of death lapping at my feet and I was terrified. Even though night had long since fallen, more than the sky was dark.
I had dozed off on the floor of Mitchell's room, next to my wife. Fatigue had taken hold of me ... I was so very tired. As I was beginning to drift into a deep sleep I awoke with a distinct impression to tuck my son in - something he asked me to do every night. "Hey Mitch ..." I said in a soft whisper, "I'm tucking you in, just as you like it. I love you son, so very much. Don't be afraid; remember what we taught you. Everything is going to be okay."
I'm told that hearing is the last thing to go for those who are dying. For reasons I have earlier posted I know my son heard me. Those were the last words Mitch heard in mortality. Within 30 minutes of that gentle whisper and kiss on his face, my precious little boy passed away. I hope he wasn't scared. I hope.
We've also been told that children who are about to pass away often wait for their parents to leave the room or they linger for permission to go because they don't want to hurt or disappoint. Knowing this, I wanted my weary son who so fought valiantly to live; this little boy of ours … who always wanted to make us happy … I wanted him to know that we loved him and that all would be well. No sooner had I drifted back to sleep Natalie had got up from the floor to administer Mitchell's medicine, which he was now receiving every two hours.
I'll never forget the sound of Natalie's voice. Her words pierced the silence of the room like a samurai sword through paper: .... "Chris." Suddenly, with the thunder of 1 million exploding suns, I awoke that instant only to see a mother's face that looked confused, scared and deeply bereft. I got up from the floor by Mitchell's bed and placed my hand on his chest. Nothing. Our precious son, our broken baby, was gone.
We could scarcely believe our eyes. Lying on Mitchell's bed was the form of a little boy we raised since birth and loved with all of our hearts. His body was still warm and it seemed as if we could just shake him a little as if to wake him from a deep sleep and that all would be well. But Mitch had fallen into a sleep from whence there is no return.
As each hour passed we could feel his arms and legs get colder. Soon, only the center of his chest was warm and it was cooling quickly. Then his body started to change. At about 3:45 AM I called the funeral home to pick him up and they were at our home within an hour. I asked them to hurry because I wasn't sure I could watch my son's body continue down the path it was heading.
Processing the death of your child is something of a bi-polar experience taken to the greatest extremes. One moment you feel peace then suddenly you confront feelings of horror – the likes of which you've never known.
With all the lip service we give our religious beliefs, there is nothing so exacting as to see your child die and then to peer into the dark abyss of death. I have been taught that: "Faith, to be faith, must go into the unknown ... must walk to the edge of the light, then a few steps into the darkness." My son's journey, Mitchell's Journey, has forced my wife and I to step into the darkness … a darkness that is as heavy as it is pitch.
Yet, I've discovered something in all this darkness. Once I allowed my spiritual eyes to adjust and look upward, I started to see the stars. Against the backdrop of all that is black and frightening I can see little flecks of light, tender mercies that were always there but I didn't have eyes to see them. And the accumulation of these tender mercies present themselves like heavenly constellations so I can find my way. If I look down or to the side, all I see is darkness. Like ancient navigators who looked to the heavens for bearing I can see the fingerprint of God in all that has happened and I now have a sense of direction. I know we're not alone.
To be clear, it is still nightfall and my heart is heavy with a sinking sorrow. There are days that are blacker than black and the waves of grief threaten to pull me under. But when I look to the heavens I can see.
I can see
As Mitch began to drift away I would look at him with a deep sorrow in my heart. I desperately wanted to scoop him up in my arms and take him to some place safe. A place like the children’s books we often read to him – a place of hope and happiness, joy and dreams. My little boy once glowing bright with laughter and childhood had become a dim candle about to flicker out. The light in his countenance had been growing dimmer by the day and I was greatly pained therewith. When I took this photo I had the distinct impression we were no longer counting the days, but the hours.
I remember cuddling next to my son just after I took this photo. I held him gently but firmly and said, “I am so sorry this is happening, son. You are so brave. I think sometimes God sends us little ones like you to teach us grown-ups what it means to be truly grown up. And Mitch, when I grow up, I want to be just like you.” Mitch squeezed my hand and smiled softly. I kissed his cheek and held him close to my chest as he drifted away, soft as a feather, into an afternoon nap.
While Mitch slept, I wept.
I wept so hard the bed was shaking and I worried I would wake him. The grief I knew then was but a foretaste of the grief to come. For death was the easy part … the echoes of emptiness and longing were a more painful hell yet to come.
I learned long ago it isn't productive to raise my fist to the heavens and wonder why we suffer. Instead I learned to turn my ear heavenward; to listen for secrets to the soul and learn what I was meant to learn. Too often people get hung up on asking the wrong questions – and therefore get no answers. They ask “why would God do this?” When we hurt it can be tempting to shake our fists at the Universe and bemoan our circumstance as though we're being singled out or treated unfairly. But the last time I checked, life isn't fair and it rains on the just and unjust. Why should we be the only exception? The other day I learned over 150,000 people die each day. Countless others will suffer all manner of afflictions. In the few minutes it might take to shake our fist and complain about or own lives, hundreds of people will have passed from this life to the next and a great many more will mourn their absence. The world is filled with grief and suffering. Some sorrows we bring upon ourselves. Other suffering just happens, whether from an act of God or simply life in motion.
At least for me, I've come to discover suffering and sorrow are an important part of life’s learnings. Any more I worry less about the origins of my sorrows – for what difference would it make? Surely God isn’t caught off guard or surprised by the events in our lives. Whether He’s the author of some of our sorrows, as a divine teacher, or simply a patient tutor as we struggle with life in motion … He could change the course of our sorrows if He wanted to. That He often doesn't, sends a compelling message. The question I ask myself is, “Am I listening?”
So, as I laid next to my dying son, weeping in the deepest of grief, I felt a pain beyond description that left my soul weary, bruised and weak. I didn't want my little boy to go, for he was my tender son and I loved him so. Though I prayed mightily for his safe return, the answer I received was “No, my son, for there are things you must learn.”
Thus began my journey with grief, down a bewildering path in search of relief. And though I still hear the deafening sound of death’s terrible toll, I have come to understand our mortal bodies are but clothing to the soul.