As far as I can remember, every time I've encountered a catastrophe in life I was bewildered by the challenge in front of me. “How can I possibly do this?” I would think to myself, “I’m not capable or prepared.”
When we learned of Mitchell’s diagnosis the road ahead appeared broken and treacherous and seemed to stretch for miles and miles … even to infinity. Those were days that had me struggling to catch my breath and steady my step. One thing I've learned on Mitchell’s Journey is the first mile is always the hardest.
The truth is, we've had many first miles. The day Mitch was diagnosed with DMD was a first mile and the road ahead was obscured by fear and the fog of the unknown. Often, for the first while, I found myself stumbling over … everything. The weight of grief was new to me and I had to learn to adjust to new burdens. Over time, the journey got a little easier. It wasn't that the obstacles were different or burdens removed, but my ability to navigate grew stronger. I have my Father to thank for that – for He has been my tutor in matters of the soul … perfectly kind and infinitely patient. One day I will fall at His feet and thank Him for everything.
At various points along our son’s journey we would encounter new challenges and new first miles. The day we learned Mitchell’s heart was failing was a new first mile, a new challenge. Six months later I would take this photo as we learned therapies weren't working: another first mile. Never had a hallway felt so long. Before we knew it we learned sweet Mitch was experiencing end-stage heart failure … another first mile. Finally, in what seemed in the blink of an eye, my son died and I had to walk the longest, loneliest mile of my life. Heaven felt next door, yet so far away.
Just yesterday I visited Mitch at the cemetery. I wanted to place two solar lights that might shine on his headstone at night. While there I met a woman whose husband died tragically just over a year ago. He is buried just a few plots away from my son. She had 3 beautiful children and a kind demeanor. My heart went out to that family and I grieved for them. My heart went out to those young children who are without a father. I prayed in my heart they would find comfort and peace.
At one point I asked how her grief journey was going and she replied just as I suspected … a mixture of progress and pain. She then told me how others tried to prepare her for the 1 year milestone … that somehow everything would get easier after that. To her disappointment, the one year anniversary passed and nothing changed – grief remained. Her loss and heartache was the same. I identified with her and said I heard the same nonsense from others. I told her I thought what she was feeling was normal and that I felt the same way.
I had the words in my mind, but I didn't think to say them to her; I just said to myself, “The first mile is always the hardest.” As I drove home I began to ponder what the first mile means to me. It isn't measured by time or anniversaries (such a thought is foolishness) … to me the first mile is a metaphor that points to deeply personal journey of grief. It can’t be seen or measured – only felt. Some people seem to run the first mile quickly, others walk, some crawl … but at some point in our journey with grief we make it past the first mile.
How do we know when we've passed the first mile? I’m not sure I know the answer … but at least for me, I think I have passed that threshold because I don’t live in a constant state of grief. Today, I have grief moments, almost daily, but I don’t live in a constant state of grief. Yes, I still weep and long for my son, but like a summer storm, it passes and soon I see the sun.
To be clear, grief is the longest mile I've ever known. Indeed, the journey of grief seems to stretch out to infinity; but I know where that road leads, even to eternity.
Yet, I am still mortal … I see so little, and understand even less. Though I know my son’s soul lives on, the father in me is empty and bereft. Thus, the pain of grief remains. Though my legs are weary and I often stop to catch my breath, this much I know: I've passed the first mile and I hurt a little less.
I've been out of town most of this week on business and landed in Salt Lake early this morning, then drove straight to the office.
On my drive home tonight all I could think about was how excited I was to see my little family. I miss them a great deal. On my way home I stopped by to see Mitch and saw that Natalie had changed his flowers.
I was brought to tears to think how much his mommy cares about him and how she tries to love and serve him even though he is gone. She remembers the smallest details, including little birds that Mitch adored, in her arrangements.
Dressing up Mitchell's headstone is one of her grief rituals, and I adore her for it.
D
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.