A few years ago we took our kids to feed some ducks at a local pond. At one point, as the sun was setting, Mitch pulled his iPod out of his little pocket and took this photo. Later that night, after he was tucked in bed, he sent it to me because Mitch wanted me to have a copy of the beautiful image he captured. The moment I received this photo I ran to his room to tell him I was so proud of him and that I loved his photo very much. Mitch smiled as if he were being tucked in a second time. I’ve learned from my children that tucking in has less to do with positioning blankets and more to do with letting them know they’re safe and loved. So, I kissed Mitch goodnight a second time and told him I loved him.
I treasured this photo then, but I treasure it even more today. I loved seeing the world through his eyes. What Mitch didn’t know was I took a photo of him taking this photo – which to me, is even more beautiful than any sunset. I don’t think he had any idea what a light to my heart and soul he was, and continues to be.
I haven’t mustered the courage to go through Mitchell’s iPod yet. I know it will be a tender and emotional experience because locked within that little device are movies he made with his friends, photos he took, elaborate Minecraft creations, playlists, audio recordings and much more. One day I will. One day.
This image from my sweet boy reminds me that as grief subsides the sun will rise, but it will also set. As assuredly as the sun will rise tomorrow, I will experience peace and joy. But grief will return, too.
I just received a private message from someone who just discovered Mitchell’s Journey and began to describe her own grief journey. She lost her father to ALS (which, when it comes to symptoms and fatality, is fairly similar DMD) and shared how heartbroken she was to see him go. After his passing she was strong for her family but never had an opportunity to truly grieve. She said that when she read my essay, “OKAY, BUT NOT OKAY … AND THAT’S OKAY” the floodgates opened and said she “never cried so hard in [her] life” and that it felt good to release her sadness. I had tears of gratitude for her healing.
At least for me, I have discovered some of the purging and cleansing effects of deep grief. Any more, I’m beginning to see grief as a sweet release. Though it is painful and hard to bear, it is also necessary. The irony of grief is that when we allow ourselves to hurt we also allow ourselves to heal. I don’t know much … but one thing I do know is healing hurts and hurting heals.
To lose a child is like being an emotional amputee. Yes, there can be healing around the site of the wound … but you will always want, reach and long for that which was lost. Like an amputee, you will never be the same … ever adapting to your new, compromised reality.
I was reminded of my emotional amputation yesterday. I was in a public setting when I saw some sweet children about the age of Mitch when he passed away. Suddenly I felt the waves of grief overcome me. I kept my head down so as to not draw attention … but I let the tears flow. Like a summer storm, it was strong but it passed quickly and I was on my way.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of my son a thousand times. I’m grateful that my heart only breaks 500 times … the other 500 times are warm and peaceful. That’s progress and I can live with that.
As assuredly as the sun will rise ... with feelings of hope and peace, it will also set ... where grief will visit and my heart reset.
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 …
At about 8:15 last night we had a special visitor at our door. This was the woman from Alaska I spoke of in my funeral address. We were excited to meet her in person, for she played an unexpected but important role during our darkest hours. Once a lamp unto our feet, as the path we tread was dark and treacherous, this compassionate woman was now a light to our weary hearts.
After we spoke for while we showed her Mitchell’s room which has been relatively untouched since the time of his passing. I stood in deep reverence of these two mothers who loved and lost their boys. While my heart cries out in agony over the loss of my son, I recognize that a mother’s pain is different and deeper than that of a father’s. For they gave their child life and carried them in ways only a mother knows.
A little over a year ago I sat at the foot of this very bed, trembling and in tears as my son was sick and dying. It was in this very place we received emails from this inspired woman who offered insight and council that came from her own experience.
It seemed rather poetic that this woman, once a stranger to us; a woman who spoke peace to our hearts during the darkest time in our lives was finally in that same room. The thought of such a reunion had never entered my heart or crossed my mind. Yet there she was, once again, like a gift from heaven.
Why do we suffer? Why do we stumble and fall? So we can learn the deeper meaning of love, compassion and service. For without such, we wouldn't know much at all.
My heavy heart once hung by a single tattered thread. Now it hangs by a thousand threads of light. A thousand tender mercies … a thousand things that give me sight.