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
We had a special visitor over the weekend whose circumstances in meeting us are more than coincidence. I have long wanted to do something special with Santa and Mitchell's Journey, and as providence would have it, the opportunity presented itself. I'll post this project before Christmas Eve.
When Santa entered Mitchell's room Marlie jumped on his bed, curious and cautiously protective ... for this was the sacred place she comforted Mitch when he passed away. To our family, there are few places more hallowed than this special room where I lost my son.
Santa was gentle and kind to this little tender mercy ... this little puppy, unaware the profound gift she was to our son and remains to our family.
As I watched this tender exchange I had to fight back the tears because Mitch loved Santa and he loved Marlie. Somewhere between these two kind souls was my son: a gift I once held in my arms and now hold in my broken heart.
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.
If you ever need someone to paint your puppy like a panda, I just discovered I'm not your guy. Mitch loved pandas and he would have probably giggled at dad-fail #1,000,002.