As long as I can remember, I have loved fragrances. When I was little, my dad would hold my tiny face with his big hands; hands that always seemed to smell of Old Spice. To this day, 37 years later, that smell carries potent memories of my father ... memories of rainy days, ticks of toast, and those long drives to my dad's dental practice where I was so small, I couldn't see out the window. I just remember seeing telephone poles passing by, blurred by raindrops and thick fog.
Smells take me places far away and to memories long gone. Like invisible keys, they unlock something powerful inside my mind.
Fragrances also took Mitchell's worried mind to places that comforted him.
Tonight, Wyatt was looking through some of my long-lost cologne collection and was as curious about my memories behind them as he was the smells themselves.
I still keep them, not to wear them, but because they are liquid time machines that only I can travel.
"This one I purchased on a hot summer day in Kentucky." I said. "I remember wearing it the next day as I was walking down a long dirt road in the middle of a prairie. The sun was setting, it was humid, and I couldn't see a building for miles. The sound of crickets were loud and beautiful. I don't remember being so hot and miserable in my life, but I loved the smell of that cologne and turned a hard experience into a good memory."
Wyatt then handed me another bottle. "Oh, this one brings back strong memories of a dark winter far north in Canada. I was going to the University of Alberta. It was deep in the middle of a frozen winter, the air was 40 degrees below zero ... so cold, you lost your breath trying to take a breath. It was so cold, I wondered if summer would ever come again. This smell is forever attached to long, dark winters."
Wyatt was swept away with my stories and I could tell by the look in his eyes, he was assembling memories of his own and attaching smells to them. Pretty neat, these little liquid time machines.
“Dad … can I sit by you?” Mitch said softly. It was mid-January and I was working from home that day. “Sure Mitch! I love it when you’re near me.” I then patted my hand on an extra chair, inviting him to sit with me. Mitch sat down holding his baby puppy close to his chest. Marlie looked at me as she snuggled deep into his arms. Mitch thought himself blessed to have a furry friend like Marlie.
I turned my camera toward Mitch and he just stared into the lens. He didn’t try to posture himself for a photo – he did exactly what I always wanted … absolutely nothing. You see, Mitchie knew I wanted to capture moments unrehearsed … I wanted to capture life, not the imitation of it. So, Mitch gave me the moment.
His almond eyes and soft expression my heart melted. In this same moment he gave me a curious look as if to say, “Dad, something’s wrong.” He didn’t need to say any words – I sensed it, too. Like a cold wind from the north, I felt a brooding sense that we were on the edge of a great and terrible change and my soul began to shiver. At the time, I didn’t know what was about to happen, I just knew something hard was coming. How hard, I knew not. For almost 2 years this feeling was growing. Looking back, I believe heaven warned me and helped me make the most of time I might have otherwise squandered.
As death drew closer, Mitch would begin to ask me deep questions about the purpose of life, death and what happens when we die. At the tender age of 10, an age that he should have been playing with toys, he faced the stuff of philosophers and theologians. He wanted to understand what too many adults often dismiss for cheaper thrills.
In less than 6 weeks from this photo, Mitch would lay on his bed unable to open his eyes or speak as his body was shutting down. It is frightening to think how quickly our worlds can be turned upside down and inside out.
This same puppy who was at first frightened to be away from her mother, received great comfort from Mitch, and would soon return the favor with honor. The night he was slipping away, she would use her nose to lift his hand and nestle under his palm as if she knew he needed to touch her. Though he couldn’t open his beautiful eyes, he could move his fingers slightly. So, there on the side of this sacred bed, I filmed Mitchell’s tender fingers running softly through her baby coat. Eventually, when the end was upon Mitch, this little puppy curled around his head on his pillow. Then, within an hour, my baby boy slipped away.
I am a simple, flawed man and I don’t know much; but I know a few things for sure. One thing I know is, we are not alone. I know it all the way to the marrow of my bones. The moment I first laid eyes on newborn Mitch, my Father warned me with a distinct impression something was wrong. That impression persisted for three years until his diagnosis. Then, almost 2 years before he passed away, my Father returned and began to stir my soul with a great uneasiness. I didn’t know all that He was trying to tell me, I only knew He was preparing me for a spiritual winter. A time where darkness would become my home. Then, as my spiritual eyes began to adjust to the darkness of grief, I began to see little flecks of light … little tender mercies. Though I was in hell, I saw evidence of heaven and a Father who cared.
Yes, my heart is still broken and my soul is weary with grief. I long to find my son so that my mind might find some relief. My soul searches as if he were lost in some great wilderness. But alas, it is not he that is lost, but me. So I journey through the wilderness in search of heaven. I pray for ears to hear and eyes to see. Somewhere, out there, my little son waits for me.
Natalie helped tiny Mitch waddle to the edge of a puddle that hugged a gravel road. Mitch, like all young children, was entranced by water and wanted to splash in it, maybe throw a pebble or two and watch the ripples dance across the surface. Though he looked healthy, his legs and body were already weakened by the relentless muscle wasting of DMD and this sweet boy needed his mommy to keep him from falling over. With a tender love and patience, only a mother can know, Natalie held his tiny hand as he reached down to feel the cold water on his fingertips.
As I watched my sweet wife and tiny son, I remembered something Euripides once observed, “Oh, what a power is motherhood, possessing a potent spell. All women alike fight fiercely for a child.” Oh, how my dear wife fought fiercely for our child. She rose like a lion with wings of fire, her eyes broken, yet determined. So many times I felt dwarfed by two giants: Mitch and Natalie. I still stand deep in their shadow and will honor them all the days of my life.
It is something of a terrible irony that the very things we are tempted to dismiss in ordinary life and take for granted are the very things we are desperate to hold on to once our loved ones are gone.
I don’t speak only of the stark contrast between life and death; I speak of life and the passage of time. For, I have been startled how the phases of life can slip through our fingers unaware. I think back when Wyatt was a very young boy and how sophisticated he was in word and thought. I recorded a few of our late night conversations, which are priceless and comical – but I wish I would have recorded more. At the time, his cute voice and tender thoughts were familiar to me, even ordinary. It is so easy to think things will always be the way they are, but everything changes. Everything. Even now, my dear daughter, Laura-Ashley is going to graduate from high school a year early and go to college later this fall. It seems like yesterday she was my little girl with a plastic clip in her hair and a sippy cup under her arm, who wove fantastical stories with me in the vast expanse of our imagination. It feels like just yesterday. Time waits for no one.
So when I think back on this cool summer afternoon in the heart of Wyoming, my heart swells with gratitude because tiny Mitch was blessed with a mother who knew the value of a moment and never let a chance to experience life slip by. Natalie taught me to cling to moments, not digital distractions or things, so I look back on my life my heart will always sing.
I recognize that much of this blog is focused on Mitch and my reflections on life because him. I think clinging to memories is what so many on the other side of grief don’t understand; some wonder why we want to talk about our lost ones, not realizing what we had is all we have left. We don’t get to make new memories … all we have is what we’ve done. Sometimes we talk because we’re afraid of forgetting. Other times we just need to cry. Still, other times we’re trying to make sense of a nightmare known only to those who walk in such darkness. We cling to our memories, both good and bad, because in the end, that’s all we have.
When I cling to this gentle memory of Natalie and my tiny son, it reminds me to put my phone down and splash while I can – because everything changes. Everything goes away, eventually.
It was a hot summer afternoon at grandma’s house when Mitch reached into his backpack with a subtle, almost mischievous smile, then retrieved my swimsuit. He knew I always forgot to bring my trunks so he went into my bedroom and packed them for me. “Dad, here’s your swimsuit.” Then, with a soft voice, he said, “Will you swim with me?” I chuckled briefly and then, quite unexpectedly, my heart melted as I saw my son’s tender face that seemed to say, “Dad, I don’t have much time.” Then, a lump filled my throat as I thought of the many times he wanted to swim with me and I came unprepared. In the most tender, almost apologetic tone I said, “Mitch, I would love to swim with you.”
We spent the better half of the afternoon playing “Super Shark” and a handful of other games we made up over the years. It was a tender time and a memory I hold dear to my broken heart.
I didn’t know how to be a dad – and I always felt like I was making things up and stumbling more than making good strides. My youth was complicated and I never had a day-to-day role model to emulate – so I didn’t really know what real fatherhood looked like. My biological father was a good, loving man but I only saw him for a month during the summer. The man I grew up with was angry at the world and especially angry with me, for some reason. My dad taught me how to love, but my drunken step-father (at the time), taught me how it felt to be isolated and despised. I learned to flinch, not flex and grow in confidence.
Because I felt the deep pain of rejection as a child, I never wanted my children to feel any part of what I experienced, so I did my best to give them what I wished I had. Sometimes I wonder if little Mitch wanted to swim with me because he knew I would scoop him up in my arms and hug and kiss him, all the time.
So there I was splashing around in the pool with my son. By this time, I knew Mitchell’s heart was failing him and it had only been a few months since we learned his heart function was on a steep and unexpected decline. Not a day passed that I didn’t wonder and worry if we were doing enough. We consulted with his doctors and tried medicines that were thought to stabilize his rapid heart decline. Everything failed. We did all that we knew to do and yet we couldn’t save him. When I look back on that labyrinth of decisions with unknowable outcomes, I am tempted to feel regret.
A few weeks ago, Natalie and I were asked to share some of our thoughts to a group of parents who have children with the same disease Mitch had: Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. One of the panel questions was about making decisions and how to keep from looking back and wondering if they should have done something different. I appreciated that question because I understood it on a very personal level.
“No matter what you do in life, you’re going to make mistakes and regret is inevitable. That is part of being human.”
My response was “No matter what you do in life, you’re going to make mistakes and regret is inevitable. That is part of being human.” I suggested, “Perhaps we’re better served if we worry less about life’s inevitable regrets and spend our energy doing things that will limit the depth and severity of regret.” I believe if we spend time and energy focusing on the things we truly value, we will stumble, but we won’t stumble far. Our regrets are more likely to feel like bruises, rather than broken legs.
I mentioned in an earlier post that my son’s journey has taught me to turn regret into resolve. I discovered that regret is inevitable, but resolve is a choice.
Do I have regrets? I have a million of them. But, I have a million more resolves.
As long as I am human I will experience regret; the best way to live with them, as far as I can tell, is to know what I value and always do my best. That is how I've learned to live with inevitable regrets.