I stumbled onto a 2011 Thanksgiving photo of Mitch late last night and sent a copy of it to Natalie this morning. Our exchange, a brief yet tender one.
At least for me, grief isn't about being in misery. Instead, it's a state of longing and wanting our loved ones back. It's a longing so deep your knees shake, hands tremble, and eyes suddenly fill with tears. Grief lingers like a silent shadow - ever close, always near ... its weight undiminished by the passing of years.
There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think of Mitch a thousand times. On my commute to-and-from work I drive with him in my mind. Sometimes I imagine him sitting next to me in my car, like he used to, when he would have a father/son day at work. I want to reach out my hand toward that empty chair and hold his – but he is not there. Nor will he ever be. For he has gone from this place and my heart is changed because of it.
“ To be stuck WITH grief is to carry our sorrows as we move forward in life. It is to have our backs made stronger as we climb to new heights, while we shoulder the weight of sorrow. To be stuck IN grief is to be tethered, as though we were chained to a boulder … circling our pain again, and again, and again. ”
I used to cry all day. In the beginning, while I was at work and when meetings were over, I would often go outside and salt the earth with my tears. Sometimes I could hardly breathe. Save this blog, I kept my sorrow to myself – hiding my broken heart behind a soft smile and a warm handshake.
At night, I would look at my pillow with a measure of fear … for that space between sleep and wake terrified me. It was during that transition to-and-from sleep I would experience the loss of Mitch all over again. Sometimes that unfiltered grief was so raw, it would startle me to the point I couldn’t go back to sleep. For that reason, I was afraid of the night.
I think it’s safe to say I have been to hell and back. What matters, I suppose, is that I’m back. I am grateful to say I am no longer in hell, though grief will sometimes sweep me back to hell from time-to-time.
Not a day goes by Natalie and I don’t talk about our little boy. We remember his goodness and the lessons he taught us. We think back on his sense of humor and his tender soul; and when we talk about Mitch, we often do it with warm hearts and a feeling of gratitude.
Each day is met with memories and a tender longing for our son. That is what children do to parents … they become the better parts of us and if they are taken away, we spend the remainder of our days in search of that which was lost.
I often hear people reference others as being “stuck in grief.” It is a label sometimes carelessly handed out by those who often know very little of grief themselves. Yet, I have thought a great deal about what that means – at least to me. When I think of the word stuck, I think of something that is immovable. When it comes to the loss of a child, grief is a chronic, life-long condition. Grief isn’t something you experience, like the flu, and move on. Grief alters every part of you. You become a spiritual amputee and you must learn to live without a once vital part of your heart and soul.
So, in a manner of speaking, I suppose I am stuck WITH grief – but that doesn’t mean I am stuck IN grief. I cannot restore the loss of my son any more than an amputee can regenerate a missing limb. But I can learn and adapt to my new reality and grow – and therein lies the difference, I believe. To be stuck WITH grief is to carry our sorrows as we move forward in life. It is to have our backs made stronger as we climb to new heights, while we shoulder the weight of sorrow. To be stuck IN grief is to be tethered, as though we were chained to a boulder … circling our pain again, and again, and again.
I am not circling, I am climbing - and when I write of grief, I speak of that which I’m carrying … not that which I’m circling.
Mitch was the better part of me. A million times over, he was everything I could ever hope to be. Not a day goes by I don’t fall to my knees and thank Heaven for giving Mitch to me. Because of him, I see things differently. I am a different me.
I don’t think children understand how often we worry over their wellbeing, how much we pray for their safety, and how we want of their happiness. For over a decade, I knelt by my son’s bed every single night and prayed while he slept. I prayed that Mitch might somehow escape DMD, that his life might be spared. For a season, my prayers felt answered to some degree, because he often seemed healthier and more mobile than he should have been. I am thankful to my Father for that.
On this night, I sat at the head of Mitchell’s bed as my young son leaned into my chest, struggling to breathe. I put my arms around him and held him close so he would feel safe. But Mitch was not safe. He was scared and I was, too. But I knew Mitch enough to know that if I held him, he would feel comforted. Sometimes, in life’s storms, all we can do is comfort each other.
Neither of us knew he had 48 hours left.
Like a baby made of sand, he would slip through my fingers and pass away – and my soul would break into unfathomable pieces.
I’m not sure why people wait to make important changes until time runs out – but it seems to be more common, than not. Mitch taught me to never take for granted the time we have – because it is always later than we think. Even though I did all that I knew to do, when it came to making moments, I wish I would have done better. I don’t live in regret because my mistakes and missed opportunities only motivate to do better and try harder. I am satisfied that I did my best while remembering I can always do better.
Lately, as many have noticed, I haven’t posted many new stories of Mitch; that is because I’ve had to turn my attention to something I helped put in motion before he passed away … something I risked everything to make happen, because of him. Now, I do it in honor of him. About a year before Mitch passed I was asked to help develop an idea that would help people live what they valued and make the most of their life. I didn’t know I was about to lose my son, and my plate was already filled to overflowing; I wasn’t looking for anything new. But when I saw what this new idea could do for people, I sensed it was part of my life mission.
Aside from my faith and family, I care deeply about two things in life: Mitchell’s Journey and helping people live their core values so they can lead a meaningful life. That is who I am. Because of Mitch, that is who I have become – and I cannot put it down.
Many have asked what I do for a living, and to those I haven’t been able to respond to … I run a company whose mission is to help people close the gap between what they value and what they do. It’s about making our lives matter before time runs out.
You can visit www.mycore.com to learn more about that effort … an effort that is designed to help people. Period. It is a software tool that helps people organize their lives and stay focused on their core values. When Mitch was alive, he would sometimes come to the office with me when we were just starting this company. He even said what we were building was “really cool.” In a strange way, maybe part of this company is a legacy of my son. He often asked questions about how it would help people, and each time I would share something he would say, “I’m glad it will help others.” I wish he could see how far it has come – and what it has the potential to do for others.
At the end of the day, it is later than we think. Whether our children are about to grow up and grow out of our homes, or if we’re going to lose them to sickness and death … we don’t have much time. Everything changes quickly and what matters most is making the most of what time we have – and that is what I try to do at Mitchell’s Journey and mycore. Both are deeply woven into my life mission – I do both because of Mitch.
This morning, as I left for work, I couldn't help but notice the sunrise and think how much Mitch would have loved it.
“Mitch has taught me something about the duality of grief; though I may suffer chronic grief, my heart can still be filled with gratitude.”
Because little Mitch is never far from my mind, when I saw this display of light and color, my heart swelled with gratitude and I thought to myself, "Oh Mitch, that sunrise is for you." In a way, I felt like I had Mitch beside me - even though he was not. Not the way I want him to be. That, my friends, is grief. It is to feel great pain, despite our spiritual beliefs. A longing for what was lost and aching for relief.
Mitch has taught me something about the duality of grief; though I may suffer chronic grief, my heart can still be filled with gratitude. I can be afraid and still have courage.
I think that's how I've learned to survive grief ... I acknowledge my sorrow, but then I look for reasons to be grateful. I can smile through the tears.
