In Memory of Paxten

In Memory of Paxten

On Sunday April 6, 2008, at 7:28 in the morning,

Paxten Andrew Mitchell slipped out of this world and into the next.

He was three years and seven months old.

My dear friend Barbara Thomas lost her son Matthew to menigitis just weeks after Paxten died. I received this piece from her:

Bereaved Parents Wish List (author unknown)

1. I wish you would not be afraid to speak my child's name. He lived and

was important and I need to hear his name.

2. If I cry or get emotional if we talk about my child, I wish you knew

that it isn't because you have hurt me; the fact they have died has

caused my tears. You have allowed me to cry and I thank you. Crying and

emotional outbursts are healing.

3. I wish you wouldn't let my loved one die again by removing from your

home his pictures, artwork, or other remembrances.

4. I will have emotional highs and lows, ups and downs. I wish you

wouldn't think that if I have a good day my grief is over, or that if I

have a bad day I need psychiatric counseling.

5. I wish you knew that the death of a child is different from other

losses and must be viewed separately. It is the ultimate tragedy and I

wish you wouldn't compare it to your loss of a parent, spouse, or a pet.

This one is just the worst in my eyes.

6. Being a bereaved person is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn't

stay away from me.

7. I wish you knew all the crazy grief reactions that I am having are in

fact very normal. Depression, anger, frustration and hopelessness and

the questioning of values and beliefs are to be expected following a death.

8. I wish you wouldn't expect my grief to be over in six months. The

first few years are going to be exceedingly traumatic for us. As with

alcoholics, I will never be cured or a formerly bereaved but forever be

recovering from my bereavement.

9. I wish you understood the physical reaction to grief. I may gain

weight or lose weight, sleep all the time or not at all, develop a lot

of illness and be accident prone, all of which are related to my grief.

10. Our child's birthday, the anniversary of his death, and the holiday

are terrible times for us. I wish you would tell us that you are

thinking about them on these days and if we get quiet and withdrawn,

just know that we are thinking about them and don't try to coerce us

into being cheerful.

11. I wish you wouldn't offer to take me out for a drink, or to a party;

this is just a temporary crutch and the only way I can get through this

grief is to experience it. I have to hurt before I can heal.

12. I wish you understood that grief changes people. I am not the same

person I was before my child died and I will never be that person again.

If you keep waiting for me to be back to my old self you will stay

frustrated. I am a new creature with new thoughts, dreams, aspirations,

and values. Please try to get to know the new me; maybe you will still

like me.

13. Please don't tell us he is in a better place. As his mommy and

daddy, we know there is no better place than in our arms. We know you

mean well but . . .

When I went to Jerusalem,

I visited the Wailing Wall and

paid tribute to Paxten.

Here's a video to commemorate the experience.

I've written several stories about the Mitchells during this ordeal. I've posted some and some you can download.

See the links below.

(I'm thrilled when anyone is interested in reading my writing. If you share it, that is even better. Could you do me a favor though? Would you remember to attach my name to it? Thanks so much.)

Almost Shipwrecked

“What do we know about Paxten?” It was Sunday morning; I’d stopped the first person I thought might know.

“He died. This morning,” the man said, giving just the facts.

My ship rocked. I held onto his arm to steady myself then released him grabbing the banister as I turned back towards the chapel. Our pastor greeted those exiting the early service.

My eyes met his, “Paxten?”

He nodded, his eyes sad. “This morning.”

Waves rushed over the sides of my ship. I searched for a life boat. I made my way up some steps when I heard another passenger call out to me, “Aileen! Stop.”

I turned to a sea of blank faces that didn’t seem to realize the ship was wrecking. Then I saw my friend Leah, a former Hospice Social Worker. “Stay right there, I’m coming.”

Leah caught up to me, “Let’s go in here,” she said, scooping me through a door and into the church office, wrapping her life vest arms around me.

“I thought I was ready for this,” I said, not recognizing my voice, feeling as if I would choke on the heart bits ricocheting through my system.

I wanted my Daddy. If I could just get to Daddy, everything would be better.

I managed to teach my Sunday school lesson, pick up my children, and head home. My husband was gone for Air National Guard Duty and we were expected at my brother’s in Morganton for lunch. My parents were there too. If I can just get to Daddy. . . I thought.

Fifty miles later, I tumbled out of the car. My children ran off to play with cousins, as I rested in my father’s arms. I talked, he listened. I cried, he cried. I asked questions with no answers, he shook his head, asking the same ones.

An hour later, my circumstances had not changed, but after being with Daddy, I had found a sense of hope. The storm continued to rage, but with my father on board, my ship was secure. It would be a rough ride, but this ship, guided by the Father, would make it through the storm.

In preaching class, I had to "preach" to my classmates. The text I chose was Psalm 22. I used a lot of what I learned from Rob and Amy during the last few months to write the sermon. If you want to read it, click the link below. And when God blesses you with the sight of a lovely young family of four, please lift up Rob, Amy, and baby Ari as they adjust to their family of four now being four, minus one.

One of the songs that has helped me to cope with my grief in losing Paxten is the song "Held" by Natalie Grant. She wrote the song for a friend who lost her two month old son--thus the opening line. She expresses so much of what I'm feeling right now, having lost a child I loved. Below are the lyrics. The video pasted from YouTube is here as well.

Held by Natalie Grant

Two months is too little.
They let him go.
They had no sudden healing.
To think that providence would
Take a child from his mother while she prays
Is appalling.

Who told us we’d be rescued?
What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares?
We’re asking why this happens
To us who have died to live?
It’s unfair.

Chorus:
This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we’d be held.

This hand is bitterness.
We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow.
The wise hands opens slowly to lillys of the valley and tomorrow.

(Chorus)
This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we’d be held.

Bridge:
If hope is born of suffering.
If this is only the beginning.
Can we not wait for one hour watching for our Savior?

(Chorus)
This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we’d be held.

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Aileen Mitchell Lawrimore, Freelance Writer, Public Speaker