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Four: Thoughts from a Grieving Dad on Zach’s Fourth Anniversary

The playlist that I made of the songs I created when Zach was sick, and a few other songs as well, has been on heavy rotation since late summer. It helps me remember, and maybe more importantly, not forget. And yes, those two things feel different now.

As we enter the fall every year, we start what a fellow bereaved couple we know calls the dark times. It’s the time leading up to the anniversary. Grief rears its head slowly but impactfully now, and it comes out of nowhere at times. It’s definitely more prevalent and more pronounced than the rest of the year.

November 5th marks 4 years since Zach left us. 4 years. That’s a lot of time. A lot can happen to a person in 4 years. Transitions and changes over a 4 year period can leave a person almost unrecognizable to what they looked and felt like 4 years earlier. If you think about 4 years, you probably think of the four year period of high school, or college. You might also think of politics, but I am not touching that one today.

The Last Picture of Zach Alive

When someone starts their freshman year – can we still say that, or do I have to say first year? – of, say, high school, many people are still small, only just starting to emerge into their full selves. That first year is big, scary, and filled with so many new things. Sophomores may be settling into the routine, but also realize they still have a long way to go and have so much time ahead of them to mature and become who they are.

Junior year, you can see the end of the 4 years, but have to work harder than ever to get to where you want to go. You may have started to be accustomed to your own skin and your new routines and see a line of sight to where you think you might go.  Then senior year, many people look completely different than they did four years ago, voices, hair, bodies, minds, relationships – all different. 4 years can be like an eternity. Then it ends, and you start whatever the next cycle is. While you may have plans and thoughts on what that is, but frequently the plan isn’t clear, and you don’t know where, when or how it will emerge.

Was I really describing high school? Or was I describing my grief and loss? Go back and read those last two paragraphs again. It also reminds us that any changes Zach was going through, were destroyed when he was in his sophomore year.

I can tell you this feels like it’s similar to my last four years. The first year of grief is awkward, weird, scary.  (Ok they are all scary.)  It’s hard to navigate, and the world seems overwhelming.  The second year, which is actually harder than the first because you realize you have to do all the same things again, forever, is illuminating, harsh and scary. The third year for me, I was starting to be much more comfortable in my grief-covered skin, and working harder than ever to get wherever I needed to be going. And as we wind down the fourth year, I don’t think I can even recognize who I was before I started this journey. I think I know where I’m going, but maybe I’m not really sure either.

Now back to music which has such a strong role in helping me cope. On that playlist that I mentioned earlier is a song by Ryan Adams. It wasn’t really part of the story when Zach was sick, so I added it to the playlist after.  And I never wrote about it until now.

It came on in my car recently though and made its mark. It’s obviously about a breakup with a partner, but so much of it resonates for me missing someone who isn’t here. But it’s also important to note some of it doesn’t resonate for me at all. Give it a listen or read the lyrics, and then I’ll get to my take.  I’ve bolded the stuff that gives me pause when I heard it recently.

It’s so hard to be without you
Lying in the bed, you are so much to be without
Rattles in my head, that empty drum filled with doubt
Everything you lose, the wisdom will find its way out
Every night is lonesome and is longer than before
Nothing really matters anymore

It’s so hard to be without you
Used to feel so angry, and now only I feel humble
Stinging from the storm inside my ribs where it thunders
Nothing left to say or really even wonder
We are like a book and every page is so torn
Nothing really matters anymore

It’s so hard not to call you
Thunders in my bones out on the streets where I first saw you
When everything was new and colorful, it’s gotten darker
Every day’s a lesson, things were brighter before
Nothing really matters anymore

It’s so hard to be without you
Everyday I find another little thread of silver
Waiting for me when I wake, some place on the pillow
And then I see the empty space beside me and remember
I feel empty, I feel tired, I feel worn
Nothing really matters anymore

As hard as it is, I can definitely say that this journey has gotten easier because I am settled into this as the new and always present normal. But at times it hasn’t been easier and it’s just as hard as it’s always been. I hope I’ve found wisdom from it and when I see the impact of the work we are doing, it makes me proud. But that doesn’t bring Zach back, and I honestly have no idea what my life and Jenn and Zach’s lives would look like if he was here. That’s the life I really want. But I don’t have it.

I have to value the life I have and the change I’ve made. It’s still so hard to be without him. I’m less angry, and perhaps more humble. It’s a lot to be without my son, but it’s the path I’ve got. And here I am – am I going to graduate from these four years? Zach didn’t. Am I going to move on to what’s next? Zach can’t. It feels like that opportunity to keep moving forward is ever present and right in front of me.

But I’m also in these dark times right now and I still find myself feeling empty, tired and worn. In that first year, and in pockets of time since then, I definitely questioned if anything matters anymore, And I still have that feeling now for a whole variety of reasons.

In general though, right now, I don’t think nothing matters anymore. Everything matters. People matter. The world still matters.

All I can do is take that grief and try to turn it into something that helps others. And I hope Zach would be proud.

We love and miss you Zacharoo!

Please don’t feel any obligation, but if you’d like to honor Zach, today or any day, and his legacy of helping families going through what we have, please consider a donation to Zach’s Bridge today. And to make it symbolic, we can tell you that $4 a month makes a difference, or $40.

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