And here’s where days of the week are seared into my memory too. I remember these two dates, and their days of the week so clearly, because Father’s Day was two days after that meeting with the palliative care team.
I frequently mention this week when we talk about Zach and our work here at Zach’s Bridge with care teams and nonprofits. I still get emotional when I tell the story. I’ve told it literally hundreds of times, and still just thinking about it makes me feel the feels.
Numbers — not just dates — have meaning. Not just a feeling, but so much more. That Friday, June 18th, marked a huge transition for us. We didn’t know it at the time, but we only had 139 days left with Zach.
And during those 139 days, and every day after, everything changed. Who we were changed. How we related to each other, how we related to our family, friends, colleagues, and the world around us — it all changed, permanently.
If you’ve been following Zach’s Bridge, you may know another huge day just passed. May 3, 2026 should have been Zach’s 21st birthday. That was our 5th birthday without him. I count it every year.
No, it doesn’t go away. No, I won’t just move on. And yes, even after 5 times, I still want to talk about it. So do most bereaved parents I know.
And Father’s Day — two days from the day I wrote this — that one is extra tough for me, as Mother’s Day is for moms. I am still a father. My son isn’t here. I can’t have him express his love or gratitude that day, or any day. And since Zach was our only child, it’s an empty day, but also a hard one.
But if you see me, don’t avoid it. Next year, and every year after, wish me a happy Father’s Day — especially because Zach can’t.
Numbers, dates, and days — they all stay with me. They are front and center, they don’t go away, and they always have an impact. Whether it’s a number set in stone, like 139, or a number that will change, like 5, it’s one of the ways I remember.
I don’t want to forget. Those memories and emotions I carry now are the unexpressed love I have for Zach — love I cannot express to him directly. I want, I need, and I love those moments, even if I need a tissue or two nearby.
If you aren’t a bereaved parent, you may be thinking that this sounds like PTSD. It may be. I don’t know, and I’m not an expert — but I can tell you that these moments can have PTSD-like effects on so many parents like me.
