When my son was born his name had already been chosen.
A favorite movie at the time was The
Princess Bride. His name would be Westley – without the “t” – the good guy,
the hero, the handsome blond. Wesley was named, and I must say, he was
absolutely adorable. As he grew, he was told where his name came from, and he
watched The Princess Bride with his
three sisters over and over and over.
In elementary school Wesley found his friend group,
many of whom are still friends today. They called themselves the Unstoppable
Seven. The Unstoppables all knew where Wesley got his name. They all watched The Princess Bride. The Unstoppables provided years
of fun and entertainment for us as we enjoyed their company on many trips to
the lake. Our house has a large third floor where bunkbeds, futons and a wide, open
space make the perfect place to put seven rambunctious boys. They ate mountains
of food at every meal. In between feedings they fished, swam, tubed, and built
a secret fort in the Michigan woods. They were hilarious, intelligent and polite.
As elementary school led them to middle school, which led
them to high school, the Unstoppables stuck together. Until one of them seemed
to take a step out of the circle. Zach began to walk down a different path. And
one day Zach wasn’t in the car when we were all heading north to the lake.
We saw him at graduation and gave him hugs and congratulations.
A few years later, when visiting our old hometown, we went to our favorite restaurant
and saw Zach behind the back counter making specialty rolls and helping guests.
When he saw us, he literally ran from behind the counter, flour and dough on
his hands, and engulfed us with huge bearhugs. He surprised us by shouting to
one of his coworkers, “These people are like parents to me. I have so many
happy memories because of them.” We felt a warm, happy, embarrassment at his praise.
We had missed him since he stepped away from the pack. He was tall, blond, with
a huge smile and naughty, twinkling eyes. Zach was full of life.
In late December 2017, Wesley called me from Bellingham,
Washington. “Hey mom, I just found out that Zach is dead.” He sounded unsteady.
The shock of his words took a few seconds for me to comprehend. Zach. Dead. He
was only twenty-two. Fun, silly, loving Zach. Dead.
“How did he die?”
“It was an overdose. He got into heroin and other
drugs.”
“How did you find out?”
“Facebook.”
It’s always a tragedy when a young person dies. In our
country young people are caught in a catastrophic epidemic. The CDC estimates
130 Americans die every day from drug overdoses. This is a national crisis.
A real one.
Zach was dead from an addiction to drugs.
I checked the two funeral home websites from our old
hometown and found Zach’s obituary. His face smiled at me from the webpage.
Seven days after he died, I put on my black funeral
dress and drove south. I pulled into the funeral home on an icy, windy day. A
terrible day to put a child in the ground. But that would be any day of any
year, wouldn’t it?
I saw a group of young men huddled together feverishly
smoking cigarettes outside the funeral home entrance. I wondered to myself, Are you Zach’s friends? Did he leave the
Unstoppables to run with you? Smoking is bad for you. Please don’t. You’re too
young. Stay alive.
I smiled at the young men and made my way through the
double doors and into the funeral chapel. I walked toward the flowers. Zach was
there. Lying in his casket with a bandana around his head. I touched his hand
and felt overwhelmed by the loss of this young life. Wesley’s age. Wesley’s
friend. A friend who had become a stranger.
The funeral lasted less than fifteen minutes. The officiant
didn’t know Zach, so he had nothing to say except saccharine platitudes. I saw
Zach’s family sitting in the front row. Prime seats when you’re burying your
child.
I watched the family and I also watched the big screen
television with a rotation of slides showing Zach’s life in pictures. Zach as a
little boy. Zach in elementary school. Zach in middle school. Zach in high
school. There was a girl. Zach had his arm around her. She was pretty. She was
in more and more slides. They kissed. There was a baby.
Zach held his newborn baby. Zach looked so sweetly at
his little boy. The baby became a toddler with white-blond hair and laughing
eyes. He was adorable and Zach held him in his strong arms.
When the unbelievably brief and insufficient funeral
was at an end, the pastor asked if anyone would like to share a story about
Zach. Not one person stood up to say anything about Zach. Not one person.
I wish I would have.
This is for you Zach:
“I
remember the first time you came to the lake. I was cleaning things up as you
all packed the cars to head home. I ran upstairs to make sure you each had your
possessions (which were scattered everywhere!). You surprised me by poking your
face out from under one of the bunkbeds.
“Zach,
what are you doing?” I laughed at your prank.
“I
want to stay here. Can I stay here? I don’t want to go home.”
“But
we’ll come up next weekend,” I said.
“Zach,
you were playful and naughty and fun. You found a fawn one day while the boys
were jumping off the dock. You brought me to her and she stared at us from her
deep brown eyes. No fear. You told me not to touch her or her mother would
reject her. The next morning when we checked, she was safely gone with her
mother.
I
remember watching you eat a Bear Burger at the Brown Bear restaurant. You
thought you were going to throw-up. I did too. You didn’t.
Zach,
you were kind and appreciative. You had a softness beneath your
humor. You were smart. You seemed to like being cared for. We cared. We enjoyed having you in our lives. We are so sorry that
drugs got a hold of you and took your young life.”
As the piped-in music played, I stood to leave the
funeral home. I saw one more slide on the television. And that was the one that
made me cry. It was another picture of Zach with his son. It said, “Zach and
Westley.” Westley. With a “t.” The good guy. The blond handsome hero.
In the parking lot, I sat in my car and I called Wes. “Hi
buddy, I’m just about to leave Zach’s funeral.”
“You went, mom?”
“Yes. I’ve got to tell you something. There was a slide.
Zach had a baby boy. Do you know what his name is?”
“No…what is it?”
Good
bye, Zach. You are missed. I’m sorry you didn’t get the help you needed for
your addiction. I hope heaven is treating you well and that you are flying with
the angels. You are unstoppable.
