Eighth Anniversary Reflection

by Dan Misleh

The Sadness of “The Second Death”

Dear Zach:

Some time ago, I heard of the phrase, “the second death.” It is that  time, generations from now, when those who loved the deceased will no longer be around to say the name or share a memory. Though it is a tough reality, and I really don’t care to dwell on it, I especially dread that time for you. It seems so cruel.

Both of my grandfathers, your great grandfathers, were gone before I was born. Frank Pfetzer and Khaleel Misleh both died too soon, leaving widows who carried on into their seventies. Your grandfather and grandmother shared some stories of their dads, but I imagine that their second death will not be long from now. Genealogy software may keep their names alive, but who will pass on their stories?

I do have fond memories of both of my grandmothers. Grandma Pfetzer lived on the second floor of a house just over the Ohio River in Erlanger, Kentucky. To get to her apartment, you had to walk a metal staircase that, as an 8 year old, scared the bejeezus out of me. I can still hear the echo of the metal as our feet led the way to the top. Before she died of bone cancer in 1970 when I was 10, your older aunts and I would get a turn each summer to stay with her for a few days. My best memory of such a time was when we took the bus to play bingo (both firsts for me). I stumbled into a winning round (with grandma’s help) and won a dollar or two. She trusted me to walk by myself the two blocks and over the railroad tracks to the corner drug store where I bought a coveted mini-football and some candy.

Sittie Misleh, was a 5-foot (I’m being generous) Lebanese dynamo. Having worked in restaurants all her life she had one speed: fast. An amazing cook, she would spend hours in the kitchen preparing dinners, join us around the table, and eat as if it was her own personal Last Supper. Then back on her feet to start the cleanup. When your last bite was finished, her hands would magically appear, snatch your plate and head for the sink. When she said “ooft!” you knew she was not happy (my siblings and I still use that expression: it was Sittie’s version of the f-bomb). As she aged—and suffered from increasingly debilitating encephalitis—she traded living with us and with her oldest son until she needed full time nursing care. She lingered longer than is fair for anyone suffering from memory loss and died when I was in college in 1981.

So what will the generations say about you, Zach? 

For me, I’ll always remember that you were slow to talk but incredibly observant. Anna would help translate for us when you were a toddler until your English improved. Then it was hard to get you to stop talking. From an early age, everything captivated you and superlatives poured forth until they lost their meaning since everything was the best or the most amazing or epic. 

You had a short temper for a time, but as you entered high school, you seemed to befriend everyone. Teachers and students said you had no problem floating between the cliques and found ways to pull people into your orbit. Friends from that time share outrageous stories both moving and, well, a bit more colorful than a parent might like to hear. 

Your love of music seemed unparalleled. Any instrument became a challenge to be mastered. You even wrote some songs and dabbled in poetry. At the memorial mass held by St. John’s University in October of 2017, at least a half dozen people came up to us and said, “Zach was my best friend in college.” Tears and laughter were in equal measure during the reception. 

On the evening of June 19, 2017, the day of your funeral mass, close friends and family gathered for dinner at Three Brothers and as the evening progressed, one after the other stood to share a story. I particularly remember your cousin Sarah saying that you took the time to remember birthdays and to call every now and then just to check in. Sarah challenged us all to “step up and be like Zach.” No aunt or uncle, cousin or sibling, new friend or old was a stranger to you and you conversed effortlessly between the oldest and the youngest of us.  

Of the billions of people who have lived and died on this planet, a few notables became subjects of autobiographies and their names and stories (famous or infamous) will live on. But of the billions of people who have lived and died, there are more than a few who deserve to be in our history books for simply living powerful lives full of love and grace, laughter and sobriety, spontaneity and thoughtfulness. With the huge caveat that this is your adoring dad writing, you are one of those who deserves such a place in human history. While it seems inevitable, may a second death never happen for one as beautiful as you.

On this 8th anniversary of the end of your suffering, I recall the best qualities in you. Amidst the sadness of this day, I also smile at a short life well lived.

Forever your dad, and forever in my heart, I love you Zach.

Seventh Anniversary Reflection

by Dan Misleh

If we only pay attention

I’ve told this story to a number of people and they suggested I write it down. For this seventh commemoration of Zach’s passing, I share this story with you:

The Ireland trip was going very well. But on this Thursday morning, halfway through our trip, I was not happy.

After Susie’s weeklong retreat with other women in Ireland, I flew to Dublin to meet her. We planned another solid week with the intention of not only a nice vacation exploring the country, but to connect with Zach as we neared the second anniversary of his going home to God.

We hopped from one bed and breakfast to the next along the north and central Atlantic coast beginning in Westport then meandering south, enjoying traditional Irish breakfasts in the mornings and Guinness pints in the evenings at the many pubs along the way. We planned two nights in Galway but the bed and breakfast was not the best. It was a funky place with a somewhat eccentric host. Neither of us were satisfied with our choice.

Beyond the bed and breakfast, my unhappiness that Thursday morning was more about the need to work to finalize a grant for my organization as I felt it didn’t meet our standards. It was due at the end of the day which meant I had to get my edits done in the morning so it could be submitted on time. So I worked on it at the bed and breakfast for a few hours while Susie explored a bit of Galway on her own.

At one point she texted me saying that she found a bed and breakfast near the Cliffs of Moher where we had planned to go the following day. While we were forfeiting a night’s fee at the funky place, we agreed that it would be good to get out of Galway.

I finally finished my work and around noon, we checked out and made our way south to the cliffs. The bed and breakfast Susie chose in Doolin was perfect: a spacious room with a view of the ocean and a peak at the cliffs to the southwest. We dropped our luggage and headed out.

Stunning, spectacular, amazing! This nearly perfectly sunny day could not have offered a better view of this world-renowned natural attraction. From the entrance to the park, we walked south and then north along the cliffs to capture all of the sights. As we were considering heading back to the car, we found a patch of grass, lay facing the sky and looked for images of Zach in the clouds, something we’d done since his death. No images revealed themselves, but we both became melancholic for what we lost. We said a short prayer to Zach, telling him how much we missed him and hoping he was happy. With teary eyes and as the sun began to set we started walking south, back towards the car.

As we walked, we noticed that everyone was looking left–eastward and away from the ocean–at the bay on the other side of the peninsula. A small rain cloud was shedding water into the bay and was lit up with the brightest and most distinct rainbow either of us had ever seen. It was clear that Zach was saying, “Dry your eyes. I’m here. I’m with you. Be at peace.”

We made our way to McGann’s Pub for a late dinner. The place was packed so we were seated in the back, out of view of that night’s musicians as this was the only booth available.

After we ate (Irish stew for Susie, fish and chips for me) a most gracious host stopped by for a visit with Susie while I stood near the musicians to take it all in. When I returned Susie and the host were still in conversation. He turned to me saying, “Your wife told me of the purpose of your trip and I just want to express my condolences.” I was so grateful that I reached into my pack and dug out one of the guitar picks my sister had ordered as a memorial token for our large family. On one side of the pick was Zach’s handsome face and on the other side, a rainbow. I had forgotten about the rainbow!

The host was touched and he said, "I'm going to pin this above the till (the cash register) and your son will remain with us until this place is no more.”

We snapped a photo of it on the way out, happy with the knowledge that Zach’s spirit remained in that beautiful town, near the Cliffs of Moher and its rainbow, produced just for us.

My good friend Rich had organized a bike tour of Ireland the following summer. I planned to go but the timing was wrong and the expense was a bit too much. As the trip neared, Rich asked me about the small deposit I had made to reserve my spot. Knowing they were stopping in Doolin for a night, I said to keep it and treat everyone to a drink at McCanns, raise a pint to Zach, and look for him above the till. He honored both requests and sent back the photo of Zach’s smiling face amidst the hundreds of other photos and tokens pinned and posted behind the bar.

I shared Rich’s photo with my mother-in-law. Immediately she said, “Look at the bottle of Jameson whiskey right beneath Zach.” It struck me like it struck her except I never noticed it.

You see, John Patridge, Carole’s late husband and Zach’s grandfather (Papa), had a thing. Years ago, we sent Zach and his cousin Emma to Stockton, CA, to hang with Nana and Papa for a week. Papa introduced Zach to Marx Brothers films (cue Zach’s over-the-top laughter) including Animal Crackers in which Groucho Marx plays Captain Spaulding and asks his secretary, Jameson (played by Zeppo Marx), to take notes.

From that time on when Zach would answer the phone and Papa was the caller, Zach would say, “Captain Spaulding! Good to hear from you.” Even through the landline speaker, you could hear Papa exclaim, “Jameson! How are you?” They would carry on this way until Captain Spalding would ask Jameson if his mother was home.

I recently found in our Ireland photo album the picture I took of Zach’s pick over the till, the one nearly identical to Rich’s. Sure enough, a bottle of Jameson was in that photo as well. We just never noticed.

Layers upon layers of coincidence? Or real and tangible signs of Zach’s spirit, Zach’s not-so-subtle messages from the Great Beyond? It seems like too much to be just coincidence.

I hope you find signs of your loved ones as you continue to remember them whether in grief and sadness or with fondness and comfort knowing that they are in a better place.

Zach took time to comfort us with the rainbow and made us laugh with the Jameson’s. Undoubtedly he and Captain Spaulding are both in on the joke.