Post by minx on Oct 5, 2023 12:47:41 GMT -5
Today is the birthday of Zach Gonzalez.
His mom and I met online back in the usenet days when we were pregnant, and have stayed friends since, even though I live here and she lives outside of Chicago.
Eight years ago, he ran a stop sign driving through a cornfield and was hit by a dump truck. He was taken off life support two days later - a week before his 21st birthday.
Police think that the stop sign was partially obscured, and he might not have noticed it - he was listening to music and probably driving slightly over the speed limit - the truck driver didn't think he was going unusually fast, but he also didn't see him until Zach was in the intersection itself and it was too late.
Obviously, there are no words to describe the pain that Heidi and her family went through and are still going through. I think of Zach a lot and wonder what his life would have been like now. He had a steady girlfriend and was starting to talk about marriage, and he also had a job working for an electrician. There were great things in store for him.
Today, aside from thinking about him I am trying to do what his mother asks of everyone - to remember his name and to tell his stories. And to appreciate what you have today, even if it's just stopping to say that the weather is beautiful and fall is on it's way.
The one thing I do remember about Zach was that he loved his two younger brothers and would do anything for them. And that he had a sly and wicked sense of humor. One of my favorite pictures of him is from the October before he died. His family was going out to a restaurant that required a suit and tie for his Grandma's birthday. Heidi and her husband come downstairs, and there's Zach in a three piece brown suit, wearing a horse head. He has one hand in his pocket, and the other is casually resting on the fireplace mantel. "You ready?" he asks. Just like it's the most natural thing in the world. And he has the 'man of experience' pose down pat.
He was a funny, wonderful person who was filled with life. And he leaves a void that will never be filled.
His mom and I met online back in the usenet days when we were pregnant, and have stayed friends since, even though I live here and she lives outside of Chicago.
Eight years ago, he ran a stop sign driving through a cornfield and was hit by a dump truck. He was taken off life support two days later - a week before his 21st birthday.
Police think that the stop sign was partially obscured, and he might not have noticed it - he was listening to music and probably driving slightly over the speed limit - the truck driver didn't think he was going unusually fast, but he also didn't see him until Zach was in the intersection itself and it was too late.
Obviously, there are no words to describe the pain that Heidi and her family went through and are still going through. I think of Zach a lot and wonder what his life would have been like now. He had a steady girlfriend and was starting to talk about marriage, and he also had a job working for an electrician. There were great things in store for him.
Today, aside from thinking about him I am trying to do what his mother asks of everyone - to remember his name and to tell his stories. And to appreciate what you have today, even if it's just stopping to say that the weather is beautiful and fall is on it's way.
The one thing I do remember about Zach was that he loved his two younger brothers and would do anything for them. And that he had a sly and wicked sense of humor. One of my favorite pictures of him is from the October before he died. His family was going out to a restaurant that required a suit and tie for his Grandma's birthday. Heidi and her husband come downstairs, and there's Zach in a three piece brown suit, wearing a horse head. He has one hand in his pocket, and the other is casually resting on the fireplace mantel. "You ready?" he asks. Just like it's the most natural thing in the world. And he has the 'man of experience' pose down pat.
He was a funny, wonderful person who was filled with life. And he leaves a void that will never be filled.