Today I witnessed something that some people only see a few times, and others see too many times.

I arrived at the high school at 9 am to train with the girls’ soccer team in the field house. After we ran through an obstacle course we moved downstairs per Kara’s direction to shuffle over cones. This morning felt the same as any other conditioning. You get up. You work. You go home. Nothing happens in between. Today was different though. As our small group was shuffling over the orange cones when the wrestlers upstairs yelled for Kara. Someone had collapsed along the indoor track and Kara immediately ran to address the issue. Our group advanced cautiously behind her to see what was happening. The wrestlers were nervously running around when Kara yelled to call 911. A group of them, myself included, rushed into the hallway by Kara’s training room to find a phone. One was located and 911 was dialed.

Upon coming out of the purple double doors I was startled by the labored breath of Zach Johnston. He was so still and quiet I hadn’t noticed him there, only ten feet away from me. The mechanical quality of the breath made me flinch. Perhaps it scared me because it sounded weird, or because subconsciously I knew humans couldn’t breathe like that voluntarily. The sound will always stay with me. It was air passing through a human body, not breathing. The two may sound the same in words, but today I learned there is huge difference. It was at that point I realized Kara was the only thing pumping his blood through his veins, keeping him alive.

She called for her AED, and a student ran to her office to get it. As the student returned the group of soccer players including myself were ushered into the hall by a school secretary. We could see Kara and a group of wrestlers standing over Zach’s body, waiting for an ambulance to arrive. First two police cars arrived. Then an ambulance. Then another ambulance. Then another two police cars. Then more paramedics. As help arrived the wrestlers were sent away from Zach so the EMTs could work uninterrupted.

As they worked to save Zach’s life, more EMTs arrived, and our group pointed them in Zach’s direction. It seemed like an endless stream of them flowed into the field house. My sense of time melted away. The only thing I could think of was what had just happened. How does one make sense of the situation? A perfectly healthy high school athlete was lying on the gym floor unresponsive. Just a few minutes ago I had been most concerned with the pain in my quads and now the only thing that occupied my mind was a dieing classmate. I had a feeling many of my friends were thinking the same thing because no one talked. Every few minutes one of us shook his or her head, but other than that we didn’t know how to deal with the situation.

I have been to many funerals of aged family members, but I never actually saw a person die. When my grandpa was having health problems he moved into our family’s house so we could take care of him. For a summer I prepared breakfast and lunch for him everyday. He was a WWII veteran who had spent his life taking care of his family. And now I was taking care of him. He died shortly after the summer ended. I didn’t know what to think. Everyday I cooked him food and asked him if there was anything I could do for him, and everyday he said he said he was ok. I never had a personal relationship with him, but after he died I wished I could go back to making him breakfast and lunch every day. I wondered what life had been like for him during his last summer, when the only letters he received in the mail were healthcare bills and invitations to funerals and the only human contact he received was nurses trying to fix his failing body and our family, including myself.

At his funeral an American flag was folded into a triangle, put into a wooded box with a glass cover and given to our family for his service in WWII. I pass by it every day when I arrive home from school, and for a brief moment I think about that summer; how the simplest sights, sounds and experiences mean so much more when the person you experience them with is gone.

I could make some sense of my grandpa’s death because he was old and his body was failing. That was the reason he died. As I walked past the flag everyday I always knew why. Zach was different though. There was no reason he died. He was a perfectly healthy teenager. How does one justify that? How does one place this experience with all of his or her others? It made no sense. Teenage boys don’t die for no reason. Yet here I was, standing out in the hallway, with proof that they did.

Zach was in my German V class. Everyday (most days) I would arrive at room B11 (probably late) and see Zach. His head was usually on his desk, his body fast asleep. Speaking English is hard enough at 7:25 am and speaking German seemed impossible. Everyday I could look straight ahead, and in the middle of Adam’s protein cookies, Creech’s Monster Energy Drinks and Frau’s ridiculous chicken hat I saw Zach. Now that he is gone I feel that daily experience, that one small thread that bound our lives together, even though it seemed so trivial then, would seem like an enormous tear now.

I never knew Zach personally, but just like my grandpa my consciousness brushed past his every day, and I had become so accustomed to it. Now that Zach is gone I feel I will still look at his desk expecting him to open the door, give Frau a pink tardy slip and sit in his desk. But I know that will never happen. He is gone. Such a small detail of my life now seemed so significant. He was just another student, but now that he is gone, I know I will always stare at his desk and wonder who he was.

I imagine all of my friends in the hallway were thinking of how they passed Zach in their lives. Had he been in any of their classes? Had he passed them in the hallway? It seemed like we were all searching our memories, like a computer searches its hard drive, for any remnants of Zach that could help us evaluate our place in what had occurred just 20 minutes ago. We were silent until a secretary told us to go home. I said my goodbyes and left. Just like that. There was no dramatic reason for what had just occurred. It just happened. And now all of us had just left that hallway, an area we will remember for the rest of our lives as the place we experienced our first real brush with death. We felt its chill force our feelings inward, and at the same time prevent us from using words to express them. We were sent home before any of us could answer the question: what does this all mean? Zach will live on in our memories and in those of everyone who knew him, no matter how personal it was.

Perhaps this is my way of dealing with what happened. I encourage everyone who knew him, and those like me who didn’t, to not shy away from memories of him, no matter how trivial they are. I think all of us see a little of ourselves in him, and by evaluating his life and recent death, we can gain a greater understanding and appreciation of our place in this confusing world that we live in.

Rest in Peace and Condolences to his friends and family.

For another perspective here are Ken’s thoughts:
http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=53734678103