Anniversary

We’re in the one-year anniversary week of Megan’s disappearance and death. I have wondered for the past few months how I would take it, how I would get through it.

I’ve battled the first four days, February 12^th through 15^th, 2025, since they occurred. I’ve written 140,000 words of a potential book about the past year which needs to be trimmed to around 80,000. Before trimming, it needs structure. The words must fit into an outline of how I want to present it and what I want it to say. Unfortunately, I had an impenetrable block: those first four days were too much. I couldn’t put the first draft together until they were written. I initially sat down to tackle them in late March and couldn’t bring myself to do it, then avoided it again and again for the next nine months.

But after accepting valuable direction from my therapist “you should maybe incorporate a pack of cigarettes here” I finally spent a January weekend slugging it out with the single most terrible event of my life. Once I got through it, I had a temporary cough and thousands of words.

Something about getting back in there and experiencing it all again so I could document every thought, emotion, and action of that time brought me, at least partially, to terms with the horror of it all. While I don’t relish the impending, necessary draft edits, I think I came to a place of tenuous peace. I relived the whole thing in as much detail as I could. I paused, I cried, I smoked. My body ached. I threw things. But I got through it. Then I created a very rough book outline that will require many months of work.

So in a way, I’ve already experienced the anniversary on my own terms. The power those first days held over me is lessened; I am not quite as afraid of them as I was before. The fight-or-flight instinct which has consistently brought on a negative physical reaction when I’ve thought about that time is somehow slightly diminished. I realize it’s only Tuesday, but I don’t think I’ll play this out hour by hour, minute by minute. I’ve done that.

**

I’ve received multiple texts from friends all over the country over the past several days, and I am extremely grateful for them. It continues to mean the world that so many folks have reached out.

But in some ways it’s a continuation of a theory I have: people look at us as though we’re still living in those first dreadful four days. We are not.

While the grief is the grief and it will be with me always, I have an agreement with grief: I’ll give you all the time you need to breathe, to stretch your legs, to wash over me in any way you please, but we need to do it on a schedule as much as possible. I’ll give you my quiet, solitary times, and you’ll promise not to pounce when I least expect it and cause a meltdown when I’m in the middle of working on a Volkswagen or enjoying a rare and cherished dinner or football game party with friends. I have all the respect in the world for my grief; however, I’ve learned that boundaries are necessary. That’s not to say severe, instant, vicious grief attacks don’t occur. They do. But for the most part, grief complies with our agreement and I appreciate it.

I think of this anniversary differently than a re-living of all that took place. Whatever happened to Megan happened then. It is not happening now. And I think of where we are now, the three of us, compared to where we were during that time. It is impossible to describe the terror and devastation. But we made it through. It does not debilitate us. We are stronger now than we have ever been. But damn do we miss Megan.

The work of the past year has revealed characteristics in each of us we never knew we had. It has brought together people from around the country in support, going so far beyond charity and good intentions that we will never, ever be able to repay it. But I hope everyone involved knows that right along with grief, I feel gratitude. All the time. And I will until my last breath. I only wish there would have been a different way to learn this valuable lesson.

I miss Megan every second of every day. That will never change, and I don’t want it to. I want to be reminded of her in the Magpies that land in my yard every morning (a story for another time) and in the way I know she would’ve reacted to the new Sam Raimi movie.

I hear her voice when she knows I need it. I had a panicked moment at a Wilco show last summer when I thought I should get up, get out, go home. I was telling myself I shouldn’t be there, which happens constantly in all kinds of situations. One of those things.

But I heard a voice in my head which wasn’t mine. It was Megan. I could see her, shoulders shrugged, hands outstretched.

“Paw, it’s Wilco.”

(Yes, she used to call me “Paw” because she thought it was hilarious, and she was right.)

I stayed and enjoyed the concert. It was a tiny step forward and I owe it to her.

**

We’re moving into year two of working to find out what happened. Vanessa has been the driving force. Lindsey remains the glue that binds us in our mission. We didn’t ask for this, but it’s what we were given. We have not relented–nor will we ever—in finding out what happened and who is responsible.

We’re different now. We’re not the same people we were last February, for both better and worse. We’ve never been stronger or wiser to the extremes of human behavior; we’ve seen plenty of both ends and still have much to fight for and even more to be grateful for.

Much of that strength is due to all the friends, family, loved ones, strangers, and all who have done so much for us. Thank you.

Back on February 17^th of last year, I told a group of people in Boulder Canyon that we were going to be alright. Honestly, I didn’t believe it when I said it. It just felt like I needed to say something and that’s what came out.

But I believe it now, and have for a good while. We’re not alright yet—far from it—but even with the constant grind of all that is involved with this tragedy, we’re a tiny step closer every day.