Tragedy changes us. Immediately, unexpectedly and eternally. Of course there arent words that can accompany a tragedy like this,. Suddenly words sound like noise, but I’m Andy’s sister and i wouldnt be his sister if I didnt at least try to use one of my only gifts to shed final light on the person that was my big brother.
Recently a friend was at my house for dinner. We were having a particularly chaotic bedtime as he was getting out the door. A few tantrums, some bickering, quarreling over who gets to use the bathroom next. As he was heading out the door, he embraced me and said “Autumn, this house is full of life…I know, it doesn’t feel good all the time, but it is.” I knew what he meant, and it did comfort me as I headed upstairs to help beat back the bedtime shenanigans before turning in. As I sat on the porch swing a few days after Andy’s passing, I heard a leaf blower, I saw a person walking their dog, I could see my neighbors sitting on their couch through their front window, in my window I could see my daughter playing piano, the baby running around. Everywhere. Life. My friend’s words echoed in my ear. Full of Life. And all I could think of now was my brother. He was full of life like no one I’d ever known. It was hard to part from an interaction with Andy and not be left with a deep and oftentimes surprising impression.
While so many of Andy’s interests and passions were not something I naturally understood, like his ease with math and mechanics or his love of fungus and his ability to identify most every plant species that surrounded his wooded home, his love of music was always something I felt so honored to share with him. He was my first music guru. I always knew I could count on him to share openly and generously from his music wealth. But I also remember feeling overwhelmed. I knew that I would never be as committed to procuring and listening to music the way he was. In highschool I remember being completely blown away at his collection of Beatles albums. He owned every single Beatles album that he could get his hands on. The Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, Neil Young, Ween, Nirvana, Billy Joel, Elton John, The Doors…It was just too much. I was more of a “greatist hits” kinda girl. He was a masterful collector of the lifes work of musicians.
I heard a beautiful story about John Lennon the other day. He was on his way to the hospital, on his 35th birthday. His lawyer called to tell him that after 5 long years, John had won his case against the United States, granting him citizenship in our country. He was very pleased to hear it and said he had to go because Yoko was in labor. Hours later he called his lawyer back to let him know he had a beautiful boy. Yoko later recalled that moment with John and told an interviewer, “I never saw John like that before. Just like a little boy. So happy.” I immediately thought of a picture Amy had just shown me, of Andy on the swings at their house, with both the boys. He had that look on his face. Like a kid who didn’t grow up, just taking that swing to places it had never been. Abacus had an amazed look on his face while he stared up at Andy and Andrew looked determined to swing just as high as his dad. Ironically, Andy and John Lennon both lived 40 years on this earth…each of their lives cut short by the hand of another. It somehow brought me great comfort to think of that the other day. I know how much Andy would appreciate sharing that with John. And I also think that anyone who knew Andy or John could agree that they were living two years to every one of ours.
If you could ask Andy, “Do you think your sister is going to attempt to write something to read at your funeral?”…I guarantee that his response would be “Hell Yes! Funerals are her specialty!” Man, was my brother a hilarious guy. He had a sharp wit and an impeccable sense of humor. Sure, Ive heard it said that humor can be used as an unhealthy way of coping with life…and if that is the case, then it was my favorite unhealthy coping mechanism that my brother had. He was funny!
During a visit with Andrew and Abacus this past week, Abacus got Alexa making some fart noises, nothing new at our house, with 5 sons…Ive heard whole musical pieces done with only the accompaniment of farts. Through the laughter Abacus chimed in, with complete confidence, “My daddy is the Fart King.” Amy, smiling…rolls her eyes and proceeds to recall their dinner times, where Andy would have all 3 of them laughing until their sides hurt. She would look at her boys and there would be no sound coming out of their mouths as laughter posessed their entire bodies. Andy is gone, but no one will ever take away the farts shared around that dinner table.
Once the boys settled down and we sat to eat lunch I said, “Lets pick a different song…any song you want.”
Andrew immediately suggested, “How about The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald…?” I now feel embarrassed to admit it, but I wasnt familiar with the song. I must have missed that lesson. I tried to take it all in as Andrew and Abacus spoke over top of one another, excitedly, to describe this storm in which this massive freight liner went down in Lake Superior in the year 1975. I attempted to relate, “Oh wow, Chris and our younger boys were recently really into reading about the Titanic…” Andrew looks me straight in the eye, “Well, it was considered the Titanic of The Great Lakes.” As the song began to play, everyone quieted and ate their pizza. I could tell how this song, a retelling of the tale of this great ships demise brought them such comfort. Another beautiful memory they shared with their father.
Before the boys left one evening last week, they were getting their shoes on and finding their coats. The kitchen was full of kids, grabbing a snack, saying goodbye. I looked at Andy’s boys, these two little guys who would never see their father again, Abacus gripping Andy’s wallet tight in his small hand…and I knew as I was about to hug them goodbye, I was going to do it for Andy. I was going to hug his boys the way he would. I was going to linger on that squeeze…a traditional Andy Dzwonchyk bear hug.
Days after Andy’s passing, my 15 year old son walks into the kitchen. We have been a family racked with the contemplative grief that surrounds this type of situation. He pauses before sharing with me…”I mean Andy is basically the reason I started skateboarding. He gave me my first board.” I could barely recall, but as he spoke about it, it came back to me. My son, who’s greatest enjoyment in life is taking off for 30 minutes to an hour most afternoons to just skatebaord. My son, who googles “skateparks near me” on my phone to make sure theres nothing that he’s missing. My son, who has found a hobby and a passion, can trace it back to my big brother.
In Andy’s passing I’ve found myself listening to more music than ever before…because its how you really got to know Andy…you hung around long enough to listen to something with him…and talk about it. I suddenly realized, like I walked directly into a wall…Andy is partially to blame for me meeting my husband, the only reason I have my 7 beautiful children, is because of my big brother. I never would have known about Dave Matthews and my husbancd and I never would have bonded over that Crash album if it werent for my big brother.
The stories and the memories that we have all shared with Andy are too many to be documented or added up. In my selfishness I want them all. I want mine and yours and everyones. We do this when someone we love leaves us too soon. We become greedy with the memories. I have recognized through this horrendous process of grief and tragedy that his moments with each of us are his gift that he has left us with. But another miracle I’ve beheld through this journey, is what happens everytime someone shares a beautiful experience they had with Andy, it helps those closest to him, who are living this horror everyday…to unbandage this gaping wound, and assess it and re -dress it and take note that slowly, ever so slowly, it is healing.
So many people in this room can say they loved him like a brother, and I just feel so fortunate to have actually called him my brother. Hold onto those memories, those gifts from him…however big or small and keep them safe until you meet again.
In the meantime, I asked myself…what would Andy want me to say in closing, to the people who have shown up to weep over and honor and celebrate his life. Of course he would want me to mention his civil rights and naturally that fight takes time and we are seeking justice with the help of one of the finest civil rights law firms that Philadelphia has to offer. But once that’s out of the way…what would he want me to say. And i think it would be an encouragement. I think Andy would not want his death to harden us, but rather to soften us…to remind us to stay moldable. As some one whose very next right to make a decision was ripped from him, I think Andy would want us to use our continued existence and decision making power to cherish those we love and appreciate this very second…and for an unknown amount of future seconds…knowing that we never know how many we have left. One of my all time favorite quotes begs to suggest that the only way to slow time down, is to weigh it down with our thankfulness. Friends, may your life be one that is heavy with thanks. It is through the lens of thankfulness that our life can transcend this plane become something not bound by time or space. How thankful we all are to have known and loved Andy.
The last month of Andy’s life was not his finest. He encountered elements that he had no tools to manage. Much like the tragic tale of the Edmund Fitzgerald, the gales of November came and Andy found himself without radar and without a beacon to guide him. The destruction, devastation and tragic loss were greater than anyone ever could have imagined. But he wouldnt want any of us to feel troubled in remembering that final month of his life. Instead, remember the 39 years and 11 months prior. Remember his laugh. Remember his bear hugs. Remember his firm hand shake and his bright eyes. Remember how inclusive he was to people. Remember the draw of his vibrant personality. Remember his influence. Remember his passion. Remember that smile. Andy, we are changed forever and we are full of thanks for your life
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