My Personal Story

The night Zach left us will remain etched in my memory forever.

It began with the dogs’ frantic barking at 2 a.m., waking me from a restless sleep. I opened the Velux window to see a police officer standing outside.

"Mrs. Whittall, it’s the police," he said softly but firmly.

In that moment, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. I didn’t need to hear the words; I already knew. This was about Zachary.

Peter was away working at Pinewood Studios, so I called out for my sons, Connor and Angus. Together, we gathered around the kitchen table, clutching hands in silence, bracing for the news.

The officers explained there had been an accident. Zach’s best friend, Luke, was critically injured and taken to the hospital. But Zach, my beautiful 21-year-old son, had died at the scene.

Another car had been involved, and its driver was under arrest.

The officers urged me to call Peter and ask him to come home, but not to explain why. My hands shook as I dialled his number. I could barely form the words to tell him that the police were here, and he needed to return immediately. He begged me to explain, but I couldn’t. The words refused to come. Without hesitation, he started the long drive home.

Peter arrived by 4 a.m., his face filled with fear and confusion.

The boys and I were sitting on the bed upstairs, holding hands like a fragile lifeline. When he burst through the door, I couldn’t keep the truth from him any longer.

“Zach’s dead,” I whispered.

Peter’s anguished cry shattered the heavy silence. “Not my boy!” he screamed, turning away to face the wall, his shoulders shaking. The rest of us sat there, paralyzed by grief.

Peter’s first question was where the accident had happened. I explained it was on Zach’s route home from work.

We agreed we needed to see the site. Leaving the boys at home with instructions to avoid social media, we set off. We also knew we had to inform family members first, but the drive from Great Oxendon to Stretton in Rutland felt endless, surreal, as if we were floating through someone else’s nightmare.

When we arrived, the road was cordoned off. We parked nearby and ran toward the scene, a stretch of road lined with trees. A police officer stepped forward, blocking our path.

“You can’t go any further,” he said firmly.

“My son is dead,” I said, my voice breaking. “I need to see him.”

The officer shook his head gently. “Zach’s not here. You can’t approach the accident site yet; we’re gathering evidence.” He led us to a police van and made a call. After what felt like an eternity, he returned and said we could view the car - from a distance.

We followed him up a grassy bank, shielded by trees. There it was: the crumpled remains of a black Vauxhall Corsa. The roof was completely gone. The sight knocked the breath out of me.

After a few agonising moments, the officer led us back to the van and explained that Zach’s body had been taken to the mortuary at Leicester Royal Infirmary. We could see him later that morning.

The drive home as dawn broke was filled with an unbearable stillness. The world outside seemed to continue as usual, but for us, everything had changed forever. We began making calls. Peter’s father was silent when he received the news. My friend Suzy’s scream mirrored the depths of my own pain. We promised to talk again later.

At 10 a.m., Peter and I drove to the hospital in Leicester. Connor and Angus chose not to come into the mortuary. Instead, they wandered nearby, agreeing to meet us at a Starbucks by De Montfort University afterward. Peter and I were led by the family liaison officer to a small, quiet room where he explained more details about the accident.

Luke had sustained severe head and chest injuries. Dan, their colleague, had been arrested. Zach’s body was still being prepared for us.

The wait felt infinite. When the mortician finally allowed us in, I saw my son’s body lying on a slab, covered by a sheet. I hugged him, my beautiful boy, but his body was cold, lifeless.

His head bore the evidence of the trauma, carefully patched and taped. I couldn’t bear to stay. Sobbing, I left the room and returned to the family room. Peter stayed longer, his cries echoing through the silence.

Later, when we met the boys at Starbucks, the world around us seemed oblivious to our grief. People chatted, laughed, and sipped coffee as though nothing had happened. But for us, everything was different.

The following days passed in a blur of shock and sorrow.

Visitors came to comfort us, but often it felt like we were the ones comforting them.

My focus turned to planning Zach’s funeral. Hours were spent choosing music to honour his life.

We entered the service to Puff Daddy’s I’ll Be Missing You and shared a video montage set to Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars and Nickelback’s If Today Was Your Last Day.

Connor and Angus delivered a heartfelt eulogy, and Peter and the boys carried Zach out of the church to Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men’s One Sweet Day.

Clutching a framed photo of Zach, I avoided meeting the gazes of the mourners. My friend Angie squeezed my arm and blew a kiss as I passed.

At the crematorium in Kettering, we said our final goodbyes.

Later, at the wake in Market Harborough Rugby Club, friends and family shared stories of Zach, their words both a comfort and a reminder of all we had lost.

We decided against a grave or an urn. Instead, we chose to plant an olive tree in his memory, a nod to his work at The Olive Branch.

At the Olive Grove Nursery in Polebrook, we found the perfect tree for Zach, a living tribute to his short but vibrant life.

In our grief, we made a monumental decision: to buy the Olive Grove and start anew. The deal fell apart at the last moment, leaving us burdened with the fallout of legal and financial commitments. Looking back, I realise we were still in shock, incapable of making such life-altering choices.

As a couple, we turned to the Laura Centre in Leicester for counselling. Their support helped us navigate the depths of our grief, offering a lifeline when we felt completely lost. The sessions gave us a space to express the unspeakable pain and begin to piece together a life that could carry the weight of Zach’s absence.

Seven years on, I found Compassionate Friends and attended their group facilitator training and national weekend retreat. Once I settle somewhere on a permanent basis, I plan to set up a local support group, offering others the same solace and understanding that was so generously given to me.

Even now, ten years later, I struggle to sleep at night, always leaving the light on. The shock of losing Zach triggered the onset of menopause, amplifying my anxiety and confusion.