The first time I signed on to Chris’s site on February 3rd, 2005, I wasn’t sure what to say. I was thankful to Phil for being so quick and successful with his efforts to have Chris recognized, yet I was still numb to all the facts.
Just hearing those words…I simply couldn’t grasp it.
I mean, I have trouble grasping even the slightest of things, like the fact that, even though I’ve lived in Chicago almost all of my life, from here in California I can’t perceive that there’s snow on the ground there right now.
How could anything so coarsely disrupt the peaceful, shining suburbs I’d left at home last summer?
How could I EVER grasp THIS?
In my mind, I suppose everything is always the way I once left it, no matter how that was. Just like, in my mind, Chris and his wonderful smile and beautiful heart will always remain the same.
Even through the snow the sun shines down.
That’s the way Chris viewed his life, and his antics definitely told us so.
The first time I met Chris it was a brief non-introduction. It was the mid-nineties (1995), and, yes, he did have that “Kurt Cobain look.” He walked past me near Watterson, one of the dorms at ISU, just as my college preview ended and as his was about to begin.
Instantly, Chris became my first college crush.
It’s strange how it all came together after that.
Just a few weeks later, Marc Hans randomly showed up at Camp Chi (where I worked that summer), and through conversation we realized that we’d gone to Hebrew school together in 4th and 5th grade. After speaking further, we discovered that we were both going to ISU the following year. I told him about my ISU preview, and he told me about his soon-to-be roommate—this Kurt Cobain-ish look-alike—and instantly I knew it was Chris.
To this day, I don’t even know how.
I simply knew it.
Within days of college beginning, I randomly met Kim, Cathy, and Sara through a high school friend, and I was connected back to Chris and Marc through them.
It didn’t take long for me to see that within Chris and the rest of this group of people who’d found each other so randomly and so early on, something special, something connected, something so amazing had happened that, instead of transferring—as I’d sometimes considered—I felt compelled to stay and be with those who meant the most to me, Chris (you) being one of them.
Now, as most people reading this know, I’ve always had a lot to write. So I don’t mean to write a thousand pages here. Yet, this story continues, and I can’t make myself stop. I don’t know how else to react.
I’m so afraid.
In the past few days, I’ve read every single comment on this site over and over again. I can’t help it. Though I sob every time I read through it or look at those (posted) pictures, I have to make it real, as much as I don’t want to.
This seems to be one of the only places that we can let it all out for Chris, as well as for each other.
(Thank you all for that.)
As much as it hurts us to be this sad, Chris, it’s so comforting to see how many—and how very much—people love you.
Christopher, Christopher, Christopher.
We have so much to tell you, so many hugs to give, so much hope and love for you.
You REALLY ARE A HERO. A huge inspiration. An example of love and peace. A star. Unique. Untouchable. So loved. Respected in every way.
From freshman year of college and on, all of my memories involve you and most of the people who’ve made comments on this site so far. Within minutes of meeting you, you were not just an “untouchable hottie” who passed by me at my preview of ISU. You were one of my very best friends over a period of nearly 9 years (excluding the time you wouldn’t talk to me after everyone “busted us” in the “hospice” at Camp Chi the weekend of the Quakers). 
I remember the night before the first time you left for Iraq you called me, and we spoke for almost 2 hours about life, and war, and what you would do when you returned.
I expressed so much worry, and you assured me that anything may be…but that everything would be ok.
…Words I’d have to live by in times to come.
Before we got off the phone that night, all I could say was “I love you; I love you; I love you. And be safe.”
I remember repeating it several times to you before we hung up, and you repeated it back to me.
I remember it so clearly. You were so sure that this was what you had to do, what you were determined to do.
Unfortunately, what was happening there couldn’t penetrate my vision.
At the time of our phone call, war seemed SO far removed.
Even the news reports couldn’t make it seem real.
It was so easy for me to picture you in Iraq, in a desert, in army clothes, and even with a rifle!
Still, it was impossible to picture what you experienced while you were there…so impossible that I was blinded by my thought that, since you were Chris Zimny—one of my greatest friends—no matter what happened around you at war, there was nothing that could harm you.
THAT was truly unreal.
I remember the second to last time I saw you, we spent about a 1/2 hour hugging and telling each other how much our friendship meant. I will never forget that day. We both had tears in our eyes, because so much had changed—so quickly it seemed, since college—and we were both eagerly trying to accept and understand that change and to move on, endure it, and find our own paths in life.
I always appreciated how you understood me and accepted me and so fearlessly spoke to me about everything you felt about life and about your questions and fears.
As most of the people who’ve written on this site have expressed, you were the epitome of a true and loyal friend.
You were one of the most real people I’ve ever known.
You instigated so much hope in me about the experience of life.
I see names on the news every day of Soldiers who were killed, of families in mourning.
I am incredibly remorseful for every family.
I’ve never personally known another marine besides you, Chris, but now I fully understand the pain.
So far, in trying to actually thaw myself from the unreality, I’ve placed myself directly into everything I physically feel.
Right now:
I feel hot in my head, and cold in my hands.
I feel my stomach growling and my throat drying up.
I feel my breath wave dizzily through my nose, and heavily out my mouth, and shakily through my torso.
I feel fragile, like at any moment I might shatter into a million pieces from trying to catch that breath.
I might even hear my ears ringing from all these thoughts racing through.
This is how the reality forces itself down upon me.
The truth is that, just now, as I get ready to board the plane from California to Illinois for your funeral—one week after I first heard of your death—I am finally starting to comprehend.
Every second of that first moment I heard the news is so clear in my head right now, even after how blurry it felt at the time.
I don’t usually answer my home phone number in Los Angeles, because it’s my roommate’s business line and very few people call me here (instead of my cell phone).
For some reason, that particular Monday night, I rushed from my room to catch the phone just as my roommate rushed from his room. He beat me to it and looked at the caller ID, just as we missed the call.
“Marc Hans; 773 area code?” he said, looking at me quizzically.
Silently, I thought for a moment.
There is NO way that there is ANYONE else named Marc Hans, with a 773 area code, who would accidentally call my house phone in Los Angeles.
As you might guess, however, my first reaction to his phone call was not nerves, but excitement.
Marc Hans!
I haven’t talked to him in SO long!!
How wonderful.
HOW COOL!
Something amazing must be happening.
A million thoughts crossed my mind.
I called back the number immediately to double-check.
Maybe I’d misread the caller ID?
But the “Hello?” was easily recognizable. It was followed by a quiet hesitation, a feeling that, through the line, he was pulling my stitches out.
My head felt light, as if suddenly I’d lost the ability to think, stand, breathe.
I nearly yelled out, as I attempted to disassociate myself from what I knew would come next.
Marc’s voice broke into pieces that could hardly form words.
As the pieces came together, my eyes blurred; my nostrils burned.
“Are you SURE?” I asked, pleading for a different answer. “Do you think that, I mean, are they POSITIVE? Is it possible they’ve made a MISTAKE?”
He assured me it was true, but it was as if my fingers were in my ears, and I was screaming “LALALAAAHAHAAHAHAHAH, I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!”
I don’t even remember what I said to Marc after that. All I know is that when we hung up, my roommate told me I was shaking, and he sat me down in a chair as I sobbed and called my mom.
She soothed me as she shared my grief.
Chris was always so nice to my mom.
“Mrs. Levin,” he insisted on calling her, even though I told him EVERYONE calls her “Fran.”
It was an instilled respect he had, and one that showed true in his time in the marines.
When I hung up the phone with my mom, Marc’s words repeated themselves over and over in my head.
Frantically, I searched the Internet for Chris’s name.
I tried everything I could think of: Zimny, Chris Zimny, Christopher Zimny, Glenview, (everything) Iraq .
I searched Michael Moore’s website for fallen soldiers, but the date ended at January 28th.
I tried the Washington Post, but it ended at the same date.
I scanned all the current news posts:
Three U.S. soldiers killed in Babil Province.
NO NAMES.
It HAS to be a mistake.
It wasn’t until late night on Tuesday (actually after midnight on Wednesday, February 3rd) that I came across the first article.
Name: Christopher E. Zimny.
It was the middle initial that really broke me.
It was you—there was no mistake.
Christopher Edward Zimny.
The only the mistake made was that I’d already decided I couldn’t accept this.
I stared at your picture on the newscasts I downloaded…that ever-so-familiar face engraved in my most vivid memories.
The picture on the news showed you with a much more serious look—no goofy, smiling, definitely-up-to-something-funny face that you’d so often displayed in the past.
You were serious this time.
You were prepared and willing and determined to do what you believed was right.
You were there to fight for our country—and this was no joke. You were out for the greatest cause.
You believed.
You had a purpose.
You chose to give it all—man, you gave it all—for everyone you cared about: people you knew; people you didn’t know; Americans; Iraqis, whomever. You saw, you did, and you persevered. As much as you could.
Yes, Chris, I’ve lost friends before. Yes, I’ve fallen to my knees at the funerals of family members. It’s been over 4 years and I’m still mourning the death of my grandfather. But this, by far my dear, Chris, beats anything in a long time that I’ve been forced to grow from.
I’m making every effort and using all the strength I have in my body to cope.
And yes, I will have to come to terms with your death.
But as much as I know you’d never want this, I am having a really hard time getting through these days and sleeping through these nights. I can’t imagine this world without you. I know from the comments on this site and from knowing most of the people who wrote them that EVERYONE is as heartbroken as me.
It’s not just that this is so unexpected. It’s that you, Chris Zimny, are a legend. You were like fireworks over a lake on the clearest summer night, lighting up the sky around us, reflecting so everyone could see.
It’s so amazing to see everyone come together like this. People who’ve fallen apart over the years, who’ve moved so far into life, but who clearly haven’t forgotten the best of times and the best of friends. All these people are sitting here today recognizing what means the most to them in life and knowing that you will be amongst these things forever.
No matter how many times I’ve told you I love you, Chris, I can only hope it was enough.
There is no doubt in my mind that you knew—I reminded you in letter after letter and in every conversation—yet, as everyone else is surely feeling, I can’t help but want to hug you one more time and tell you how much you truly do mean to me.
I’ve spent a lot of time this past week hiking (these feelings off) near my house, and all I could think was how much I wish you could’ve visited me here in California and hiked with me, and how much you would’ve appreciated all the trees and the flowers and the peaceful tops of the mountains and those sacred little areas where you can sit and enjoy the quiet beauty…or wander through in search of adventure.
There’s one Phish song that keeps playing through my head: Wading in the Velvet Sea.
When you were gone in Iraq, Chris, I wrote to you and thought of you often. I always wanted the best for you, and I reminded you of this not just when you went to Iraq, but through all 9 years of our friendship.
Now, in my head, this beautiful song is playing, and things are still the same as they once were, and everyone’s happy and together and unsure of what will come, but we’re all together and no one’s scared.
And you, Chris. You’re there.
And you’re dancing, in this very funny “We like, we like to party,” way, with your bright orange construction vest and no shirt underneath, and we’re all laying there laughing and telling you how funny you are and how much we love you.
And you’re smiling back at us and laughing at yourself (in a proud yet insanely cute and embarrassed/shy way).
And we all keep egging you on.
“We want to see more!”
So you dance harder. And you laugh harder.
And so do we.
We will never be the same, Chris.
I wish so badly that there was some other instance that could’ve spun me this far into reality. I wish this with all my heart.
But it happens that you, Chris—YOU—are what has made me see what it’s like to fight for what you believe; to see what it’s like to care for others so much that you put yourself in life-threatening danger just to help them; to see the endless possibilities of one person handing over (for example) a beanie baby to one small, helpless child (no matter their age or origin).
You, Chris, to me, represent what it’s like to make peace.
With all of my heart and love and respect to you, your family, and each and every person you’ve ever known and/or inspired, I express my condolences over the loss of someone who truly meant it. (Meaning everything.)
To the Zimny family, I can’t express my sorrow and grief both to you and for you, and all I can really say is that we—EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US ON THIS SITE, AND EVEN THE PEOPLE WHO AREN’T ON IT YET—are sharing this with you, and we are all united in a very full, loving, and supportive team from across the world.
Chris was everyone’s baby, as we all cared for him like our own.
Chris, these are for you.
I will miss and love you forever and always.
You are a shining star.
Melissa Levin
AbsolutLeigh77@aol.com
(847) 530-8695
WADING IN THE VELVET SEA: By Phish
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I’ve been wading in the
I’ve been wading in the
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I took a moment from my day
Wrapped it up in things you say
Mailed it off to your address
You’ll get it pretty soon unless
The packaging begins to break
And all the points I tried to make
Are tossed with thoughts into a bin
Time leaks out my life leaks in
You won’t find moments in a box
And someone else will set your clocks
I took a moment from my day
Wrapped it up in things you say
And mailed it off to you
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I’ve been wading in the
I’ve been wading in the
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
I’ve been wading in the velvet sea
FIRE AND RAIN: By James Taylor
Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
( ) the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just can’t remember who to send it to
I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you again
Won’t you look down upon me, Jesus
You’ve got to help me make a stand
You’ve just got to see me through another day
My body’s aching and my time is at hand
And I won’t make it any other way
Oh, I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you again
Been walking my mind to an easy time my back turned towards the sun
Lord knows when the cold wind blows it’ll turn your head around
Well, there’s hours of time on the telephone line to talk about things
to come
Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground
Oh, I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you, baby, one more time again, now
Thought I’d see you one more time again
There’s just a few things coming my way this time around, now
Thought I’d see you, thought I’d see you fire and rain, now