Three nights ago my husband and I went to his squadron's annual holiday party, which they planned for January. It was a strangely bitterweet evening. One of the officers in Jamie's squadron was very recently diagnosed with cancer. His cancer was diagnosed just before Christmas, and there was not much they could do. He was planning a wedding for the spring, but instead, he and his fiance married while he fought his illness the best he could. While we had dinner and danced at the holiday party, he lay in the hospital a few miles away.
The next day, he lost his battle. He was only 38.
I can't stop thinking about his wife. I am glad they got married. Being married to pilot means there is always an undercurrent of worry. Even though he was not killed in an aircraft, or in war, I feel a sympathy with his wife. I used to often worry about losing my husband before we had a chance to build our life together. I don't know, maybe that's weird, but when we married, I felt a sort of relief. And when we had our first child, again, I felt that same relief. We reached that milestone together. He was here for that.
I am glad they got married. I can't imagine what she's feeling now.
I haven't been to a primary care doctor in many years. I go to OBs when I have babies, and went to the ER when I recently had pneumonia. But I've been procrastinating seeing a dermatologist for interesting skin issues, or having my cholesterol checked.
38 is young. We are young. When you're young, you put off doctor's appointments for seemingly minor aches, pains, moles, changes. He died less than a month after his diagnosis. I will make an appointment this week.
