On Veterans Day three years ago, my phone dinged. I stopped washing the dishes and opened a text from my husband Dave. There was a photo of his work van. The front hood was folded in like an accordion, the driver’s side airbag was deflated and resting on the steering wheel and the front door was wide open.
Dave walked away with a few bumps and bruises. But he couldn’t shake a lingering neck pain. A year later, at the age of 40, he was diagnosed with stage 4 neuroendocrine cancer — a condition linked to his service in the Navy.
In September 2000, Dave joined the Navy shortly after graduating high school to help pay for his college education. He became a hull technician and, additionally, a firefighter.
In 2003, he deployed aboard the USS Mitscher destroyer during the Iraq War, and would tell stories of clearing out massive clogs from the shipboard waste system. During that same time, he was also exposed to airborne hazards from toxic burn pits.
In 2005, Dave and I met through mutual friends. Our first date was an upscale night at Applebee’s for half-price appetizers. I wooed Dave by spilling my drink on the floor within the first 10 minutes we were together. He was kind. He was quiet, loving and made me feel safe. After three years of dating, we were married. And in 2014, we welcomed our daughter; a few years later, our son.