I met my husband just a few months after graduating high school. My best friend worked with him and arranged for us to meet at a small get-together.
I still recall him stand up on the porch with his pointers in his pouches, tiring a Spitfire chemise, his jet-black hair pointed awake. He was arresting, light eyes, broad shoulders, and a smirk that made me curious. We talked all night, about our families, dreams, everything.
We even had a late-night meal from Jack In the Box in his old Saturn coupe. That night marked the moment I knew love was growing inside me.
At first, I told him I didn’t want anything serious because my family planned to move to Texas, but that quickly changed. We spent all our time together, movies, dinners, hanging out with friends, just like young kids in love.
On our first anniversary, a month before I was moving, he surprised me with a drive along Highway 4. At a beautiful lookout, he gave me a Black Hills gold ring as a gift and then got down on one knee with a beautiful engagement ring. I said yes through tears.
We planned our wedding and moved in together at his parents’ house while saving for our own place. Those months were tough; we argued a lot living in his youthful bedroom, but we made it through. We married on August 20, 2004.
Our first year was a distortion of work and university. He was working toward becoming a history teacher, but then, before our second anniversary, he shocked me by deciding to leave school to join law implementation. I was surprised, but he was determined. He completed the police academy and started with the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office at 22.
Life was good, we bought a house, had two wonderful kids, Zoey and Cohen, and later became guardians to Alyssa, our niece, after my husband’s brother passed away unexpectedly. Our family was busy but full of love. We made sure to always have time for each other, whether a movie date or just being together.
Then, in October 2018, everything changed. After months of abdominal pain, he was identified with phase 4 pancreatic growth. The news was shocking. At only 36, full of life and energy, this diagnosis felt impossible.
We fought hard. He underwent chemotherapy and immunotherapy, and for a while, things looked hopeful. We spent every moment we could together, took family trips, and tried to keep life as normal as possible for the kids. But cancer came back stronger. Eventually, his doctor’s optional stopping treatment to focus on relief.
The day before he died, he had a good day, he even joked about me nearly tipping his wheelchair. The next morning, his health rapidly declined. Surrounded by family and networks, he approved away serenely. He uttered his last words “I love you too.”
It’s been almost a year since we lost him. Life without him is hard, but his love and spirit live on in our children and in the way we choose to live each day. He once said he had no regrets and had lived more in his 36 years than most do in a lifetime. That’s the legacy we carry forward. We’ll always say yes to adventure, hold each other close, and keep his recall alive.
