Visa and I met in the summer of 2001 at Washington State University. We both worked at the student recreation center. I was in the weight room when I first saw her walking down the stairs, her smile bright and infectious. Our names were unique, which made starting a conversation feel natural. At the time, though, we were both with other people, so it was just friendly chatter.
It wasn’t until two years later that we began dating. We shared a circle of friends, often hanging out and partying together. She had this energy everyone loved, and soon we became inseparable. I remember one party when someone asked how long we’d been dating. We both shouted, “Oh, we’re not dating!” It made everyone laugh, even though it was clear to everyone there that something special was happening.
Those early years were fun and carefree, even though I was in medical school. We spent lots of time with friends and with her large Lao family. She was the youngest of eight kids and had about twenty nieces and nephews who still call me “Uncle” today. Much of our life revolved around WSU, especially football. Go Cougs! Meeting her friends made it clear I was being welcomed into her world. From old rodeo guys shouting “drink two” to friends joking about carrying her in a pocket, everyone adored her.
We married in July 2008 with two ceremonies in one day. First was a traditional Lao wedding, complete with outfits and customs. I’ll never forget her asking me to help her dad pick up meat from a cow for the ceremony. What she didn’t know was that the cow hadn’t even been chosen yet. Instead, they took me to a field, handed me a gun, and told me to pick one. I politely declined, and her look was priceless. Later, we had a regular American ceremony. Friends and family stayed all day, and the day perfectly represented our blended lives.
Two years later, our first son was born, and the family rejoiced. Two years after that, our second son arrived. Life was good. Our boys were nearly two and four, I had finished residency, and we had been married six years. But on March 4, 2014, everything changed.
I remember parts of that day clearly; others are a blur. At 9:14 a.m., I got a text from her asking if I wanted coffee from the clinic. I said no. At 9:27 a.m., she left a long voicemail I couldn’t answer because I was seeing a patient. When I listened at 9:47, she sounded unwell and worried about managing our boys. Calls went unanswered, and I felt a gut-wrenching fear. I asked a neighbor to check on her. A few minutes later, he told me to call 911 and come home immediately.
When I arrived, paramedics were already there. She was awake but disoriented and pale. They rushed her to the hospital. I told her, “I love you, see you at the hospital,” not knowing I’d never see her awake again. She died en route despite CPR and intubation attempts. At the hospital, she “coded” several more times before they finally called it that evening. I held our boys, looked to friends, and cried like I never had before. That night, our home felt empty and unbearably lonely.
Eight years later, I’m often asked how I survived. First, grief never ends; you learn to live with it. I initially tried to avoid the pain, which wasn’t healthy. Opening up and connecting with others who experienced loss helped me realize I wasn’t alone. I learned that this tragedy could either destroy me or help me grow.
With therapy, family, and friends, I chose growth. I now try to live more consciously, cherish relationships, and honor Visa’s memory in how I live. Life today is beautiful but not perfect. My wife, Michelle, and I have a blended family, her two kids, my two boys, and a two-year-old we share. Blended families have challenges, but grief has also taught us to be present and appreciate the small moments.
Visa is still very much a part of my life through memories and lessons. Losing her taught me how to be present with my new family, love fully, and recognize that even the painful moments are part of life. Life isn’t perfect, I make mistakes, but it is still beautiful and worth continuing with love, even after unimaginable loss.
