Of course I never realized this would be the last photo we would take as a family. Karen died yesterday after a sudden and unexpected illness.
We weren't the kind of couple who told each other "I love you" all that often. If anything, we were vaguely suspicious of couples who did say that all the time -- as if they were so shaky in their commitment that they had to constantly reassure one another.
But we don't respect how fragile life can be. If anything, being a doctor makes me even less aware, since I see so many examples of folks hanging on against all odds. And when life is gone, it's too late to say all the things you want and need to say.
We met at Berkeley just before Christmas of 1982, and we became a couple just shortly thereafter. There was an almost instantaneous sense of belonging, of having found that one person who understood you and whom you could understand. I remember using the cheesy "soul mates" expression when we were courting. Some couples take years to get that reading-each-other's-mind phase, but we were there pretty early on.
She developed multiple sclerosis in 1983, Christmas, so we had one year to build a relationship before we were tested by fire. It hasn't been an easy thirty years, but whenever something new and terrible would happen, we could look back and remember all of the tough things we had worked through together.
I'm so angry at the hand life dealt my beautiful wife, but that is not the point of this diary.
She wasn't a perfect person. No one is. But she was pretty damned awesome nonetheless. I miss her so much.
That's our son Jacob in that photo. We conceived him against steep odds about 19 years ago. He's such a wonderful young man -- but that's not the point of this diary, either.
So: life is fragile. It really is. So tell your children and your parents you love them. Most of all, tell your husbands and wives. Tell them all of the things you need them to know, even if you know they know it already. Say it out loud.
I love you, Karen.