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.
Months after his accident, Dave’s neck pain worsened, triggering excruciating, deep pain in the back of his head. He struggled to keep up with the physical demands of his job and spent countless nights awake on the floor, as no other position was comfortable. Sleep was almost nonexistent. After several doctors’ appointments, a variety of pain meds and educated guesses, his provider ordered an MRI.
“Babe, it’s not good,” said Dave. I felt my stomach drop and grabbed the keys to the car to pick up our three-year-old from preschool. “They think it’s cancer…”
I froze. I couldn’t think through what he meant — what they meant. “What do they think is cancer?” I yelled through the phone.
“The neck and head pain. They think it’s bone cancer.”
The next day, we visited Dave’s doctor at the Rochester Calkins VA Clinic. They ordered a full-body CT scan that revealed stage 4 cancer, a rare type that affects the cells that release hormones into the blood.
Dave’s doctor stared at him in shock. “You walked into this facility today without assistance? Can you even feel your legs?” The bones in Dave’s back were nearly all taken over by tumors. They also found metastatic disease in his liver and thyroid.
Dave fired off question after question: “What kind of cancer is it? How did I even get this? What’s the treatment?” He paused and looked at me. “I don’t want to die. Am I going to die?”
Dave and I went from husband and wife to patient and caretaker almost overnight. I administered his meds at all hours, prepared meals, cleaned the house, did the laundry, bathed the kids and helped with their homework. We managed. But soon Dave needed help showering and dressing, going to the bathroom and walking. Eventually, he had to rely on me to physically get him in and out of bed and to feed him.
I told myself we could fix this. For him. For our babies. For me. But each night, the helplessness would set in, as I watched my once physically strong 41-year-old husband waste away. His skin began to yellow and his clothes slid off his frail body. He’d say, “I look like a damn skeleton.” To which I’d reply, “I think you look handsome.”
After his diagnosis, a fellow veteran encouraged us to file a disability claim with the VA. Dave’s cancer was a presumptive condition linked to burn pit exposure, making him eligible for the PACT Act, a law passed in 2022 that expands VA health care and benefits for veterans exposed to burn pits and other toxins, and their survivors. We filed a claim online, uploaded the required documentation and were hopeful to be approved quickly.
We hit a few bumps along the way, initially getting denied because doctors were unable determine where the cancer originated. However, after assistance from VA employees and advocates, Dave’s claim was approved with a 100 percent disability rating in June 2023. This meant he would receive disability compensation. And if he passed away, the kids and I would be taken care of too. Shortly after, the doctors gave Dave months, if not weeks, to live.
On the morning of Aug. 7, 2023, I laid next to Dave on his bed in our living room. I gently ran my fingers over his thick, prickly beard, closing my eyes, paying close attention to the way his face felt on my fingertips. The doorbell rang. My heart sank. Dave’s medical transport had arrived to take him to hospice. I packed our van and got in. As I gazed out the window, he was carefully rolled down the front steps strapped to a yellow chair, transferred to a stretcher and then into the ambulance.
The physical and mental pain had reached its breaking point. I saw it in his face. Holding back tears, I watched as the ambulance backed out of the driveway and headed towards the end of the street. That was the last time our babies had their daddy in the house we made a home.
On Aug. 21, 2023, at 5:02 a.m., Dave took his last breath. Knowing that the kids and I would receive survivor benefits gave him the peace of mind he needed in the end.
Despite the challenges at times, I am grateful for the PACT Act. If you are a veteran and have been diagnosed with a condition that is presumed to have been caused by your service, I urge you to enroll in VA health care and file a disability claim. And I urge surviving family members to look into their benefits as well — you deserve to be taken care of, too.
Carrie Hale is the surviving spouse of Navy veteran David Hale.
