My first real long-term boyfriend died suddenly of a heart attack this week.
That is one of the eeriest statements I have said in my life to date. Geo spotted his obituary in the paper. I don't read the obits, myself. Of course I don't read much of the paper in general anyway. But the obits, rarely if ever.
There was a lovely write up. Jim was married with two children. He had apparently got out of the journalism business (smart man) to coach hockey and other sports at a local affluent school district. According to the article, he had made quite a positive impact on the lives of the children with whom he dealt. A life well spent.
He was only 50 years old.
Fifty. That's all. And now his wife's a widow. Heart attacks aren't supposed to happen until your, like, in your seventies. And not to someone who's in good shape. Life is so fragile...
I hadn't seen or heard from him since he graduated, but it's sad and unsettling just the same. His death is like a big, fat punch of mortality to the gut. A little too close for comfort.
