"He's perfect," I said, scratching behind his ears.
"Just like his mom," Jimmy replied, and kissed me again while our family cheered and Sunny decided that this was definitely the best day ever.
Three hours later, after the impromptu engagement party had finally wound down and everyone had gone home, Jimmy and I were sitting on my couch with Sunny asleep between us, planning our future over leftover station house coffee and the kind of comfortable silence that came from knowing you'd found your person.
"So," I said, playing with my new ring and marveling at how right it felt on my finger. "Five kids and a dog. Think we can handle it?"
"With you?" Jimmy said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "I think we can handle anything."
Outside, Station 2 sat quiet in the afternoon sun, ready for whatever calls might come. But inside my apartment, surrounded by wedding magazines Sophia had somehow already procured and puppy toys Jack had insisted on buying, I felt the kind of peace that came from knowing that no matter what chaos tomorrow brought, I'd have Jimmy and Sunny by my side.
We were going to be more than okay.
We were going to beextraordinary.
Captain Michael O'Sullivan — "Cap" — is an homage to Dennis Lynn Brent, one of the finest firefighters I ever had the privilege to know.
Dennis was exactly the kind of man who would have corrected me for calling him "one of the finest firefighters I’ve ever known." He would have told you he was just a fireman. A truckie. He wouldn't have mentioned his thirty-eight years of service, or that he'd been chief of his local Volunteer Fire Department, or that he was considered the senior man not just for his shift, but for the entire Charlottesville Fire Department. He would never have bragged about being a National Honor Guard Academy graduate who traveled the country without notice to honor fallen firefighters he'd never met.
Dennis was the kind of man who spoke of his family with such love that it inspired everyone around him to be better fathers, better husbands, better people. He was a natural teacher who placed the needs of others before himself with grace, humility, and love. He left kindness in his wake, ripples that are still spreading outward, even today.
I learned what it meant to be a leader by watching him. I learned that true strength comes not from being the loudest voice in the room, but from knowing when someone needs to be pulled out of a chair for a hug they didn't know they needed.
On December 1, 2018, occupational cancer took Dennis from us. The Virginia General Assembly honored him with a joint resolution recognizing his decades of selfless service, but the politicians' words on paper could never capture who he really was: the man who hugged a heartbroken firefighter on their last day together, who showed up for strangers' funerals because he understood that when one of us falls, we all fall a little.
Dennis's story is tragically common. Across this country, firefighters run into burning buildings, breathe toxic smoke, and absorb chemicals that accumulate in their bodies over decades of service. They develop cancers at ratesfarhigher than the general population. And then they have to fight (often foryears) to have their illnesses recognized as line-of-duty injuries.
The same politicians who call firefighters "heroes" every election cycle have dragged their feet on passing presumptive cancer legislation. It took until 2019 —eighteen yearsafter 9/11 — for Congress to finally reauthorize the September 11th Victim Compensation Fund, and only after Jon Stewart shamed them into action. States across the country have been glacially slow to pass their own presumptive cancer laws, forcing dying firefighters to prove in court that their cancer came from the job that everyone knows causes cancer.
We send these men and women into toxic environments, then make them lawyers in their final years instead of letting them focus on fighting for their lives and spending time with their families.
I never once saw Dennis be bitter about this. I never saw him be anything but gracious and grateful for the time he hadleft and the family who surrounded him. ButIcan be bitter for him.Ican be angry for all the firefighters who die from occupational cancers, for their families who have to fight for benefits while they're grieving, for a system that honors heroes in speeches but abandons them when they need help most.
If you've read this far, if this story moved you, then please remember the real firefighters like Dennis Brent who inspired it. Support presumptive cancer legislation in your state. Donate to organizations that help firefighters and their families navigate cancer treatment. Remember that every time you see a fire truck, there are people inside who have chosen to risk their health and their lives for strangers.
And if you know a firefighter — active or retired — who seems to be having a hard time, maybe pull them out of their chair and give them a hug. Sometimes that's all it takes to remind someone they're not alone.
Dennis would have been embarrassed by this dedication, but he would have understood why it matters. Because when we remember the good ones, when we tell their stories, when we refuse to let their sacrifices be forgotten? That's how we honor not just their memory, but everyone who still answers the call.
If you’d like to honor Dennis’s legacy, consider supporting theFirefighter Cancer Support Network, theNational Fallen Firefighters Foundation, or your local volunteer fire department.
Rest easy, Dennis.
— Cari
sophia
I was waiting up for Jack when he finally dragged himself through our front door at nearly midnight, his paramedic uniform wrinkled and his face carrying that particular exhaustion that came from twelve hours of dealing with humanity at its worst.
"Long shift?" I asked, though I already knew the answer from the way his shoulders sagged.
"The longest." He dropped his gear bag by the door and collapsed onto the couch beside me, his head falling back against the cushions. "Had a call with Engine 18 today. Tried to talk to Izzy about... well, everything. She shut me down completely. Called me 'Medic McKenzie' like we hadn't been friends for two years."
I felt my chest tighten. I'd been watching Jimmy deteriorate for weeks now, moving through the hospital like a ghost of himself. The easy warmth that had made him everyone's favorite nurse had been replaced by mechanical competence that fooled no one who actually cared about him.
"She's hurting," I said, though the words felt inadequate.
"They both are." Jack scrubbed his hands over his face. "It's like watching two people drown in the same pool while refusing to reach for each other."
