Wendy Saint-Onge

Twenty six days after my husband's 46th birthday he sat in the doctor's office alone expecting to hear that he needed a cortisone injection in his back.  Instead, he was told he was dying of cancer.  Two days later, he told me.  Two hundred and seventy eight days after he told me, he died at home.  

During the time that Ben was sick we began writing a blog.  It started as a way to keep family and friends updated, but ended up being the only thing that kept me sane. I use blogging as a way to purge myself of pain, as a way to connect to others who get it, and as a way to offer help and receive help when I need it.  Mostly, I blog to remember Ben.

We Didn't Win

My youngest daughter is 16.  She was 13 years old when she found out her Dad was dying.  She was 14 when he actually died.  I’m sure it goes without saying that every moment of her life since the day she found out he was sick has been a challenge.  A challenge that most adults would be unable to manage, and yet this girl manages.  She is resilient, for sure.

I could tell you all sorts of horror stories that happened to her in the months since her Dad became sick and in the months since he died, but there are just too many.  So here are the highlights in a nutshell:

She didn't know how to cope.  She became very angry.  From her perspective there was really no one here for her.  She felt like she was being treated like a baby.  She felt lied to and betrayed and she became even angrier.  And while it is so easy (for adults) to understand why my daughter would be so angry, unfortunately her friends did not.

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