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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Don't Take The Boy

Last Monday was just an average day. I had some running around to do and appointments to attend. A pre Vegas hair colour, a dentist appointment... that sort of thing. Nothing too crazy or anxiety inducing, and the panic I tend to experience on the daily remained at a reasonable low for the most part.

I ended the day by attending a relaxing yoga class with a friend of mine. It was exactly what I needed to wind down and I was well on my way to feeling the zen when, for no reason at all, a most unwelcome memory popped into my mind.

The memory was of a text Ben sent me from the hospital shortly before he died. Death was inevitable and it coming fast, and every moment felt like we were staring down the barrel of a shotgun. I had spent the entire day with him and had gone home in the middle of the night to be with the kids and make sure they were safe. I crawled into bed, texted Ben "I love you" and he texted back saying “I don’t want to die.  I have so much to live for.”

At that moment I felt as though my heart had been ripped out of my chest and thrown across the room. I texted back and told him that I didn’t want him to die, but i did not say “You aren’t going to die.” To deny his pending death seemed wrong to me. It just seemed so dismissive to say “oh, don’t be silly...you aren’t going to die.” He was indeed going to die.  So many people had spent the nine months after his diagnosis in denial, and that had angered me to no end. There was nothing helpful about denying what was to come, because denial has not been proven to be an effective method of curing cancer. So instead I told him that he was leaving a legacy in his three kids. And he responded that “legacy or not” he still didn’t want to die, he wanted to fight. He didn’t want to die.


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