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.

Summer Is Winding Down

Summer is winding down and I have no idea where the time went.  And when I say I have no idea, I mean it both figuratively and literally.  Figuratively, because the time has flown by as it always does, and literally because I cannot remember what I did for the last two months.  Honestly.  I feel like my brain doesn’t work anymore at all.  Is this to be a life long by product of Ben’s death?

Ben’s gone forever.  Did he have to take my brain with him?

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