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.


Tattoos And Zippers

As I sit here thinking about what I want to write, I am struck by the fact that I don’t really want to write about Ben specifically.  That’s a first.  I had a pretty good week overall, and despite going it alone I was still able to find some joy.

Last weekend was the start of several busy days in a row which left little time for grief to rear it’s ugly-yet-somewhat-comfortable head.  My sister and niece came over from Vancouver Island and together with my mom, my eldest daughter and my other sister we all spent the day in a tattoo parlour.  (It was my mom’s idea. She’s 73, by the way).  By the time we left at the end of the day my mom was sporting her very first tattoo – a small tulip on her ankle.  She’s been talking about it for years and now it’s done.  Way to go Mom!

The rest of us also left sporting brand new tattoos of our favourite flowers.  Jaime and I chose the daffodil which is the flower of March (Ben’s birth month) and of course it is the symbol of hope for finding a cure for cancer. 

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