Fucking Authenticity

Warning: If you are my Mom or if you are someone to whom I gave birth, stop reading now. I mean it. Let me unburden myself in the only way I know how, without having to add extra worry about you worrying. Otherwise I will have to start a whole new blog under a pseudonym and I don’t want to. But I will, if I find out you read this.

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I no longer wake up in the morning with a burning desire to write. I haven’t written once since Chapter Two of Wendy’s Life began. (To refresh you, Chapter One was called “Life Partner Bites It” and Chapter Two is called “Covid.” I didn’t name either of them myself … Life did. And a scientist.)

Anyway, today I sit here at 3 pm, still in bed, sobbing like a baby for absolutely no good reason. Nothing significant happened today, and in fact the longer I sit here the shittier and guiltier I feel, but still I sit. (Not to mention that my hips are in so much pain from not moving and my leg is asleep, but still I sit.) Both of my girls know that I’m in my room sobbing and, well, can I just say “parent guilt” ?? A good parent is not supposed to let their kids know that some days they just can’t handle life, even if their kids are adults. I’m supposed to be a better example. So the fact that I clearly suck as a Mom just adds to my burden today.

Anyone know who Rumi is? Does everyone know who Rumi is? You’re smarter than I, if you do. (That isn’t actually much of an accomplishment these days, so cool your inflated ego. My brain gets mushier with each passing day). I had to look him up and I invested exactly zero effort into fact checking, so everything I learned could all be bullshit. Wikipedia says he was a 13th century Persian poet and apparently he gets the credit for all sorts of inspiring quotes. I mention him, because I was (am) sitting in bed feeling particularly friendless, alone and sorry for myself, so of course I opened social media and I saw this

I laughed. Well, I would’ve laughed if I wasn’t crying. Give me a freaking break. I may be the light? I may be the light? Holy shit. I am definitely not the light, and while I once used to love a good inspirational quote, now I just want to say “Go fuck yourself” to all of them. In fact, there’s my new inspirational quote. Go Fuck Yourself. Including you, Rumi.

Today I’m going to hit anyone who’s reading with some unedited honesty in the form of a brief synopsis of important-to-me-things that happened between March 1st, 2020 and today. (I’ll actually start the update on Dec 31, 2019, because that’s when I decided it was time to change my life). Before I start, let me clarify that I’m writing this for me, not you. I don’t know what to do with myself so I’m going to start by writing shit down. If you have anything negative to say, keep it to yourself. If we know each other, how about you and I both pretend you never read this and that way I can, for once, be authentic without giving a shit what anyone else thinks.

• Dec 31, 2019 – decided it was time to move forward with life. I don’t like being alone. Some people do, but I just wasn’t meant to be alone. I like sharing with someone who is all mine and who I know is stuck with me, no matter what stupid shit I pull. I like to warm my foot under the leg of my life partner as I fall asleep at night. I miss that and I decided it was time to be open to finding that again.
• Pandemic
• Crippling fear. I may as well have been policing again if I was going to feel like that
• Quit current job due to aforementioned fear
• Isolation
• Developed very high blood pressure (to be fair, that was starting before the pandemic hit)
• Moved due to aforementioned feelings of isolation
• Developed further sense of inadequacy
• Over spent and wasted money
• Failed miserably at being a support system for one or more of my children at any given time
• Failed miserably at being a support system for my own sister
• Over spent and wasted money (I believe I mentioned that, but it’s worth mentioning again)
• Found myself crippled by anxiety and ptsd on the regular
• Found myself unable to be authentic with those around me about most aspects of my life, including anxiety and ptsd, and therefore I just live a fake life and present a fake self which never feels good
• Continued to put on a good show of capability (or maybe not. Who knows. Maybe everyone knows I’m a fucking idiot but pretends to me that they don’t realize it. Maybe I just generally give myself way too much credit.)
• Failed at learning to cope with feelings of being weak, unworthy, friendless, lost and without a place in this world
• which brings us to today, Aug 21, 2021. The left side of the bed remains empty. Surprise, surprise, considering my attitude.

Those are some of the highlights. In the past, my doctor helped me with some of the above noted and now he’s living his own nightmare that I know too well, which (besides giving a shit about that) means I have to find a new doctor. And for me, that causes angst that goes way beyond the normal “finding a new doctor concerns” that you are all thinking about. I know some of you have your own opinions on my contact with my GP, but the fact is that he saved my life on more than one occasion and I simply chose to not tell you. If you find yourself thinking that it will be good for me to find a new doctor, keep your thoughts to yourself. You’re wrong.

Side note … if I hear my garage door slam one more time while I sit here writing, I am going to throw this fucking computer through the window. Anger management issues much?

This officially goes down as the worst post I’ve ever written. Apparently it’s only purpose is to admit out loud that I am struggling with feelings of having no meaningful place in this world, and to confess that I have no sense of belonging anywhere. I carry secret and hopefully well hidden anger towards almost everyone I know for either being happy, being in a lifetime relationship or simply for not having a dead spouse. I’m also angry at every random person who’s spouse died but they found someone new. I also recognize that I’m a shitty person for both having all those feelings AND for saying them out loud instead of considering everyone else’s feelings who may know me and read this. I’ll regret it, I’m sure. I probably won’t delete it though because that’s just how I roll.

Has anyone ever written out their feelings just to get it all out, and then deleted it all? Or, back in the day, burned the paper on which they wrote? (Retro therapy, if you will). I do that all the time. I write it out and then delete it, and sometimes I feel better. But today I am not deleting. Today I am going to push my own boundaries and write shit down that is embarrassing and childish and quite frankly ridiculous and lays out unrealistic expectations on others, but I’m doing it anyway.

This morning I tried to reach a few people to come sit with me in my sorrow. None came.

That is such a gross sentence and I imagine it could elicit all sorts of thoughts, depending on who reads it. It makes me cringe when I read shit like that. It reads pathetic. I want to delete it and not admit it out loud. To myself I would say “Grow up. Get over yourself. Stop being so dramatic. People have lives and things to do. Why do you think you should be at the top of someone’s Give A Shit list? Also, you never really told them what was going on, you just asked if they could come.” Also, Jaime did in fact sit with me in my sorrow today. And Raegan offered me a donut. And I sort of felt like they got it when I said I couldn’t explain the problem, although I feel awful that they even had to know.

If someone else told me that no one came to sit with them in their sorrow, I would respond by saying that people have their own lives and that is not a sign that they don’t care about you. I’d also remind them that the ones they didn’t contact can’t read their mind and magically know that they needed someone. If you want help, ask. And you’d better be prepared to clearly spell out your current state of mind or you can’t expect to be prioritized over their own family. That’s what I’d say.

All of that is true. I know it’s true. It’s just not helpful right now. Also, maybe I just need to be a better person if I want to rank higher in someone else’s life. Ouch. Maybe that’s what I need to spend some time ruminating over and working on. Perhaps I am not as great of a human as I like to privately pat myself on the back for being. Maybe all my internalized anger and frustrations are not as well hidden as I think they are, and maybe they seep out through the cracks and put out a shitty energy that people don’t want to be around. Since I’ve decided this is just an honest post, I will add that I’ve noticed that about myself lately. That it’s all seeping out. I’m angry a lot. I have crappy energy and I often don’t want to be around myself, so surely others must notice it too. I find myself staying home or off text more and more, so that my dirty secret doesn’t leak out as quickly as it could.

I just feel …. lost. I also feel criticized and corrected. I don’t know if that actually happens or not, but it’s how I feel which also makes me wonder if I’m becoming paranoid. I feel left out, unwelcome, lonely. (Gross … such a completely cringeworthy and pathetic statement.) I find myself privately thinking the worst of everything people say and do, despite the fact that there are few qualities I like less in people than someone who always chooses to hear the worst possible meaning in everything others say. Yet that’s where I am. I can no longer make decisions to save my life. Everything is overwhelming. I can’t focus. My brain can’t think. Noises hurt my ears and my head. I make daily choices that thwart my goals.

If you are reading this and you don’t know me, feel free to comment whatever you want. I don’t believe in censorship. If, however, you know me personally and you feel the unstoppable need to comment, how about you consider skipping “are you OK” and the worst of all … “I’m here for you.” Yuck. Consider just going with a basic statement … something like “well that was some fucking blog post.”

I am well aware that there are many people out there who have it worse than I, or have their own struggles, or deal with their own grief. I’m not trying to compete. I’m not trying to take anything away from them. I’m not trying to make anyone feel sorry for me and in fact, just don’t. I’m just trying to deal with my own shit at a time in my life when it happens to feel particularly overwhelming.

Just let me just be my fucking authentic self.

March Stole My Power

Today I woke up to a feeling that something was amiss, which led to a quick mental review of the obvious.  Good sleep-ish?  Check.  Kids home safe and sound?  Check.  Everyone healthy?  Check.  Sun Shining?  Surprisingly, check.

Despite having my full focus, Dread refused to show itself so I did the only reasonable thing I could do.  I stayed in bed.  I tried to wait it out, but that knot in the pit of my stomach grew stronger, and Dread kept knocking on the door.  (side note: I hate that fucker almost as much as cancer with a small ‘c’.). I decided to to invite my baby girl for breakfast, thinking that some time with my favourite-only-child-at-home might distract me and send my demons running back to whence they came.

Breakfast did prove to be an enjoyable distraction, but like all good things it came to an end, and home we went.  Raegan sat down to do homework and I decided that today would be the day I got my paperwork finished instead of staring at it.  I tried … I really did.  But that knocking and pounding was incessant and just refused to quit, and I ended up staring at my computer doing nothing for quite some time.

And then it came to me, as it always does, like a hardball thrown by a major league pitcher that hit me square in the forehead.  Today is March 1st.

Today is the day, 27 years ago, that I flew to Regina to start a new life and walked smack into my future spouse.  My Ben. The Titan.  My best friend and Dad to The Three.

This was the day my life started, 27 years ago.  This was the day that changed everything.

March 1st is also the beginning of The Titan’s birthday month.  It is 13 days before his 51st birthday, and I cannot think about that without audibly hearing his anguished voice say “If I don’t do the treatment I’ll be dead before my 47th birthday.”  Or without recalling myself thinking at the time “you’ll be dead either way, and the treatment will add torture to an inevitable outcome.”  I hate that I thought that, but I did.  I realize I am not the second coming of Christ and my thoughts did not control the outcome of Ben’s life (and also I was extremely well versed on Ben’s condition, if you recall) but I still hate myself for those thoughts.

March 1st begins The Titan’s birthday month, and this time we will remember him for the fifth time without him being here. Five whole birthdays where he hasn’t eaten his gluten free DQ cake.

So that was my Demon today. The heart always knows before the head.

Having finally forced Dread to confront me, I decided to cut myself some slack and do nothing instead of pretending to get my work done. And then I decided that a distraction would be better for me but I couldn’t seem to get my shit together or find anyone who was free.  After too long of doing nothing and finding no one to do it with, I took Marley outside for a walk. I was already feeling a little teary when a couple came walking by with their dog. Marley The Asshole lunged and pulled his leash right out of my hand, and ran at the other dog using his asshole growl and nipping at him. I was able to grab him quickly, but the exchange went something like this.

Me: I’m so sorry. Hang on…

Him: Grab your fucking dog! (Kicks at Marley, which was deserved.)

Me: I’m so sorry (Got Marley and pulled him away)

Him: Hold onto your fucking dog!

Me: I’m so sorry. He pulled the leash right out of my hand

Him: Don’t bring your fucking dog out without a muzzle then!

Me: (trying not to cry) I’m so sorry. I’m really really sorry

Him: He’s a FUCKING ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!

Me: I’m so sorry

The Asshole and I went inside, where The Asshole was sent to bed and I had a cry. The Titan wasn’t here to say he’s sorry for dying before his 47th birthday, or that he’s sorry I just got screamed at.

March has come in like a lion and stolen my power. Tomorrow I’ll get up and take it back, but today … today March can keep it. I feel like feeling sorry for myself for a few more hours.

For All The Freshly Grieving … Just Hang On

Today I was perusing my blog, as I sometimes like to do.  Reading it serves double duty for me.  It brings back little pieces of Ben and it also serves to remind me how far I’ve come.

This post is for anyone out there who is new to this grieving bullshit.  It’s for anyone who may have recently lost their whole world and is wondering how life could ever be worth living again.

Just hang on, because I promise you that it will not always feel like someone is reaching inside your chest with a rusty saw blade and carving out your heart and soul in jagged little pieces.  Not gonna lie – my experience suggests that you will never be without some pain, and there is likely to forever be moments where you will randomly burst into tears and ugly cry in the middle of the grocery store.  But I swear to you that the distance between the tsunami waves of agony will become greater, and the power of the waves will lessen a little bit each time.  Just hang on for now.

Anyway, when I went to my blog today I went straight to the February posts.  A sort of “where was I on this date in the year my heart stopped beating” reminder, if you will.  I read the post I wrote, a mere 44 days after one of the best men I ever knew was unceremoniously wrenched from my world.  You can read the post by clicking here, and please do. This post won’t make sense if you don’t.  When you’re done, come back and finish reading this one.  I’ll wait.

I remember writing that post as clearly as if I wrote it this morning.  (Even more clearly, perhaps, since one of 10,000 shitty things that go along with grieving seems to be permanent memory loss, and I can’t actually recall what I had for breakfast today.  Or maybe that’s old age.  I digress..). Regardless, I remember the pain I was feeling as I wrote about how much I hurt, and how I knew everyone was anxious to piece my soul back together for me but they were helpless to do so.  I remember all the guilt I felt for not being able to put on a show for everyone else in my life who also loved Ben, while at the same time wanting to scream “FUCK OFF!  LET ME FEEL THIS! I NEED TO FEEL THIS!”  But I’m a nice Canadian girl (as a friend of mine has pointed out several times over the last two months), and nice Canadian girls don’t say things like that to those we love.  So I poured it into my blog.

When I wrote that post I was consumed by pain and anguish.  You read a watered down version of my feelings that day.  I really hurt.  Badly.  Not only did I hurt but my brain was mush.  I couldn’t get anything done.  I couldn’t think properly.  I couldn’t take care of my kids properly.  It took every ounce of energy I could muster up just to follow one breath with another.  I did not want to exist in a world without Ben, and without the beautiful humans that Ben and I created together I may have just gone back to bed and stayed there. Permanently.  (Which probably would have been good for the waistline but not for my future happiness).  If you’ve recently lost your person, I know you can relate.

My point, to anyone who feels a similar desperation today and is reading this blog post because they’re looking for a sliver of hope in what appears to be a bleak world, is this:

Four years later, almost to the day, I smiled when I re read that post I wrote at one of the lowest times of my existence.  Holy shit.  I smiled because, as I read it,  I thought less about the pain I felt that day and more about how the people who loved me read it and pulled through for me without questions.

That list of “Things I Need” I wrote about?  Done.  By my tribe.  Every last thing.  Except maybe for putting the handles on the shitty Jysk cabinet.  (Thanks alot people, by the way.  Pretty sure I had to do that one myself). But the coffee maker, the phone, the filing, the work / funeral claims, the wall mount, the car purchase?  All done.  And even better perhaps was the fact that (after reading my post) people stopped trying to make me smile.  They just let me feel what I needed to feel, which was such a gift in and of itself.

The lesson to take from this is tell people what you need!  Be specific.  People want to help you, but they cannot read your mind.  Ask them.

When I watched the video clips of Ben telling the kids he loved them, I will admit it brought a tear to my eye.  It always will.  But I also smiled because I remembered how much he loved them.  Pretty sure those were his last words, or very close to it.  “I love you Jaime.  I love you Zak and Raegan.”  That’s something to smile about.  How great it is to remember how much he loved us.

So, if you are reading this because you have just lost everything, I can tell you from experience that my shrink was, in fact, correct.  No one else can feel this but you.  Ask for what you need.  It gets better, I promise, and you will smile again.  Just hang on.  

The Pain Is Softer Now

I’m writing this post on the eve of Ben’s four year death-aversary. I made that word up, but what else do you call it? I’m also writing it on my phone, so forgive any typos you may find.

Since I last posted I have moved out of the home that Ben and I shared together and into my own. I’ve already celebrated two Christmases and his 50th birthday in this house, without him. Time, as they say, just seems to keep on ticking.

When Ben died, the agony I felt was torturous. I felt lost in a way I cannot adequately describe. The fear felt as I imagine it would feel if one is pulled from their warm bed into a snowy night without shoes or a jacket, dumped alone in the middle of nowhere  without so much as a flashlight, and told to find their way home. To say “it hurt” is laughable. It hurt so much that it seemed happiness was never meant to be a part of my life again. How could there be room for happiness when my heart was filled with so much pain?

Over the 1460 days that have passed since I last heard Ben’s voice, I have thought of him, spoken out loud to him, carried on conversations with him, made fun of him, gotten angry at him and told him how much I love him, every single one of those days. Every one. He is still the first person I want to call at the end of my work day (I went back to work part time) to talk about what I did. 604-365-7329. His number is still right at the front of my memory, even when I can’t remember what I had for breakfast or the proper name of the “anything card” (wild card) when I’m playing Phase 10, I still know his phone number by heart. 604-365-7329.

The evidence suggests that I will miss him forever.

I have noticed though, that I miss him more softly, of late. I miss him in a gentler way then I did before. That raw, agonizing, soul sucking pain I used to feel daily is, dare I say, gone? It seems to have been replaced by its calmer, gentler sibling. One that doesn’t claw at my heart at any given moment, ripping it from my chest and leaving me gasping for air. One that seems willing to take a backseat while I’m working or when I’m out with friends. One that allows me to see the possibility of a future I couldn’t imagine, not so long ago.

I joke that I hate the winters here and the rain (I do), but suddenly it doesn’t seem quite so gloomy as it did before. For the first time I might dare to say, I actually feel happy and filled with possibility.

I will raise my glass of Kracken to Ben on the 13th and take time to remember his life. He was worth remembering. He meant everything to me. But I’m glad I can see happy now. I’m glad I can see a future.

To Ben.

I love you. Thank for making me laugh. Thank you for telling terrible jokes. Thank you for always supporting your kids in everything they did. Thank you for being a good husband and father. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for taking care of us. Thank you for trying to keep us from being scared while you were sick. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

I miss you. I will always miss you.  But thank you for taking a back seat so I can finally move forward.  Xo

 

Summer 2018

It’s been a long time since I wrote on this blog that used to be my lifeline. For a long time it was the only tie I had between sane and insane. It’s been so long that it seems the WordPress app has updated since I last used it, and I’m not entirely sure that I’m going to be successful publishing this post. We’ll see.

Anyway, there is so much I could write about when I consider all that has happened over the last few months. I could talk about how I decided to move, and so I listed and sold the home I shared with Ben. All by myself. And I cried about it, all by myself. I chose the realtor, the asking price and the sell date. I prepped the house for showings. I kept it clean. I ran around mowing lawns and weeding gardens and wiping down counters before people came in to see it. I threw dogs in the back of my car and clutter into the dishwasher. I panicked all by myself when the real estate market stalled as soon as I listed my house. I countered an offer and signed the papers. I bought myself a new home that is currently under construction. I made living arrangements for the 2 1/2 month interval where I’m homeless, and I said goodbye to years of memories in the house where Ben lived and where he drew his last breath. By myself.

I could also tell you that I went on a European vacation with my daughters and some friends, and that I planned a good part of it by myself while dealng with the stress of trying to sell my house. I could talk about the mistakes I made while I was booking it (wasted some money), the wonderful times I had with my girls and friends, how scary it was when my daughter needed a doctor overseas, and how I developed stomach problems that have not yet gone away. (If you know me, you know where my head goes when I have any pain or discomfort for any period of time. I have a dark mind, and even though I try to make light of it, it is neither fun nor easy to deal with.)

Instead of any of that, I’ll try posting some pictures of the good times, and I’ll add one interesting and related fact about widow-hood. Fact: I need photos because my brain still does not work properly. Without them I would not be able to remember my European visit, and in fact I do have some complete memory blanks regarding towns we visited. (These pics are out of order and rather random, but I’m writing this on my IPhone and it’s hard to see which pics I’m choosing).

Boat cruise. Amazing day

Love this lady!

The candle I lit for Ben

Jazz hands

I did not drink this beer. It was for show only 😉

Walked right into Harry Potter’s train station

The Acropolis

Nice, right? That’s my summer so far. I got back just in time to have a few days to pack, clean and move. Worked my ass off. It was a lot of work and I honestly have no idea how I got it all done. I could write about how I left wine, and a plant, and some candy for the new home owners. How I wrote them a note about how much I love my home and I hope they have a happy life there. I could tell you about how my efforts were apparently not satisfactory for the new home owners (it seems they would have liked me to take a class in how to fill in nail holes from hanging pictures and then do so) but I can’t be bothered to dwell on that nonsense. Some people are just unkind, and even though my feelings were actually quite hurt, I’m over it.

I could tell you about how I am writing this from the ferry while I travel to Vancouver Island for a couple of days to see my sister and her family. To enjoy a country music festival and relax in the sun.

But the truth is, all I want to write about is how much I miss Ben. Because we lived for years in a place where ferries were constantly a part of our lives, and I am not supposed to be on a ferry without him.

This is our thing.

Ben would park the car, I’d get in line at the cafeteria while he got a seat. Then we’d scout the gift shop, buy something to read and spend the rest of the trip people watching or chasing kids.

When I was waiting in the lineup to drive on, the line started moving but the guy in front of me didn’t. I honked once and then looked to the right where I saw this young man making a wild dash for his car. He was carrying a coffee in one hand, a baby in the other, and behind him was a little boy running as fast as he could while crying hysterically.

I started laughing, and then I started crying. Because that is exactly what Ben would have done. He would have left the car and taken too long in the coffee shop. And then the kids would have cried while he ran ahead, and I would have lost my shit because the kids were scared. And then we would have laughed.

I so want to tell Ben about the younger version of him I saw running today. But I can’t.

When I got up to the cafeteria I looked at the menu and was reminded that chicken and waffles is now a “thing.” Gross. That was not a “thing” when Ben was alive, and I really want to tell him about it. I also want to tell him about my stomach trouble and how I get so anxious about what possible dark and scary diagnosis’ (diagnoses??) could come. I want him to reassure me. But I can’t tell him and he can’t reassure me.

I haven’t cried in awhile, but today I sit on this stupid ferry with a tear in my eye because no one on here knows me. No one cares if I’m scared, or that my stomach hurts, or that some dad left his kid trailing behind while he ran for his car.

Sigh.

Just to be clear … I’m having a good summer. A great summer. More days are good than bad. There are more smiles than tears, and I know that my stomach problems are unlikely to be anything life threatening. But just at this moment, on this ferry where Ben should be, I feel like feeling sorry for myself.

I promise I will enjoy the sun and the concert and my sister and her fam. And I will try not to think too much about my stomach issues.

I miss Ben.

PS. If this post is riddled with typos it is entirely the fault of my iPhone. Just sayin’

Finding Hope

Certain days of the year are harder for me than others. Some of those days are obvious. March 13^th is Ben’s birthday. January 13^th is Ben’s death day. September 24th is our anniversary.  March 1st is the day we met.  Obviously those are difficult days, and every year until the end of my time I will not need a calendar to know they approach. I will feel them deep in my heart and soul before my mind catches up.

The month of April also brings with it two other days that will forever make my soul ache.

April 8^th. The day that Ben went to the doctor to receive the results of his MRI. The day he was supposed to be told whether he needed surgery or a simple cortisone shot to fix all his back pain. The day he was given the most shocking and final news that in fact his life was actually ending, and the lives of all those around him would be forever changed.

It was the day he had to process that he would never walk his daughters down the aisle, or hold his own son’s child, or know what amazing things his children would do with their lives. It was the day that his heart shattered and there was no one there to hold his hand as he cried. No one to offer comfort to him in his agony at that moment. No one to offer hope, and no one to save him. It was also the day I came home from work and became annoyed that the dishes weren’t done. A trivial detail, normally, but in this case one that hurts my heart and brings me pain when I remember.

April 10^th. The day that I could feel that something was wrong but didn’t know what it was. The day I pushed that fleeting thought aside and decided not to go to work so I could instead take a “Wendy Day” to hang out with a friend and enjoy life. It was the day Ben went to the hospital alone to determine, essentially, how quickly he would die.

It was the day I drove down to the U.S. by myself while Ben took on the evening taxi duties for soccer practice. It was the day I sat at the stop light on 168^th Street talking to Ben on the phone. It was the day I heard something wrong in his voice that I couldn’t quite pinpoint, but it told me that some shit was about to go down.

It was the day I arrived home and heard my doctor’s voice on our answering machine asking Ben to call him. It was the day I called Ben at the soccer field and raised my voice and insisted he tell me what was going on. Why was our doctor calling? It was the day I heard unbreakable Ben, break. It was the day I heard him say, “I have cancer. It’s in my kidney and my bones.” It was the day I broke and it was the day that Ben stayed calm and talked me through, on the phone, and forced me to pull it together and listen to his instructions. It was the last time he behaved like The Titan, giving me clear, concise instructions about who to call and what arrangements to make for our kids so that they wouldn’t see me break and so they wouldn’t be scared. There was time enough for that to come, and that wasn’t that time. April 10th was also the day that I broke my parents. Simple as that. I broke them.

Today is April 11^th, three years later. This morning I woke up very aware of how I felt on this day three years ago. Terrified. I promptly opened my phone and saw a message from one of my many “Rocks” (as I privately refer to all the people who have held me up over the last three years). I don’t know if she realizes she’s one of my rocks, but from the very beginning this woman has had the freakishly unique ability to send the most random of messages at the exact time I need them, even if I don’t know I need them. She is a prominent piece in the puzzle of my life that continually presents itself in front of me in the moments where I am blind and cannot find what I’m looking for.  I turn around and there she is.

Today this rock arrived in the form of a Facebook Message. She sent a copy of a speech given by the pastor of the Humboldt Broncos entitled “Where Was God?”

(For anyone who may be reading this blog post wondering “Who are the Humboldt Broncos?” I encourage you to take a moment and google the team name. In a nutshell you only need to know this: April 6th. Hockey Team. Young people. Transport Truck. Intersection. Fifteen people dead. Countless people’s lives changed forever. Endless fallout that will ripple out amongst family, friends, relatives, the hockey community, the emergency services community (who own a piece of my heart and I desperately hope they don’t get forgotten in all of this or written off as “it’s their job”) and every human being in the country who cares that the lives of so many were snuffed out in one tragic instant.)

I read the words of Pastor Sean Brandow and I felt his pain, but there was one thing he said that stood out for me as though the paragraph had been highlighted for me to read. He said this:

“I told my church this, this morning. I’ve never felt so empty in my life. I needed to be reminded of Jesus, I needed to hear from God in this darkness. I didn’t have anything to give because I wasn’t full of hope myself. As the verse ends, you know, may God fill you with that. God can fill you up so that you can be a blessing to somebody else, but if you don’t have hope, you can’t be a blessing to anyone else.”

If you don’t have hope, you can’t be a blessing to anyone else.

That one paragraph, that one sentence, made me reflect.

Three years after my life changed so tragically in the month of April, so now have the lives of countless others. They too will never pass another April 6^th without thinking “this was the day my son got on that bus and never came back home.” Or “this was the day my wife / husband / parent / friend received such tragic news that they have been unable to lift themselves out of the darkness.”  Today these people are currently without hope, in the same way that I was on this day three years ago.

But today, three years later, I now have hope.  Maybe not every day, but some days.

As tragic as some days are for me, I know I am not alone. And in fact, the way I have travelled through my own experiences may provide some hope to others. There are days when I feel empty and I suspect there always will be, but there are also days now when I have hope. Until now, I thought that was enough. I thought it was enough to allow myself to have hope some days and to bask in that hope for as long as it may last. But now I realize that keeping my hope to myself is not enough. I need to be an example of hope. I need to pass my hope forward. I need to show my hope to others who may not have any. I need to let them know that even in the darkest of times, when hope is nothing but lifeless letters in a word that exists only between the pages of a dictionary, that the meaning of the word can still be seen alive and well in others who also once had no hope. I, and others who now have hope, can share ours as an example to those without it, until they can find their own again.

Anyone who has read my blog in the past knows that I don’t believe in comparing pain. I think there are differences in pain, but one cannot compare whether it is a greater loss to lose your spouse or your child, to lose your loved one to disease or a sudden tragedy, to lose someone to violence or to nature. Pain is pain.

The differences, perhaps, lays in the time that has passed since the tragedy occurred. The difference is that (in my case) I have had time to learn to breathe again and to hope again, while hundreds of people are, at this very moment, completely without breath. Completely without hope. And if there is any way I can turn the tragedy in my life into something more than just a raw, gaping hole, it may just be within my own power to show to others that on some days, I have learned to breathe and hope. Then maybe they will know that someday they will be able to do the same.  Maybe I can give them hope. Maybe I can be a blessing to someone else.

This woman is my blessing today. Thanks, Christine, for being a freakishly unique Rock.

Is It Grief, Or Is It Life?

Sometimes I have to ask myself … is it grief, or is it life?

I have nightmares, all the time. I dream of terrible things that could happen to my children.  I dream that I wake up and all my hair has fallen out, and I dream that I am blind and all alone. Or I dream all of them together and find myself bald, blind and alone.

Grief? Probably part of it. But I suspect that the nightmares about the kids are work related (one sees too much, hears too much, knows too much after 25 years of policing), and I suspect that the dreams of going blind are because I was recently diagnosed with macular degeneration.  The dreams of being alone are because, well, I AM alone, and the dreams of waking up bald are probably caused because my hair is indeed falling out.  See how grief and reality get all tangled up together?

This is currently my life. If you’re reading this, I’ll give you a little catch up.  It’s been awhile since I wrote.

I think it’s been about a year since I realized that my hair was falling out. For awhile I thought it could be my imagination, but then I paid a butt load of cash to go visit a private dermatologist who specializes in hair loss, and that money bought me an answer. The answer was essentially, “Yep. Your hair is falling out.” That was followed by a bunch of relatively useless information about how there is pretty much nothing that can be done about it. The hair loss that was caused by stress is apparently growing back, and the hair loss caused by some shitty form of alopecia will not. “I don’t expect it to get any worse for many years” said Dr. Super Expensive. Since that visit I have indeed lost more hair. Apparently Dr Super Expensive was wrong.  (On the upside, maybe his diagnosis was too.  We’ll see.)

Needless to say, my already fairly high stress levels were bumped up a solid notch or two, and I became completely obsessed. My hair was on my mind constantly … no pun intended. (Hair. Mind. Head. Get it? Anyway…). I will confess to having the self pitying thoughts of “Haven’t I lost enough? Do I have to lose my hair too?”

As my feel-sorry-for-myself meter rose, so did my anxiety. A lot. It has been a very challenging time for me. Every day the thought plagued me that I would be bald and alone. And while I’m sure that it sounds funny to some reading this, or that you may think it’s not a big deal when compared with what I’ve already been through, but I happen to think it’s a very big deal. Huge, in fact. And while I would have traded my hair in a heartbeat to save Ben’s life, the fact is that he will (most aggravatingly) remain dead whether I have hair or not. So I’d like to have my hair, thankyouverymuch.

Anyway, you know how it goes. Life kicks you down and then something great happens and you get back up again, right? Wrong. I went to the eye doctor who kindly informed me that I have macular degeneration. And just like that I was knocked down even further, and kicked around a bit too. Apparently now my destiny was to be alone, bald and blind.

Did you know that life isn’t fair?

When I am anxiety ridden, the only thing that eases my pain is to learn about whatever it is that is making me anxious. I know the general rule is to stay off the internet, but for me it’s all about finding something hopeful to ease my worries. Like, “it is possible for alopecia to reverse itself” or “it is possible for macular degeneration to never progress any further.” I need to know there’s hope.

For the last several weeks I have been immersed in hair loss information and macular degeneration information, but I just couldn’t find the info I needed to ease my anxiety. And so I have spent hours in the tub every night, trying to quiet my mind and just find a way to cope. The baths didn’t help the anxiety, but I am starting to grow gills.  Perhaps soon I will learn how to breathe under water.  That would be a snazzy party trick.

I finally did what I do best … I took matters into my own hands and did it my way. Despite our shitty medical system that takes months to move along, I got myself a referral to a retina specialist in a bit of an unconventional way.  And then I called an old friend who called his old friend who knows what’s what in the world of ophthalmology, and he was able to answer some questions and ease my mind a bit while I await my appointment with the retina specialist. (And in other good news, I found the conversations with my old friend very cathartic. I was able to cry and not feel like a burden because we don’t speak often so he wasn’t listening to the same shit on a different day. It was also nice to reminisce a bit.)

Around that time I finally saw my own GP, and by the time I walked out of his office my anxiety had seemed to level out. It’s quite possible that he may be a witch doctor.

As for the hair, his witch-doctorness cannot fix that. I haven’t figured that one out yet,  but I guess if worse comes to worst I could always shave my head and pretend like I am making a statement. I’m not sure what the statement will be, but hopefully I have some time to think about it. Hasn’t Sinead O’Connor rocked a shaved head for about 30 years now?

After I saw my GP I had a few days of relative peace and then it was gone.  I couldn’t quite figure out what the problem was this time, and then the answer came to me like someone had yelled it loudly in my ear.  The voice that shouted sounded like Ben’s, and this is what he said ..

“If I don’t do the chemo, I’ll be dead before my next birthday!” 

Ah, yes.  There we go.  That’s what Ben said to me in the late spring of 2015, when I told him he should refuse the “treatment” he was being offered.  I wanted to run off with him and the kids to Iceland, but he wanted to do what he did best … fight.  So we didn’t go to Iceland and he did do the chemo, but he still wasn’t alive on his 47th birthday.  Or his 48th.  And now here the kids and I are on his 49th birthday, remembering him and celebrating the day he arrived and made the world a little brighter.  But he isn’t here to shine his own light.

My heart knew this before my head remembered.

 

Happy 49th birthday, Ben.  You are so deeply loved and missed.  You are in big shit when I see you again.

Never Forgotten

I once read an article written by a woman after her husband died. During the time he was dying they had talked about what her future would look like after he was gone. The woman asked her husband how she would be able to survive after he died.  Her husband’s answer was that the first year would be terrible and the second one would also be hard, but by the third year she would begin coming out of the darkness. She would once again be able to see the possibility of a future for herself.

The thought of being able to surface from the darkness seemed like an impossibility to me at the time and yet here I am, seeing cracks of light in my future when I look hard enough.

By some miracle I have survived 730 days without Ben, and I find myself standing on the precipice of year three.

In my wildest dreams I never imagined that this would be my life. The death of your spouse is not something that is remotely fathomable until it is suddenly your most unwanted reality. This is not the life I asked for, but since I haven’t woken up from it yet I have to believe that it is apparently not a dream, but is in fact the actual hand of life that I was dealt.  What matters now is what I do with the rest of it.  I know that.

I miss Ben. I want to hold tightly to every moment and every memory I ever had with him, but the truth is that I can feel my past life moving a bit further behind. With each passing day I can feel my grip loosen slightly on the memories our 22 years together.

For those of you who haven’t experienced loss, let me tell you … discovering that any memories of your past life with your spouse (good or bad) are fading away is terrifying.  When I forget a detail (who was that red haired guy we were in training with?  What was the name of that kid who lived across the street from us in Sechelt? Who was at the hospital when Zak was born? … ) there is no longer anyone in the world who remembers and can fill in the gaps accurately.  That is rather frightening unless, of course, I want to re write the story of my life. (Remember the time in 1994 when I was crowned Miss Sunshine Coast?  Remember when I ran that marathon?  Remember when I saved that infant from a burning fire?) There is no one around to argue with my “recollection.” That part could be fun.  Maybe.

Loosening my grip on the memories of nine months of suffering is probably a good thing for my sanity, and I am finding more room for the happy memories as the painful ones fade.  But overall I find it terrifying that I’m starting to forget any part of our life together, as though a grip loosened on the past may mean that it never actually happened.  I am conflicted between feeling scared that forgotten pain means Ben’s memory is being left behind, and feelings of relief over not being able to feel that stabbing ache as intensely as I once did.  It’s hard to breathe when you’re holding onto all that pain and suffering.

I can’t release my grip on the pain until I ease my grip on the past.  There’s a lot of confliction going on for me right now.

 

The two years that have passed since Ben died have held a lot of heartbreak. Some relationships have been irreparably broken and some have just mysteriously faded away. (I hear that is common.  Who knows why.) But at the same time, some of my relationships have strengthened intensely and I have formed new ones that I value deeply. I have made more changes over the last two years than I have made over the entire duration of my life. I have discovered that I am able to cope and survive and sometimes even thrive. I owe a lot of that to Ben.

At times I desperately want to cling to the past but more often than not I now find myself looking to the future. I am starting to feel hopeful more often than I feel hopeless. Maybe there is something to the whole “year-three-will-bring-more-light” theory.

Today marks the start of year three without Ben.

I would not have chosen to go through life without him, but I wasn’t offered a choice. All I can do is the best I can with the time I’m given, and if there is one thing I have learned is that every single person needs to really live each day, not just merely exist.

Through the wonders of modern technology I can tell when strangers from various places around the world have found my blog. Last night I was sent five new alerts. Five new people found my blog, and it hurts my heart because the search terms they used to find it suggest they are probably suffering through much of the same that I went through. Or that I’m going through. If any of them come back to read again, I hope they read this:

It hurts so much, I know. Whether you are losing or whether you have lost, it hurts so fucking much.  And I know that right now it seems as though you will never feel peace again. The truth is, it will be quite some time before you do. But there is hope waiting for you when you’re ready, and in the meantime there is a tiny bit of peace that comes with knowing you do not suffer alone.  Reach out.  It helps.

To Ben The Titan … I miss you. I love you. I think about you every day and I am grateful for every moment we shared. You helped shape my life, and you are not forgotten. Never forgotten. Thank you, Ben. Xo

To my family and friends who have walked this path with me every moment and held me up when I could not hold myself … thank you.

To my kids … thank God for you.  I wouldn’t have made it one minute without you.  I hope I have held you up, too.

To the new people in my life … I’m sorry you never got to meet Ben, but thank you for being part of my future and recognizing that he existed.

San Francisco

How Long Will I Love Him?

Where did December come from? We are more than halfway through the month and I feel as though I’m on a fast moving train that is careening out of control towards 2018. I was looking forward to / expecting an easier December than last year, so I was caught surprisingly off guard by how hard it hit me. It is definitely not easier. Turns out, it’s even harder and far more lonely.

As the end of November rolled around I started to notice how angry I was getting, for no good reason at all. I don’t like feeling angry. It’s wasted energy that I don’t want to put out into the Universe. But after a few days of leaving bursts of angry words hanging out there in space it occurred to me that my whole body was awakening to the fact that December was approaching. It seems that without consciously thinking about it, my whole being instinctively knew that Christmas was coming – a time we traditionally enjoyed as a family and looked forward to, and now we face yet another without Ben. December now brings with it reminders of how much pain Ben was in by this time in 2015. It brings reminders of his utter disbelief that he could be dying, and that no one was going to step in and save his life. December brings reminders of our Last Christmas. The end of December brings about January, and January brought death.

Cancer stole peace from the month of December. Death stole possibility and wonder from every New Year.

Within the first few days of December I found myself exhausted from just living life, worn out with the realization that I have not seen My Love for almost two years. And for those who have created a vague, romantic idea of life after loss, let me tell you how it really goes. People move on. People who are not personally immersed in grief cannot spend their days allowing themselves to be sucked dry of all happiness, even if they love you. I think that is one part self preservation, one part boredom over constantly hearing the same stories of despair, and one part basic human nature to forget what is not technically yours. (ie: grief).

As for me, I am grateful for the fact that I am able to think rationally about situations and don’t allow myself to get sucked into the “nobody loves me or gives a shit” type of mentality that some others seem to unable to avoid. Logically, I know I am loved, I know Ben was loved, and I know that he is still missed. But I would venture to say that I am the only person in existence who has not gone one single day out of the last six hundred and ninety-ish days without thinking of him and physically aching over his loss.

For me, six hundred and ninety days have done nothing to diminish the surprise I feel that he is not walking through the door. The shock that he’s gone. The despair, the aching, the longing for him. And so, because I live with those feelings every single moment of every single day, it hurts me to watch life pass by without him and to watch everyone else do exactly what they are supposed to do with their lives … live them. The head and the heart don’t marry up sometimes, I suppose.

As I watched Raegan play soccer earlier in the month I was listening to the other parents talk and cheer, and despite the smile on my face I found myself angry over the fact that they could continue to enjoy soccer without Ben’s quiet presence on the sidelines. How dare they get to enjoy one of the things Ben loved most! When I was discussing the 2018 European vacation with my friends I lost my breath for a moment when I realized that Ben doesn’t get to come. How dare we all make these plans without him! Irrational? Yes. But that is what happens in my head every moment of every day and I cannot stop that train. Even in the car I look at every store, every turn in the road, every park around town and think “I remember when I was there with Ben.” I don’t think I will ever be able to escape that and so I am often only listening to people with half an ear as my mind wanders to “that one time Ben walked into that store, or pulled into that parking lot, or dropped me off at that front door, or walked down that street with me.”

This month brought about a long awaited surgery that I needed in a town we rarely went to, but as I entered the 10 block radius of the hospital for my pre surgery appointment I found my heart starting to beat a little faster and that old “frienemy” Anxiety began making an appearance. I couldn’t figure out why I was feeling that way until I pulled up to the front of what I had thought was a completely unfamiliar hospital, and I saw Ben standing there. Right here:

I could see him clear as day, standing at the side of my car. I watched myself folding up his walker to put in the trunk. He was weak and he had trouble walking, and he suddenly burst into tears of frustration, pain and despair. And it was in that moment that I remembered that it was at that hospital where Ben had received his Nivolumab. That was the hospital Ben thought would save his life. It did not.

As I walked through the hallways I saw Ben everywhere, and memories I had previously banished to the recesses of my mind came back full force. I wanted to lay down on the floor and cry. How dare this hospital continue to function after failing to save Ben’s life? How dare all the staff continue on with their work and fail to recognize that they had failed my Ben?

In 2015 this was My Ben, The Titan, in the hallway of this very hospital.  He was trying to get to his chemo but he was too tired to keep walking:

On the day I was there for my own surgery the space where he once sat in front of the window to catch his breath was empty.  But I saw him.

The young widow of a man who died in 2013 wrote this a few years back: “Those of us who have lost a spouse endure a particularly gutting kind of stress that eats away at our protective barriers. In 1949, two psychiatrists at the University of Washington set out to study stressful life events and the ways they contribute to illness. For 15 years, the duo studied 5,000 patients. At the end of the study period, death of a spouse topped their list of cataclysmic life events. The authors assigned it a value of 100. Far behind in second place, with 73 points, was divorce. Nearly 50 years have passed since they published that study, and the results still stand. The stress of losing a spouse permeates every part of one’s body, affecting each cell and manifesting tremendous physiological changes. Cortisol levels rise, and sleep is disrupted. Heart rate and blood pressure increases. Your neutrophils – a white blood cell that fights infection – become less effective, particularly in the elderly. Your cells begin to falter in their responsibilities, your immune system weakens, and you fall prey to countless illnesses that, under normal circumstances, would be held at bay.”

There is no escape from the side effects of losing Ben. My brain has not caught up and it plays nasty tricks on me about where Ben may be and when he is coming home. I still want to talk to him all the time, and I am saving things up to tell him when I see him. I want to ask him how he felt when he died. I want to know if he knew he was loved. I want to know if he knew we were all there, and if he heard the music we played, and if he felt peace or irritation over the fact that we wouldn’t shut up. I want to text him a play by play of Raegan’s soccer game on the days he can’t make it and I want to hear him ask me “What do you want for dinner?”  I want to hear him complain about me turning on the Christmas lights too early.

Life is complicated now, where it was once so simple. I am no longer very rational and my mood can change on a dime.  I waffle between four main feelings …. the agony of missing Ben, the understanding that life is for the living, an overwhelming sense of completely irrational anger when I observe others living life, and guilt on the days where I find glimpses of happiness or future potential.

How Long Will I Love Him?  In the words of Ellie Goulding … “As long as stars are above you.  And longer if I may.” Listen here.

 

 

Can’t Buy THAT Online

Back in my real world, when Ben existed, he managed all the money and did so with quite a bit of success.  He was very good at investing and made some smart moves when it came to stock picks (although it was I who insisted on purchasing Lululemon shares and I who insisted on purchasing FB shares).  When he was alive I didn’t think he was that great at sticking within a budget, but now that I have to do it I understand that it is not quite as easy as it sounds.

I have also discovered that my main vice / coping mechanism since Ben died is to try to buy myself happy.  In my mind I can hear an advertising voice asking the questions:

(Insert deep, rhythmic announcers voice here)

Are you sad because Ben isn’t here to help pull out the Christmas tree?  Well why not buy yourself some new shoes that will sit in the closet to help ease that pain? 

Are you climbing into bed alone for the six hundred and seventieth night in a row, wondering how you will cope when your practically adult children all fly the coop?  A little online shopping before falling asleep will probably make you feel better.  

Do  you find yourself less than inclined to cook because it was your husband’s job and he did it so well?   You should just go to a restaurant and buy your dinner. 

Are you worried sick about your upcoming surgery and the fact that Christmas is coming but you will be laid up with little time for shopping?  Why not just run out and spend copious amounts of money on the kids without thinking about it or looking for a good deal?

Sigh.

I wonder how many people develop addictions when their spouse dies?  When they find themselves staring at the empty chair, or wondering who in the world besides themselves  still thinks about their spouse,  how many turn to booze or drugs to ease that pain?  Or shopping.  It’s all the same, I suppose.

Christmas is coming.  Again.  I remember just before The Last Christmas I said to Ben, “What if this is our last Christmas?” and he cut me off before I finished speaking the last word and cried out “It won’t be.  It won’t be.”

But it was.

Another year has come and gone, and on countless occasions I have turned to him to tell him something and found empty air.  Empty air.  Another 365 days have passed in which he doesn’t know what is happening with the kids.  Another 365 days where I haven’t had anyone to turn to when they’ve made stupid life choices that could have serious repercussions in the future.  Another 365 days without a shoulder to lean on.

And so I have shopped.  As it turns out, it doesn’t help, but it sure does leave me broke.

I have met people who lost everything when their spouse died.  I lost my heart when Ben died, because Ben was my heart, but I didn’t lose our house, or the ability to provide life’s necessities to my kids,  send them to school, pay for their sports, or even lay hardwood floors in my home.  I lost everything that meant something to my heart, but I did not lose everything.  I know people who lost their homes, were forced to move, downsize, wonder how they would find the money to repair their vehicle or if they could even afford to keep one at all.  EVERYTHING.  So I fully understand how obnoxious it would sound to one of those people to hear me complaining about a need to control my spending when it comes to shoes, eating out and decorating my house.  I get it, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make.

I am scared.  I’m scared of the fact that I can’t seem to figure out how to fill the empty air around me.  I suppose I should be somewhat relieved that I’m not filling that empty air with booze or drugs (although Justin Trudeau says it will be legal in 8 short months), but I do need to fill it with something more than shopping. I’m not talking about filling my time … I fill my time just fine.  I mean the air.  The space.  There’s a difference.

I need an adult to talk to.  I need hugs.  I need a shoulder to lean on.  I need my person. Apparently they don’t sell that online, but I sure keep looking.

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 one I have written about before, 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.

Ben died eight days later, and my mind still cannot fathom how we could be texting on January 5th and yet he was dead on the 13th.

And oh my God, that moment in time is one of the most agonizing memories I have. It will never leave me. It is burned into my memory permanently and will remain there until the day I die. Maybe longer. It is nothing short of torturous to remember that My Ben lay in the hospital not wanting to die and when he told me, I couldn’t help him. I look back on that text now and think “what the fuck was I thinking?” Why didn’t I go back? Why didn’t I crawl into that hospital bed with him, wrap my arms around him and tell him I didn’t want him to die? Beg him to please not leave me?

I know why. The inevitability of his death had become my norm. I was exhausted. Achingly exhausted. It was 4:43 am and I had been with him all day and half the night. I had kids at home that needed to be cared for, and my body cried out for sleep. I was so fucking tired. But none of that matters. It doesn’t matter how tired I was, or how much I was needed at home. All that matters is that I did not go back to him in that moment. I offered to but he said “no” and so I didn’t. How could I not go back? How could I leave him all alone with those thoughts? I would NEVER want to be alone with those thoughts, that fear, that pain. All alone in the hospital.

I hate myself when I recall that night, and those are the types of thoughts and memories that invade my mind space at the most inconvenient of times. For anyone who believes that “time heals all wounds,” you should know that is far from the truth. As long as you have the ability to remember, not even time can heal a pain so great. I don’t go seeking those particularly painful memories, but they come and find me at the most inopportune moments and they take my breath away. They make me cry. They make me feel like it is happening all over again. They make me feel like a terrible wife, and a less than adequate human. They make me want a do over. I want a do over.

When we left yoga on Monday night we pulled out of the parking lot and a song that Ben and I used to listen to almost 25 years ago came on the radio. “Don’t Take The Girl” by Tim McGraw. 1994. (click here to listen.) I remember listening to it with him 100 times, and then we stopped listening to country music and I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard it since. And there it was, suddenly playing on the radio in 2017 and I was transported right back to 1994. Back to when Ben was a boy, and I was a girl, and our lives stretched out endlessly before us.

Now it’s 2017 and the girl wasn’t taken but the boy was. I miss that boy, and the memories hurt me and haunt me. His pain ended, but mine did not.

I am finishing this blog post on a flight home from Vegas, and I feel that familiar panic coming over me. It is taking every ounce of my strength to not scream out loud that Ben Saint-Onge once existed and that he didn’t want to die. I want to feel Ben’s calming presence and I want to hear his voice talk me down from this ledge, but instead I am alone on this plane beside a stranger taking up too much of my breathing room, trying to calm myself.

I didn’t want that boy to be taken. I want him back.

 

 

I Shouldn’t Have Come Alone

I wrote this last week, at the time it happened.  Just making that clear, lest anyone read this and think I’m not OK.  I’m ok.  Ok? 🙂

**********************************

As I write this I have just pulled into the parking lot at the office of my urologist, Dr A. I have parked in stall number 61 and I find myself frozen in the drivers seat of my car as unwanted memories come flooding back into my brain. I remember the day I pulled into this parking lot with Ben. I don’t recall what stall number we parked in that day, but I do recall repeating the number out loud and saying “that’s our good luck number today.”

On that particular day in April 2015, two and half years ago but feels, smells and tastes like yesterday, we thought we were coming to find out how Dr A was going to help save Ben.  How he was going to operate on Ben’s kidney in conjunction with another (as yet unknown but definitely brilliant) surgeon who would simultaneously remove the tumour on Ben’s sacrum. ON, being the operative word.

Sadly, that’s not how that day turned out.

This is a picture of Ben that day, waiting to be called into Dr A’s office.

On that day particular day, any good luck we may have had ran out about 5 minutes later as we found out for certain that Ben’s cancer was IN his bones. IN. A far cry from ON. Up until that moment we had sort of envisioned a tumour that was resting gently on his tailbone waiting to be plucked off by a skilled surgeon. We would hear “All done, thank you very much for coming out and have a happy life.” It was not to be.

(If you want to read about that shitty day as written by me at the time in 2015, you can get all the gory details by clicking right here.  Forgive the language.  I was not exactly grace under pressure that day.)

When we left Dr. A’s office on that day we hopped back into our car somewhere around stall 61 and Ben burst into tears. He cried and shook, and I felt like a child who doesn’t know what to do when they see their mom or dad cry. Ben doesn’t (didn’t) cry. Ever. Period. But on that day he cried, and if I hadn’t known before then I certainly  knew then that we were in for an ugly ride with no happy ending.

In 2016 I had to come back to this office, and I remember being hit hard with the same emotions and memories. As it turns out, those reactions don’t lessen with time, and I realize now that I shouldn’t have come here alone. Apparently I do not learn my lesson the first time.  I feel like I’m walking back into the war zone as I gather up the strength to get out of my car and go in there.

***

Well, here I am.  I have just stepped off the elevator I am struck by the empty chairs in the hallway.

Those chairs are the same chairs we sat in on that day. That day when Ben existed and all our hope hadn’t been stolen from us. As I stand here I want to scream out loud …  “My Ben sat there when he existed!!” But I won’t. Instead I will walk inside and quietly take a seat, and wait to see Dr A.

My visit today is to review the results of my recent kidney CT. My kidney has been aching and I generally haven’t been feeling well, or at least I hadn’t been feeling well at the time this appointment was made. Dr A didn’t want to mess around and so I went for a CT. Today I will get the results.

I’m not freaking out. The truth is that I already know the results and this visit is just a formality. I know the ct was clear. I know this because I was losing my mind with anxiety and so my GP checked for me over a week ago. He said all was fine.  Still, it’s funny … even though I know that I’m ok I am still a bit nervous.

*******************

I’ve just been moved into Dr A’s inner office and I expect to see him any minute.

Even though I know, there is still some crazy, far off corner of my mind that is whispering, “what if…”  I can’t help but always be acutely aware that one day Ben went trotting into the doctor to find out whether he needed surgery or a cortisone shot for his injured back, and he left the office knowing he had cancer. And he was all alone when he found out. I remember the exact day…the exact moment… because I hounded him via text for the results until he finally responded “no surgery.” I said “yay” and went back to work, without a care in the world. I now know he was on the phone to Jeff, telling him the news that would irrevocably alter and destroy so many peoples lives, and none of them even knew it. I didn’t know it.

I’m oddly grateful that I had two extra days of blissful ignorance, and at the same time I am horrified that Ben had to carry that alone for 48 hours.

I can hear Dr A now. He’s obviously done with the previous patient and is on his way in. My God, I shouldn’t have come alone. Here we go …

****

As expected, that was uneventful.  The CT was clear and the pain I feel around my kidney is likely muscular.  I’m sad that Ben didn’t get that relief.

I have just walked out of the inner office and again I am struck by what I see:

There’s the chair Ben sat in on that day.  Ben sat there.  Ben once existed, and he sat there.  I think there should be a gold plaque hanging on the wall above:  Ben The Titan Once Sat Here.  Those Who Sit Here Should Feel Privileged.

I really shouldn’t have come alone.

Missing Those Hugs

I wrote this post a few days ago when all of this took place, but debated until now whether or not to actually publish it.  I don’t want people getting all freaked out and thinking I’m not coping.  I am coping.  Writing helps.  So please remember that I generally write as a means to get through something that is happening at the moment, and by the time you read it the problem has passed.  Which is exactly what happened in this case.  I. Am. Fine.

Here’s the post I wrote in the middle of the night:

*******

I think I must be the only person in the world to experience anxiety attacks while I am actually asleep. Seriously. It can be 4 am and I can be in the middle of what I would hope to be a solid 8 hours, when suddenly I find myself awake and gasping for air. Gasping. No joke.

Such was the case this early morning around 4 am. I woke up suddenly with a tight chest and a disconcerting inability to take in air no matter how hard I tried to inhale deeply through my nose AND mouth. Technically I was able to get the air in, but it just didn’t feel like it was enough and that sent me into panic mode.  By 5am I was trying to sleep sitting up in the hopes that it would help me breathe. By 6:20 am (the current time right now as I write this) I am in two Ativan deep and soaking in a tub while trying to talk myself down from the proverbial ledge.

I have no idea why this happens to me.

Someone reading this post right now is probably shaking their head and saying “Seriously? You watched your husband fade from the strongest man in the world … a TITAN … to a mere shell of his former self in nine short months. You seriously don’t know why you have panic attacks?” All that is true, for sure, but I don’t really think that’s the whole reason.

After many months of soul searching I think it’s a combination of three things … the nightmares I continue to have about work that unfortunately did not fade with retirement, the constant memories of the real life nightmare I lived through while Ben was sick, and the fact that there is actually something wrong with my nose (medically) that inhibits my breathing at times. I’m having the nose issue surgically corrected soon (leading to a whole different set of anxiety issues) but the other two reasons, well, they are a bit trickier to deal with.  If anyone out there has any answers, do send them my way.

I’ve done everything that is reasonably possible for someone to do and still this anxiety wakes me up and keeps me up. I hate it. In an attempt to cope over the years I have spent time in a yoga studio, I’ve exercised, I’ve seen a psychologist, I’ve tried golf (I heard that it was a relaxing sport and might calm my mind while I focussed) and I’ve also tried shopping (that is the most enjoyable solution), drinking copious amounts of wine and downing Ativan when necessary.  (I don’t combine the Ativan with wine, so no worries there).  And of course, sometimes I write.  And when all of those things fail I go on a full frenzy around the house – cleaning, reorganizing, moving furniture.

Such was the case last evening as I felt the anxiety coming on and I decided that it was urgently important to start moving furniture right at that moment. And I don’t mean “move furniture” in the way you probably imagine I that mean it. I’m not talking about sliding a chair and a couch around to see which looks better in the limited spaces I have. I mean I MOVED furniture. I physically moved a love seat and two chairs straight out of the house and into the garage. (My car has lost it’s home). I moved one full sized chair from the basement (where my son had struggled to place it a mere few hours earlier) all the way back upstairs, and I lugged it’s mate back in from the garage to sit beside it. I moved a coffee table and a rug out into the garage and I carried a very heavy trunk all the way to the basement from the top floor. I hung pictures, I moved pictures, and I hung more pictures. It was exhausting and I was dripping in sweat, not to mention having to endure the death stares of daughter #2 because her friend Liam was the “lucky” person who happened to be here at the time this urge struck and he “volunteered” to help me. (You didn’t think I did all that alone, did you? Not possible). Yes, they were right in the middle of watching a movie and enjoying their own down time when he “volunteered”, but when Anxiety comes a knockin’ one has to do what one has to do to keep it at bay. And this mama needed to move herself some furniture.

Unfortunately the moving plan was a partial fail.  I say partial because the living room now looks lovely, but it didn’t send Anxiety packing. I was left dripping in sweat and exhausted yet apparently unable to sleep, so that part was clearly a fail. Liam is likely at home right now wondering why he ever thought it was a good idea to try to spend a quiet evening at the Saint-Onge’s.

Having been awoken at this ungodly hour, my final idea of the night was threefold. It involved the aforementioned ativan, this trip to the tub and the writing of this blog post while I soak. That combination may have had some effect … my eyes are currently getting droopy and if I leave the tub now I may actually be able to catch a few quick zzzzz’s. And quick it will be, since it is now 7:06 am and I am due to be up shortly. (Insert tired sigh here.)

You know what would have worked for me right from the very start? A hug from Ben. It didn’t even need to be a good one … it could have just been one of those “I’m tolerating your crazy and I want to sleep so I will hug you if it helps” kind of hugs. But it would have helped. Because as long as Ben was there it all would have been OK.

But now he’s not here and I am reduced to a person who now gets woken by anxiety.

That’s not ok.

However, knowing that there is always a bright side to every situation, here is a picture of the bright side:

The living room now looks much nicer.  So there’s that.

Warrior on, people.  I will if you will.

Live Life

Live life.

Good advice, right?  I have always liked to pass that piece of advice onto my kids whenever I had the opportunity.  “Take time off before University.  Go see the world.  Live your life while you can.”  That’s what we used to say to them. We had all sorts of tidbits of advice which included, “Happiness is a choice, so choose it.”  “Be a good person.” “Work hard.” “Be kind” and “Live Your Life.  We only get one of them.”

But then Ben died, and everything changed.  I became torn between wanting my kids to live their lives and wanting them home with me every second.  I became obsessed with controlling everything they did, even when I knew I was being ridiculous.  Even when a little voice inside my head told me to lay off or they would say “Sayonara Mama” and move right out of this house so that they no longer had me breathing down their necks.  Even when I caused my son immense frustration (sorry Zak).  Even when I made my daughter cry.

It seems that after Ben died I no longer wanted them to live the life they wanted … I wanted them to live the life that I wanted.  And I wanted them home, safe, and with me every minute.

I got a bit of a wake up call last April.  It was Jaime’s 18^th birthday.  Her second birthday without her Dad, even though he’d barely been gone a year. We found out he was dying just a few days before her 16^th birthday, and he died right before her 17th birthday.  (And here’s an odd little fact, if I may digress for a moment. We had to actually look at a calendar to pick the right day to tell the kids that their Dad was dying. Strange, huh?  It reminded me of choosing a date for a birthday party.  “No, we can’t do it on that Saturday because there’s a soccer game.”  “The next one won’t work either because we have that work thing.”  “OK, lets do it mid week, after school, but before my evening meeting.”  We didn’t want to tell the kids before Zak could take his cake to celebrate his one year of sobriety, and we didn’t want to ruin Jaime’s 16^th birthday, so we found a date right in the middle.  It was odd to sit back and pick a day to ruin everyone’s lives, but now, two years later,  nobody needs to think about how their special day was ruined by the shittiest news ever.  So that’s good, I suppose.)

Anyway, back to my point.  Last April Jaime celebrated her 18^th birthday.  She had clearly had a couple of super shitty years filled with sickness and death, followed by intense grieving and everything that was the opposite of living.  And on her 18^th birthday, she and her boyfriend decided that she should live life, so he bought her the future opportunity to go sky diving.  WHAT???!!!

I lost my shit.  Lost it.  The mother who had always wanted her kids to lead full and exciting lives completely lost her shit over the possibility of her daughter living an exciting life.  I screamed and yelled and complained about how terrible it was that her boyfriend was causing me to suffer more stress and anxiety.  Hadn’t I already suffered enough??  I actually said that.  Yelled it, really.  I told Jaime that it was selfish and inconsiderate to cause me further distress. I ranted and raved and I may have even cried.  I know for sure that I made Jaime cry.

If I hadn’t already lost my Mother Of The Year award, and I probably had, I certainly lost it that day.

I recall spending the next few days thinking about how Ben would have reacted.  I was tempted to believe that he wouldn’t have wanted his precious little peanut to risk her life and he would have emphatically said “NO.” (Followed by laying a beating on the boyfriend for purchasing this gift.)  I really tried to convince myself that is how it would have gone down.  Eventually I gave up, because I knew it wasn’t true.  That’s not what Ben would have said at all.

He would have said, “Live your life.”  Well, actually he first would have turned to me and said (insert tone and sarcasm here), “In 25 years of Emergency Service, how many people do you know of that fell out of the sky when their parachute didn’t open?”  I would have then taken him by surprise by answering, “One” (because it’s true.  There actually was one), but he would have said “Well, that’s still pretty good odds it’s not going to happen to Jaime.”  Then he would have told Jaime, “Live your life.”

After all, this was the Dad who raised his daughters to not only believe, but to know without a doubt that there was nothing they couldn’t do in this life.  Ben was not the Dad who coddled and babied his little girls.  In fact, when they occasionally tried to bat their eyelashes to get something out of him it would actually piss him off.  He did not dig manipulation and he made that quite clear.  If one of the girls wanted to be sure of being told “NO” from their Dad, batting eyelashes and twirling hair was a sure way to make it happen.  Ben raised his girls to be strong.  To be independent.  To be straight forward.  To be the kind of woman that said, “I would like to try sky diving.”

We worked hard to raise strong girls with an enthusiasm for all that life could offer.  Was it really reasonable for me to be surprised that Jaime listened and actually learned from that?  Was it so hard to believe, that after two years of death, sadness, and grieving, that she might want to feel alive again?  And wasn’t that probably a good thing?

I was scared shitless for her to follow through with this idea of skydiving.  I imagined the impossibility of having to suffer through another unimaginable loss.  And then I wondered if it would really make me happy for Jaime to live in a bubble and never take any risks, just so that I wouldn’t have to suffer again.  And I realized that to ask her to live like that was to ask her to sacrifice her life and her happiness.  For me.  That is not something the mother in me wants for my kids.

Meet Jaime.  This is what she did last week.  Look at her smile.

She lives her life.

I will try to remember to live mine, too.

Happy Anniversary to Us

Dear Ben,

Happy Anniversary.  Twenty three years.

In hindsight we probably should have invested some money in a proper videographer.

That day was definitely not the wedding we had planned, was it?  It was hot, we were sweaty, the limo broke down on the side of the road, my hair wasn’t looking it’s best and the DJ at the reception (aka: our limo driver) used records instead of cd’s.  Records, Ben. It was like we were back in the late 80’s again!  Do you remember what you said?  You said, “It can only get better from here.”  You were right.

We had a lot of change between September 24, 1994 and September 24, 1995, didn’t we?  That may have been the most change crammed into one year that we ever experienced over the twenty to follow.  Do you remember how we planned and built our first home together?  How we stayed up late and drew it out on graph paper so we could plan out where to put the furniture we couldn’t afford.  I remember you made little couches out of graph paper so we could move them around.  Do you remember how we carved our initials in the sidewalk when it was finally finished?

Do you remember how, shortly after our house was built and we moved in, that we discovered we were having a baby?  In fact we found out the day before our first anniversary.  We had a secret as you went off to work that afternoon.

The 20 years between that video and this picture were quite the ride, weren’t they?

That was us on the plane in 2015, on September 23rd, on our way to LA to spend our 21st anniversary watching Doyle Bramhall jam on his guitar.  Your dream.  I am so fucking glad you got to experience that.  I am so fucking glad we had that time.  And I’m sorry for using the word “fucking” so emphatically, but it’s appropriate, don’t you think?  I also miss you so fucking badly.

Here you are, on our 21st anniversary:

Here you are, on our 22nd anniversary:

I am tempted to dig that up so I can refill your bottle of Kracken.  I feel like you need a fresh bottle so you can raise a glass with me, but then again, I suspect you probably have full access to all the Kracken you want up there in Heaven.  Or at least all the wine you want, for sure.

Here’s the link (click here) to some of the video from our anniversary last year, in case you want to revisit how we all finished off that bottle in your honour.  Even Dad, who was sick.

Ben, I miss you terribly.  I think you know that though.  I feel you around a lot, so I think you must know.  I wouldn’t trade a minute of our lives together.  None of it.  We didn’t really have the easiest twenty one years, but the challenges we faced certainly made us a stronger couple and I’m really grateful to have known that kind of love.  The honest kind.  The kind where we could admit that there were times we couldn’t stand each other but we pushed through and came out the other side stronger and happier.  I think we set a good example for the kids, with our marriage.  I didn’t always think that, but now I do.  They have now been taught what real love looks like in real life, not on Face Book.  And they have seen the most honest, true and profound love they ever could as they watched us navigate the last months of your life here on earth.

Thanks for being my partner.  I wish I had thirty more anniversaries with you here together, but I am grateful for the twenty one we had.  I know that’s more than most.

I know that anniversary gifts weren’t really our thing, but if you’re feeling extra generous this year then there is one thing I would really love and it won’t cost you a dime.  I want to see you in my dreams tonight.  Please.  I want to talk to you again for five minutes.  I want to see you when I tell you I love you, and I want to hear you say, “And ‘oo”.  Please.  Please.  

Happy anniversary Ben, as they say.  I will search for you today.

With everlasting, eternal love and gratitude for the time I had with you,

Your bride.

 

 

It Must Have Super Powers

On the post I wrote for Soaring Spirits this week, I put forth this question to all the widows reading that blog:

Did you ever feel so consumed by your own grief that you have forgotten that others grieve too?  That they grieve not only for the loss of your spouse, who may have been a friend to them, but possibly they grieve also for other people that you may know absolutely nothing about?  Do you find that during this time of all consuming grief, you have forgotten that other people have suffered loss too?

My reason for proposing that question was because recently, the realization that others grieve too has hit me hard.

For the last 19 months I have been consumed by my own grief and I didn’t have room to consider the possibility that anyone else in my life could be carrying around a similar, agonizing grief from their own past.  That wasn’t on my radar at all.  Lately though … lately my eyes have opened a bit to the world around me as I have slowly started to awaken from my drugged slumber (figuratively drugged, not literally), and I have been surprised to discover that others – not random strangers but actual people who are a part of my life – have suffered their own agonizing losses that I knew nothing about.  How could I have not known??

Years ago I had a colleague who became a friend.  We worked together for a brief period of time before I was transferred, and although we didn’t work together for long, she was one of those people I have always considered a friend regardless of time and distance.  She’s someone you don’t forget.

The day after Ben died I had to go into my office building to meet with the Chaplain and I walked right into her for the first time in years.  I recall that she called out my name, burst into tears and hugged me long and hard.  I was moved by how much compassion she had for my situation, although I was far too deep into my own devastation to give it much more than a passing thought.  On some vague level I recall being a little surprised by how upset she was on my behalf, but we are about the same age and have kids the same age so I guess I assumed that she could imagine on some level the difficulties I was about to face.  It never occurred to me to consider that the reason she was able to feel my pain so deeply could be due to a past significant loss of her own.  After all, her husband was alive and well, and although I knew her dad had passed away she was a middle aged adult by the time it happened and (although terribly sad and not something I want to even think about happening for many many years) it is just not quite the same thing.  Anyway, I went on to my meeting with the Chaplain and pushed the thoughts of her and everyone else out of my mind.

Fast forward 19 months and this old friend contacted me recently to see if I wanted to have coffee with her and catch up.  She came over and we visited for a couple of hours, and she let me ramble on endlessly about Ben.  Fresh ears, you know?  It was nice to talk about Ben to someone who hadn’t already heard all the stories about the nightmare we lived.  I like to tell those stories because talking about it takes away some of the power that those memories have to hurt me, and of course I just like to discuss Ben in any way, shape or form.  She was very compassionate and she was visibly moved by my loss, and I found that so touching.  I mean, naturally I think there is no greater loss in the world than that of losing Ben, but to see someone else who never met him be so touched made me feel like she cares about living in a world where Ben does not exist.  She made me feel as though she wished she knew him, and that made me feel good.

After having an emotional conversation for a couple of hours she eventually needed to leave (or escape), and as she was leaving she mentioned that her brother had been killed in an accident when they were teens.  Just like that. She said she thinks about him every day.  And in that instant I realized that not only had she lived a terrible, aching loss of her own, but she relived it through me because our conversation brought back memories of all that pain.  For the first time in a long time I was overcome with an emotion that was not my own grief.  I’m not even sure what it was.  Compassion?  Understanding? Guilt, shame or embarrassment over not having known and never having asked?  Probably a bit of all of those.  I recognized that she had lived through pain that was similar to my own.  A terrible, life altering loss.  The kind from which one never fully recovers.  A kind of loss like mine.  And although I had clearly understood on some subconscious level that there was more going on for her than just consoling an old, casual friend from the past, I had never stopped to ask her.  I had never asked her why she seemed to understand so well, or why she clearly felt my pain so deeply.  I should have asked.  It never occurred to me that she could have ever had reason to grieve like I do.

Over the last 19 months I have never paused to ask her, or any of the other unexpected and random people who showed up to help for reasons unknown, why they seemed to understand just a little bit more than everyone else.  I know why most people showed up.  It was because they loved Ben, or they love me, or both, and we have close, ongoing relationships.  But why had certain people, some almost strangers, shown up unexpectedly and knowing exactly how to help or exactly what to say?  After all, these people didn’t know me well and couldn’t possibly know a pain like mine, right?

Clearly, I was wrong.

With regards to my friend who disclosed that her brother had been killed, I could probably use the excuse that we had never had the opportunity to develop and nurture a close relationship, so how could I have been expected to ask her if she had reason to know my pain?  But the thing is … on some level I did know.  I knew because her overt sadness on my behalf was more than most others felt.  I could inherently feel that it was different, and I have felt that difference on a couple of other occasions.  I’ve felt the difference from people who were merely acquaintances in my ‘real life’ but who felt compelled to reach out to me in a way that was subtly different from the rest.  One of them, I later learned, had lost her sister when she was a teen.  Three others had lost their fathers when they were kids, and therefore knew the pain that my children would be enduring.  I had not known, but I feel like I should have.  I feel like I should have asked.

So basically, that’s what I’ve been thinking about for the last few days.  I’ve been acknowledging that my pain is great, but there are others out there who experience it also.  (Although, as I’ve mentioned before, my pain is most certainly greater than those who lost a pet.  I will stand behind that statement forever.)  There are hurting hearts out there all over the place, and I never knew it.  Somehow, all these people managed pick up the pieces of their lives and move forward, and then use what they learned to be able to help people in need, like myself.  They understand how much it hurts to have your heart broken, but they demonstrate how to be brave enough to allow it to break all over again for someone else, just so they can help that person.

A local Mountie was killed in an accident within the last couple of weeks, and he left behind his wife and two young boys. My heart hurts because I know what is in store for her.  A mutual friend sent me a text assuring me that he and several other coworkers will take care of that family always.  When I read those words I couldn’t help but think, “I know you mean it.  I know you really, really mean it.  I believe you mean it.  But unfortunately, it’s just not true.  It’s not true because all of your lives will go on, just as they should, yet her husband will remain dead.  You may help her with the insurance paperwork, you may collect her husband’s uniform, and you may text or call her or drop in once in awhile.  And all those things are nice and so well intentioned, but every Christmas you will be with your own family.  You will not be with her on her wedding anniversary.  You will not be waking up beside her in the morning.  She has to do all those things and more on her own. ”

I sent the member’s wife a message and let her know that I know.  She has, most unfortunately, just become an unwilling member of the exclusive club that no one wants to join.  So if she needs me, if she needs someone who really knows, I will try to be the person for her that other ‘almost strangers’ have been for me.  Because they knew.  And I know too.

Recently I was reading through my blog and I came across a comment that was written by my friend two years ago in response to the pain I was suffering.  She wrote, “Oh my woman … how can a heart break so many times and still we live?  It must have superpowers.”  How true those words ring to me now, as I recognize all those hearts out there that have been shattered in the past, and still they put themselves back out there to help the next one.  To be able to not only live after heartbreak but to use that pain to help ease the suffering of others is indeed a great, great superpower.  I will not close my eyes to the pain of others any more.  I choose that superpower.

 

My Mother Was Right

The last time I wrote a blog post I was in an anxious and annoyed state over the seemingly endless list of things I thought I could not do without Ben.  At the time, the top of the list of annoyances was the fact that I was headed off to Camp Widow where I would be attending a Saturday night Masquerade Ball and there was no one to zip up my dress.  It sent me into a full blown panic.

Well, one week-ish later and I’m here to tell you that I survived.  Not only did I survive, but I thrived.  Yes, I said it … I thrived.  And I’ll let you in on a secret I have always known on some level but often refused to admit …

My Mother Was Right.

Yup.  I’m writing it in this blog and I’ll never again be able to deny it.  My. Mother. Was. Right.  She told me I wasted too much time worrying and it turns out she knows exactly what she’s talking about.  Zipping up my dress turned out to be a non issue.

I arrived at the San Diego airport and discovered that I am perfectly capable of retrieving my own luggage and finding my way to a hotel without Ben.  Who knew?  (Apparently my mother knew).  I asked a few questions around the airport and made my way right to the area where the ride pick up is, AND …. I used a Lyft.  That’s kind of a big deal considering we do not have Lyft or Uber in BC, and yet still I figured it out.  Imagine that.

I was aware that there was a bit of a gathering at the hotel bar on Thursday evening, and as much as I wanted to hide in my room and stress out in anticipation of the next morning, I didn’t.  I forced myself to go downstairs all by myself and find the bar.

You may be wondering how one finds the rest of the Widows in a strange town, in a packed bar, with no signs pointing out which way to go and no one wearing a black veil.

 

I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances.  I walked over to a group of women and said something to the effect of, “Are you all widows?”  Class act #1 for the weekend.

I guess I now have a radar for widows because it turns out I asked the right people. They were indeed widows and they welcomed me with smiles, and in return I promptly burst into tears.  Class act #2.  There I was, standing at a packed bar and all I could do was cry.  Not because Ben is dead, although that reason is never too far away, but because it was such a relief to realize for certain that I wasn’t alone.  There were so many of us, and every single other person there appeared to be smiling.  By the looks of it, it seemed there may indeed be life after loss.

The next morning I made my way down to registration and the first thing I saw on my way in was this:

An entire wall of loved ones, and mine was front and centre. Ben The Titan.

The second thing I saw that morning was Amanda.  She was standing right behind me in line.  Alone.  So I said “hi” and guess what?  She said “hi” right back.  Imagine that.

A bit later in the morning Amanda and I met up again after attending our seminars of choice, and she walked out with Mary.  So I said “hi” to Mary too, and Mary said “hi” right back.

That evening we all went to dinner and somehow I ended up standing next to Lynessa.  So I said “hi” to Lynessa, and Lynessa said “hi” right back.

And then this happened:

And that, folks, is how you do it in Widow World.  You say “hi” and they say “hi” and the next thing you know you are dressing up in weird outfits and hanging out together late into the evening.  And then you hook up on FB and spend a lot of time sending ridiculous videos to each other and making plans for how they will pick you up at the airport when you arrive in Vegas in November.

Saturday night was the Masquerade Ball and you may recall that I wrote this paragraph (below) before I went to San Diego, when I did a “dress up practice run” at home:

“There was no one to zip me up. I was enraged.  Did you ever watch the Friends episode where someone stole Ross’ sandwich at work and he turned into Red Ross? I turned into Red Wendy.  Maybe Whacko Wendy.  I lost my sanity, upstairs in my bathroom that day.  I went into a frenzy of twisting and turning and trying to reach behind me and push the zipper up, and when that didn’t work I tried to reach down to grab it.  I am not that flexible.  Nothing worked, and I was furious.”

After all that angst would you like to know how it turned out?  You probably think one of my new found friends zipped me up, but you’d be wrong.  I could have asked them and I’m quite sure they would have helped me out, but it turns out that I didn’t need to.  It seems I had discovered my widow comfort zone and I found myself walking up to a complete stranger at the elevator and asking, “Would you mind doing up the clasp on my dress?”  Guess what she said?  “Sure.”  And that’s all it took.  (Also, it turns out that Camp Widow offers a “Zip Up” service, but in my defence I didn’t realize that until after I was back home).

I learned a lot this weekend.  I learned how to support and be supported by strangers who became friends.  I learned how to laugh at some of the crazy things that happen to everyone when their person dies.  (Turns out pretty much everyone has been told “I know exactly how you feel.  My dog died.”  Don’t even get me going on that one … that’s for a whole other post.)  I learned that there are people way, way worse off than me and they are still smiling.  I learned that widows have a dark sense of humour and I am not the only one who thought it was hilarious that the hotel put the signs for a wedding reception and a widows camp right next to each other.

(I cannot tell you how many widows I overheard saying things like “Should we give the bride a business card?”)

And finally, I learned that My Mother Was Right.  Everything has a way of working itself out just like she always says, and worrying is a big fat waste of time.  It turns out, after all, that I am in fact brave.

So, if anyone out there has experienced a loss and has considered going to Camp Widow in the past but was held back by fear … you should go.  Trust me on this one.  I wouldn’t steer another widow wrong.

 

Who Will Zip Me Up?

I have recently discovered the latest in a list of annoyances caused by being a … a … a … (I still choke on the word “widow”) … alone.

As I write this post I am preparing to board a plane this afternoon for San Diego … Widows Camp.  There.  I said it.  I am forcing myself to go despite the almost unbearable amount of anxiety it is causing me.  I know, I know … I am going to meet with people who may actually understand me and all the shit I’ve gone through, and I should not be anxious about it.  But sometimes knowing how I should feel is just not the way I actually do feel, and this is one of those times.

(That is not me, btw.  But it demonstrates quite well how I feel right now.)

There are plenty of reasons why I am so anxious about attending the camp.  Where do I start?  Flying alone, finding my way from the airport to the hotel without my husband, having to walk into that first room by myself and feeling like all eyes are on me, worrying that I will spend the weekend silent because if I talk I may burst into tears.  The list goes on.  But the biggest reason for my anxiety is actually the part that is intended to be the most fun …. the Masquerade Ball.

The Masquerade Ball, so lovingly planned by the woman who founded the Soaring Spirits Organization and intended to provide everyone with an evening to dress up and get out and have some fun, is causing me untold amounts of anxiety.  I am not a dress up kind of girl at the best of times, although I would comb my hair and throw on a nice blouse for my anniversary dinner each year.  Basically I live in yoga pants and tank tops – they’re comfortable and quite frankly I don’t really have anywhere to go that requires anything fancier.  Until now.

The Masquerade Ball is on Saturday night, and while there are several reasons I am anxious about it, here’s the top four:

1. I don’t know how to dance.  Ben was an awesome dancer.  For a big, rough looking man he sure had some good moves on the dance floor.  “Ben” was synonymous with “rhythm.”  I, on the other hand, never managed to advance much beyond the old 1-2 side to side shuffle.  (Unless I am drunk and surrounded by those who have known me forever and will love me no matter what.  Under those circumstances I am an awesome dancer.  And singer. Just sayin’)

2. I don’t know anyone.  Not knowing anyone raises those old teen anxieties of standing on the sidelines at the high school dance.  Yes, I know that many people arrive at camp without knowing a soul and people get to know each other before the Saturday night event.  Knowing that does not ease my anxiety, because secretly I fear being the first person to attend this camp who doesn’t make any friends, and therefore will be the high school student standing alone on the sidelines at the dance.

3.  I don’t really know what to wear to a masquerade ball.  It involves a dress.  The last time I wore one was at Ben’s funeral, and I looked terrible.  Yes … terrible.  I’ve seen myself on video and it wasn’t pretty.

4.  I don’t own an appropriate dress.  I do have a sundress that I have worn on one occasion when it was simply too hot for anything else, but the only pair of shoes that go with it are flip flops.  I don’t imagine that flip flops are appropriate for a masquerade ball.

Ever the practical person, I decided to try to ease my anxieties by dealing with each one head on to see if I could find some solutions that might help me to relax.

–       Reason 1.   The only way to fix this problem would be to take some dance lessons, and there wasn’t enough time.  So, the answer to this problem?  Try to look busy on the sidelines for awhile until I can make a discreet exit.

–       Reason 2.  Literally cannot be fixed until I arrive.  No solution for the time being so I may as well put it out of my mind.  Or just keep worrying about it.  Either way.

–       Reason 3.  Google told me that people wear fancy costumes and hold masks up in front of their faces.  I love the mask part (no need to apply make up) but the dress part?  Oh my.  Still, now that I know the answer I suppose it is technically no longer a problem.

–       Reason 4.   The answer to this one was easy … go and buy an appropriate dress.

I decided I could not go and buy a fancy gown like the ones that Google says are worn at Masquerade Balls because it wouldn’t fit in my suitcase, but I figured I could find something slightly fancier than a sundress.  I spent about 7 hours in two different stores trying on gown after gown after gown and gagging at myself in the mirror.  When I was finally sweating like I had just finished a 10K from all the changing of clothes, I happened to see a plain black dress hanging on a hook.  Long.  Simple.  Rather elegant.  Comfortable.  Affordable.  And, hopefully with a little help from a pair of Spanx (and possibly dimmed lights) … it would fit.  Hallelujah!

The sales lady packaged it up and off I went, stopping at one other store to buy out every pair of Spanx they had along with seven different bras that I thought may possibly work under this dress. (This was not cheap, I might add). Finally I arrived home, squeezed myself into some Spanx, pulled on the extremely awkward strapless bra and stepped (almost excitedly) into the dress to see how it all worked.

And ….

There was no one to zip me up. 

I was enraged.  Did you ever watch the Friends episode where someone stole Ross’ sandwich at work and he turned into Red Ross? I turned into Red Wendy.  I lost my sanity, upstairs in my bathroom that day.  I went into a frenzy of twisting and turning and trying to reach behind me and push the zipper up, and when that didn’t work I tried to reach down to grab it.  I am not that flexible.  Nothing worked, and I was furious.  I normally would have sat down and had a good cry, but I was just too mad.  I was mad at Ben for not being here and for leaving me to try to figure out how to get myself dressed for a Masquerade Ball all by myself.  (Not to mention that I wouldn’t have to attend this ball if he hadn’t gone and died on me.) I was mad at Ben for causing me to sweat so profusely in my efforts to practice zipping myself up that I left sweat stains on my brand new dress.  I was mad at Ben for dying.  Period.

When I finally sat down on the edge of the tub due to exhaustion from all my raging, it occurred to me that I clearly need this camp. 

Once I was calm I discovered that if I pull the dress over my head instead of stepping into it (thank God for jersey material), I only need the zipper to be down a few inches instead of all the way to my waist.  Then, if I sort of shimmy and pull at the same time I can manage to reach that last little bit of zipper and pull it up.  I felt like a bit of a warrior,  but I am still pissed in general that I no longer have anyone to zip me up.

Yes indeed, I do need this camp.  Hopefully my next post will not be about how the zipper burst during my crazy shimmying efforts to pull it up, and how I was left half naked at a Masquerade Ball standing on the sidelines.

Hug your family.

PS.  I also bought some pretty gold sandals to wear so I can ditch the flip flops.  Now I’m worried that I may be overdressed at the Ball.  😉

Memory Lane

This week Raegan and I caught the ferry over to The Sunshine Coast in southern BC and toured Gibsons and Sechelt. Gibsons was home to the filming of the television show “The Beachcombers” from 1972 to 1990.  It was also the first hometown to Wendy and Ben from 1993 to 1997.  It’s where we lived when we got married, it’s where we built our first home, and it’s where we had our first baby.

Raegan at Molly’s Reach

The first house Ben lived in after arriving from Depot

The old Gibsons RCMP Det where Ben worked

The first place we lived in together when we got married

(L-R:  Rae at Molly’s Reach, the first house Ben lived in, the old Gibsons RCMP Det, the first house we rented together when we got married.)

Raegan and I played tourist and she humoured me while I drove around and told her a hundred stories that all started with “I remember one time, right in this very spot, Dad and I (insert memory here) …”  She was a good sport.  We ended up on the beach in Sechelt at the exact spot where Ben proposed to me.

I felt my heart stop beating for a moment while I closed my eyes and let myself transport back to the very moment that Ben asked me to marry him.  I remembered it as vividly as if it were happening right then. The moment felt so close it was as though I could reach out to grab it, but it remained just beyond my outstretched fingertips.

Every step we took was filled with memories of the early days with Ben.  I had a memory for every street, every restaurant, every single place in town as though I was watching our lives play out in a movie.  I remembered the most mundane of times together, like walking home carrying a Costco sized package of toilet paper that was on sale and we wanted to stock up for cheap.  I could see us buying our first Christmas tree together and watching our first house being built, and I could smell the sod we rolled out together in the front yard. Being back in the place where it all started made the memories come to life. Everything was so familiar that it seemed if I listened hard enough I would hear his voice and his laugh. Not the voice of the man suffering in pain, but the voice of the boy I fell in love with when life was uncomplicated.

I wouldn’t trade one minute of my time with Ben, and I would do it all over even if I knew the ending before I started.  I want to say I regret nothing, but the truth is that I regret is not taking more time to slow down and appreciate our lives together just a little more than I did.  My parents always told me to appreciate the moments because life passes by faster and faster the older we get, but even as we age and realize that it’s true, something always seems to get in the way and prevent us from stopping and savouring in the simple things.

Work.  Schedules.  Sports.  Bills.  Mortgages.  Sometimes over the years I could feel my soul yelling “Stop!!” but my body just kept on plugging away.  There was always more work to do, more house to clean, more money to make to pay more bills that kept coming in.

Heading back over to the coast reminded me of a time with Ben when life was slower paced.  There was less to do in that small town and for two years we didn’t have kids to occupy our time.  It was just us.  Wendy and Ben.  Hanging out together on our days off,  watching movies late into the night and sleeping late into the mornings.  Hosting friends when we wanted, video taping each other just for fun and cracking each other up with our jokes.  Trying to learn how to cook in a kitchen so small that you could stand in the middle and touch the walls on each side if you reached your arms out.

When we moved over to the big city the size of our kitchens grew and the pace of our lives sped up.  It always felt as though we had to swim faster.  We forgot how to take the time to slow down and instead we dreamed of having that time in the future.  We forgot to shut the world out and just be Wendy and Ben, without any outside distraction, until the day came when we had no choice but to stop.

We had nine months to grab ahold of every moment just to be Wendy and Ben. That time was filled with appointments and pain and tears, but it was time we savoured. We remembered how to just be together.  We remembered how to shut the world out. And despite all the shitty things that happened during those nine months, I cherish every second of it because we were the only two people in the world who mattered.

Thank God for those trips down Memory Lane.  Long Live Love.

Being Mom And Dad

My blog post as published on the Soaring Spirits website today:

http://www.soaringspirits.org/being_mom_and_dad

Busy, Busy, Busy …

I have been a busy girl this last month.  Vegas, Commencement ceremonies for Jaime, a Canada Day celebration that went on for two days, an anniversary party, a visit from Cameron (Ben’s brother in law), Raegan’s 16th birthday, a weekend in Lake Cowichan and … the pièce de résistance … a driver’s licence for my baby.

I will confess that while down time is nice, those are also the moments when I feel the solid punch in the gut of memories that I don’t care to think much about.  That is when I remember … Ben is dead, and he’s missing out on all these moments.  So I prefer to keep busy.

Vegas was a great weekend getaway with old friends and new.  I had a lot of anxiety leading up to it because I find it a challenge to push myself to do things that I never would have done without Ben.  In the end I had a really amazing time.  I flew home with significantly less money than I went there with, but also with some new art work.

 

I returned home just in time to watch my “baby” cross the stage and accept her diploma. I had anticipated that the evening would be very difficult and filled with tears.  Ben should have been here.  He would have been so, so proud.

In the end it was so flippin’ hot in that arena, and the ceremony was so flippin’ long that I could only focus on my discomfort and therefore didn’t embarrass Jaime with loud, snotty sobbing from the stands.  (You try sitting on a bench for four hours in the heat.  I came out of there looking like I had just run through the sprinkler.  Not pretty.)  By the time Jaime actually walked across the stage I was silently cursing Ben for having a last name that had destined all of us to be near the end of every alphabetical list.

This is what the early part of the evening looked like, before everyone melted.

I have no idea how we got here so quickly …

Time waits for no one, right? One day you’re 22 and eating take out for Easter dinner on the floor with your new boyfriend, and the next minute you’re watching him fade away and die while your children look on.

But, I digress …

In addition to watching Jaime reach a major milestone in life, I also watched my actual baby turn Sweet Sixteen.  My head is spinning just trying to keep up with life.

We planned a birthday dinner for Raegan and I cooked her requested meal.   Afterwards I retrieved the specially made DQ ice cream cake from the freezer,  made with extra fudge in the middle exactly as she had asked, lit the candles and started to walk outside with it where everyone could sing Happy Birthday.  Unfortunately, the tray was quite slippery and the entire cake slid right off, hit the back of the couch and landed on the floor.  Oops.  We ate it anyway … damaged side and all.  It was not lost on me that if these were normal times Ben would have laughed his head off while I freaked out.  I have clearly learned from him, because I laughed this time and carried on.

I kind of wish we had The Great Cake Topple on video.

We wrapped up Raegan’s birthday with a weekend trip to the lake.  The picture on the left is Marley waiting for Jaime as she went paddle boarding, and the one on the right is Marley on the board with Jaime after she took him out with her.  He has a human life jacket on.  He was not happy.

There was some skiing, knee boarding, bocce ball …

And because she is so darn adorable I cannot help but throw a quick pic of my niece in there.  She looks like me, no? I feel like there is a strong resemblance.  🙂

Once we got home, Miss Raegan went and took the big test and we now have yet another legal driver in the Saint-Onge household …

I definitely do wish Ben were here for this.  Not just because I miss him so, but because I literally cannot stand the thought of being the parent who has to sit white knuckled in the passenger seat with yet another brand new driver.  I think I will just bring in a driving instructor.  Lol.  If I don’t there will be a good chance that Raegan and I may end up discovering which one of us can hit harder.

How many times did I have to listen to Ben announce to all of us that in his “previous career” he was a driving instructor?  (Previous “career” being before he turned 23 years old.)  I laugh every time I remember his frustration over the fact that I didn’t quite take that “career” of his very seriously.

Anyway, I made it through what was a challenging few weeks and I’m still here to write about it.  Oh, and speaking of writing, there was actually one more significant event that took place this month.  Today, in fact.  (Or possibly it will be yesterday by the time I hit “publish” on this blog post).   I just had my very first piece of writing published on an International blog.  Yes sirree.  I wrote a blog post for Soaring Spirits International, and if you click here you can read it.

I’ll be writing for them once per week, so if you want to follow along please do.  I believe there is a “Follow” button on the website, but in any case my posts will be published every Monday so you can just check back each week if you choose.

Have a sunny week.

Wendy

They Loved You Loudly

It’s Father’s Day, and today I thank my lucky stars that I get to have dinner with this man:

That’s me in the middle. I’m very lucky, I know, and not just because I’m clearly the cutest.

This day brings me happiness because I am so blessed to have not only the most amazing Dad, but also because he lives nearby and I can see him whenever I choose.  (And sometimes even when I don’t choose, since he has most recently discovered Face Time. He prefers it over a simple text or even a phone call and often loves to surprise me at the most inopportune moments.)  I do not know the pain of a Father’s Day without my Dad, and for that I am most grateful.

This day also got me thinking about Ben (when do I not think of him?) and all he has been denied.  He has been denied Fatherhood, plain and simple. But perhaps even more significantly, this day highlights all that our kids have been denied by his death. They have been denied their father watching proudly as they receive their diplomas.  The girls have been denied their father walking them down the aisle and twirling them on the dance floor on their wedding day.  Zak has been denied the movies and concerts he so enjoyed with his Dad.  They have all been denied seeing their dad hold their own children someday. They have been denied that feeling of safety they had for such a brief portion of their lives.  That feeling we all take for granted.

All of that is terrible.  In fact, “terrible” is not a strong enough word.  It is nothing short of tragic.

However, as Ben said on April 24, 2015, “I remind myself that there are over 7 billion people in the world today and I guarantee, without any doubt, that there are a lot of people that have it worse than me.”

It is true that my kids have been denied many things that we often take for granted, but I think it is so important that they realize and remember they have been equally blessed. They have been taught valuable lessons by how Ben lived his life, and they received more love and commitment from him in 14, 16 and 19 years than many do in a lifetime. For however short of time they had him, they were blessed with a dedicated and loving father who set a positive example of how life should be lived without whining and complaining.  And while many others will have their Fathers for much longer, none of them will have been lucky enough to call Ben “Dad.”  Only my children have that privilege,  and not even death can take that away from them.

Today there will undoubtedly be some tears shed, but with each passing year it is my hope that the pain of loss and grief loosens it’s grip on the kids just enough to allow them to remember their Dad’sa smile, and to be grateful that they were blessed with the #1 Dad. Quality over quantity.  I hope they always remember that he was the kind of Dad who was willing to send pictures of himself in socks and sandals, farting and drinking beer, just so they could make a Father’s Day video for him a few years back to show their love…

And I hope they remember that he was the kind of father who inspired a 19 year old boy to give such a loving and heartfelt eulogy that many in attendance told me afterwards that it moved them to strive to be better fathers.

So here’s to my own Dad, this Father’s Day.  Thank you for all that you are.  Thank you for demonstrating for me what a Dad should be and for providing me with the example I sought to find (and did find) when choosing my own husband.  It’s not possible to adequately express my gratitude, but I do hope I have been the kind of daughter who has managed to let you know how much you are loved.  (Ages 14 to 18 aside.  Maybe you could try to forget those years.)

And here’s to Ben.

You were a great Dad.

You are remembered every day.

Your kids loved you loudly….

… and they will always remember you as the Dad who shamelessly tooted whenever he felt like it.

Happy Father’s Day, Ben.  Thank you for being the kind of Dad who’s children grieve for you now because they loved you so much. Thank you for being the kind of Dad who’s children strive to live their best lives because that’s what you taught them.

You are forever loved and missed.

 

A Tip For Sleeping Better

For anyone out there who may be looking for some advice on how to sleep alone and actually get some sleep, here’s my best tip…

Snuggle a T Shirt.

On the nights where I really need to feel Ben close I just open up that cabinet in the picture above where I store all his favourite T’s.  Unwashed.  And I inhale deeply.  And I can smell him again. It’s Heaven.  I don’t do it every night because I don’t want to lose that delicious smell, but I have done it a few times over the last two weeks and it was absolutely dreamy.

Smelling those unwashed shirts is pretty much what helped get me through the last couple of weeks.  I believe I mentioned in my last post … The Worst Blog Post Ever … that Jaime’s grad was right around the corner.  I was feeling rather down in the dumps because Ben had to miss it, but those t shirts helped keep him close.  Well, that and the fact that I had this brilliant idea…

She got to have her dad there anyway!  Awesome idea, I know.  I patted myself on the back for that one.

Jaime had a good time at her grad and it was slightly easier than I had anticipated.  Lisa O and I reminisced about our own grad together twenty nine years ago (yikes) and how we had looked better then our kids did.  Here’s a picture of Jaime and Jack O:

 

It’s weird to see our kids graduating together.  That wasn’t something I saw coming all those years back when we were toilet papering our high school like the dangerous rebels we were.  Mind you, I never saw a lot of things coming.  Life likes to surprise us, it seems.

Here’s Jaime and I together.  Prom buddies …

I was way more fashion forward, with much better hair.  🙂  God I miss the 80’s.

Since it was such a momentous occasion I’m going to throw in a few more pics of my sweet girl who has shown more resilience in the last two years than adults twice her age. That will carry her far in life.  I’m very proud, incase you couldn’t tell.

And last but not least, the Saint-Onge quasi-adults posed together to take a big ol’ “Fuck You, cancer” picture.  (With a small “c”)

Ben would be so proud.  Damn right.  I’m pretty proud of what we made together. Thanks for that, Ben.  I will have this picture framed because it just screams “We are Ben’s kids!”  I love it.

Grad was not the only momentous occasion that took place around here in the last couple of weeks.  One of those momentous occasions was the day I officially surpassed Ben in age.  I am now 47 and The Titan was a mere 46 years young when he died. Suddenly 46 seems so much younger than it did not long ago.  Now it seems that he was just a baby.  Now it really seems fitting that we chose the line “And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief” for his grave stone.  His life really was so brief.

I was digging through some memories and found the last card he ever gave me.  My 45th birthday card, not long after he found out he was dying.

Ben, if you ever read this I just want you to know that I know how hard you worked at being there for me.  I know you would have stayed forever if you could have. Thank you for trying so hard. I read a quote the other day that said, “You were my greatest hello and my saddest goodbye.”  That pretty much sums up the beginning and the end, but it misses the middle part, which was the best part.  I’ll always be grateful for the middle and those memories will forever make me smile.

Anyway, the other momentous occasion that took place since The Worst Blog Post Ever was a happier one.  Our boy turned 21 years old.  Wow.

We did what we Saint-Onge’s do best.  We threw a BBQ.

And that’s the last couple of weeks in a nutshell.  Now here we are on June 8th, exactly two years after Ben’s surgery.  You can read about that scary day if you click here, but personally I think I will just skim past those memories, myself.  I don’t feel like going there right now.  Instead I will pack it in for the day, curl up with a t-shirt, and look forward to some sun (hopefully) and another celebration this weekend. (Yay Kirby!)

I love you too.

 

The Worst Blog Post

Just as I think life is picking up and moving along reasonably well, a special event will come along and derail my life.

It’s hard to watch everyone else move forward with their lives and prepare for the big events. I can put on a smile just like everyone else, but behind it I’ll admit to being frustrated that the world is not focussed on the fact that Ben is not here to watch our daughter graduate.  I’ll admit to finding that very annoying.

Reasonable?  Whether it is or it isn’t, it doesn’t matter to me. It hurts.  Badly.  I feel like the kid in school who no one wants to partner with for gym class.  All alone. I’m frustrated.  I’m annoyed.  I’m downright pissed off and I really don’t care if it’s reasonable or not.  I’m angry.

I am going to help Jaime get ready for her grad, and I’m going to take pictures and I hope she has a lovely evening.  And then I’m going to cry for all that should have been and all that never will be.  And I will be angry and I will be resentful and I will be overwhelmingly jealous of everyone I see who has a partner by their side.  And unexplainably I will be the most angry with the friends I love the most, because I am just so jealous that they still get their future with their partner, and Ben and I were supposed to be able to go forward with them.  That’s my dirty little secret … I sometimes feel immense dislike for every single person I know, because their lives move on and mine does not.  There you have it.  I may be the worst person I know.

I will be smiling at grad, for Jaime, but inside I will be screaming and throwing a temper tantrum. I am not over it.  I will never be over it.  I think about Ben almost every minute of every single day.  And sometimes I turn away from people because I want to say things that probably shouldn’t be said.  It’s hard to keep that much annoyance inside.  I’m quite resentful, in fact.

This is a terrible blog post.  The worst.  I’m even frustrated at myself because I’d like nothing more than to purge all these shitty feelings out onto paper, but they won’t even come to me in any type of eloquent form.  All I’ve got is this insane desire to throw things around and kick something.

On another note, did you know there has been some discoveries made with regards to Collecting Duct Carcinoma?  No?  What, you don’t research it every night before you fall asleep?  That’s odd, because I do.  Here’s what is now known since Ben died:

• Some cases have been associated to kidney damage caused by an overuse of painkillers.  Well gosh, that would have been super nice to have been discovered about 10 years ago before Ben had to start swallowing over the counter painkillers at an alarming rate since his car accident.  I wonder if I can sue all over again and have the other driver charged with murder, since there was a bit of a snowball effect there.  Maybe it’s all that other driver’s fault.
• apparently there are some links with chromosome mutations.  Great.  It could be a chromosome thing.  That sucks.

Also, I would give my right arm to go back in time so I could try taking Ben to an alternative treatment center somewhere else, or even to get him to try Sunitinib.  That was the last drug that Ben could have tried when the Cisplatin and Gemcitabine failed.  I talked him out of it.  I did.  I didn’t want him to try it because I thought he’d suffer more side effects and that it wouldn’t help.  And now I think I may have stolen his chance from him.

I’m going to go cry now.  Sometimes that’s just all you can do.

To the Warrior Women

It is possible that I may have been sitting around feeling sorry for myself today.  I was tidying up the office and rehanging some pictures of Ben and just generally feeling ripped off.  When the kids were very young it was always Ben who helped them plan for Mother’s Day.  I clearly remember my very first Mother’s Day when Ben wrote a card to me.  He tried to make his printing look like a child’s (not hard for him … ever see his handwriting?) and signed it from Zak.  Every year after he would arrange for the kids to do something special for me, usually involving money and a trip to the nursery to start picking flowers for the upcoming gardening season.

Ben thought my job as a Mother was the most important job there could be.

So I was sitting around feeling sorry for myself and thinking about my own loss when it occurred to me that my Mom doesn’t have her mom here anymore.  Neither does my Dad.

Late last year when I attended a grief group I came out of it with an understanding that it doesn’t matter how old someone is when they lose their spouse, the pain is just as intense.  My pain was no greater than the woman in her eighties who had lost her spouse of over fifty years.  So it stands to reason that on the eve of this Mother’s Day, my mom and dad must miss their own mothers terribly.  I don’t know if I ever really thought about that before.

Both my Grandmothers were amazing women.  I’m so lucky I got to know them and spend time with them until I was well into adulthood.  When they died they weren’t old, but they weren’t young either.  I guess I thought on some level that it was natural and therefore must be less painful to my parents.  I now know I was wrong.

I am sorry that I don’t have Ben here with me this Mother’s Day, but I am sorrier for my parents that they don’t have their own Mothers with them.  I still have my Mom, thank God.  I cannot imagine a day without my own Mom (you too, Dad), and I doubt it matters how old one is on Mothers Day when they can’t give their own mom a kiss.  It must hurt, and I am grateful that I don’t know that pain myself.

So, on this eve of Mother’s Day 2017 I will put away my own sadness to remember how lucky I am.  I still have my Mom.  Not only do I still have her but I also live close to her and I get to see her and spend time with her whenever I want.  She is an amazing woman.  She is a strong woman.  She is a dependable woman.  She is a devoted Mom. The best.  I should tell her more often.

I am also extremely grateful that I get to be a Mom this Mother’s Day.  That all three of my children are happy and thriving and alive.  That they love me enough to not only change their schedules tomorrow to be around for me, but to want to also take me out alone the next evening for some Saint-Onge Mom and Young Adults Time.  Just us.  Not everyone gets that.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the Moms out there.  To the ones who grieve the loss of their own moms.  To the ones who grieve the loss of those who used to call them Mom.  To all the Women Warriors who fought a battle to hear someone call them Mom.  Happy Mothers Day.  You are all awesome.

Mostly, Happy Mother’s Day to My Mom, Maureen.  A beautiful, kind and loving Mother. The greatest Woman Warrior I know.

How lucky am I?!