Finding Hope

Certain days of the year are harder for me than others. Some of those days are obvious. March 13th is Ben’s birthday. January 13th 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 8th. 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 10th. 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 168th 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 11th, 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 6th 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.

Saint-Onge family on Bens birthday Mar 13 2006


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.


hold on

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.

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?


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.