Moving house, moving on and going back

Leaving Finlayson Street, Doncaster means leaving our last memories of Ben as a 23-year-old.

But returning to Box Hill South is returning to memories of Ben as an active, curious young boy-always with something new to do.

What would you being doing now? Five long years today...

Hightop homage

From the private files of Meaghan—used with permission

At the intersection of Drummond and Pelham streets in Carlton, there is a roundabout.

Soon after Ben died an excellent collection of sneakers developed, hanging from the power lines above the roundabout.  

Neon Nike hightops

Crisp white Adidas

Blue and orange Tigers,

Spinning slowly to display their glory.

In my private thoughts, the growing collection was homage to Ben.

A blast (or jump) from the past: Ben at Mallcoota Theos earlier this century

Come on. Hurry up!

Musings received from a friend who is a nurse:

I like Alice's idea  that "maybe he is here rallying us to do something, somewhere." I often find myself thinking 'I wonder how Ben would react to this situation?' In some ways he is my every patient, challenging me to provide the best care I can for my patients; as though by doing so I can honour his memory. He is far from forgotten.

When I read comments about him partying in heaven, I have an image of a great mass of people, moving towards God and an image of Ben amongst the crowd. I can see him running forward, determined to reach the goal as soon as he can, uncaring whether others walk or run. His eyes are set.

Watching him go before me, with anticipation and determination, both when he was here in this life and now in my imaginings of him there, in that other, better life have been a great encouragement and great reminder.

That's my most recent memory of Ben. Still leading the way.

Happy Birthday Ben (again)

It was Ben’s birthday on Saturday-24th August, he would have turned 28.

We had plenty of Ben's friends and family over to celebrate again this year. It’s five years since Ben was at one of his birthday celebrations and a lot has changed. What hasn’t changed is how much we miss him.

Happy Birthday Ben.

Again (again)

We were at a party the other day and The Proclaimers’ "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" was pumped out by the proficient and enjoyable band of the night. We don’t usually hear ‘500 miles’ played and it propelled us back to our first hearing of it.

It was Ben who introduced it to us. He returned from participating in a team adventure challenge somewhere in the Victorian high country- he must have been in Year 11 at school- singing the song with gusto. He then bought (and played with plenty of volume) ‘Sunshine on Leith’, the CD with ‘500 miles' on it.

Back at the party, a few songs after ‘500 miles’, ‘Viva la Vida’  by Cold Play was played. We were pretty overwhelmed with ‘if onlys’ and ‘surely it didn’t really happens'.

On the way home from the party, Chris said that he had written about the same Proclaimers song on the blog and so I looked it up:

Friday, March 19, 2010

Again

It happened again today. After a few 'quiet' days, that sense of loss and distance came back with tears and a thud. Ben is so far far away... The Proclaimers' song comes back to me "I would walk a thousand miles just to hear your voice again." So I listen to the recorded message from his mobile. Three times.

Practical advice for well-wishers

I feel mortified when I think of the ‘helpful’ things I have said—albeit well intentioned—to people over the years.

I know from being a bereaved parent and being involved in a bereaved parents’ group, that it is very hard to say the ‘right’ thing to people in great pain and it’s all too easy to say something that can highlight the sense of loneliness of the grief journey.

The truth is, that often anything we say, will be wrong, or at least not ‘right’.

The following is an excerpt from an article in ‘A Journey Together,’ which is a newsletter put out by Bereaved Parents USA. It outlines a way of thinking about grief which can help us, the well intentioned, to avoid saying hurtful or even harmful things.

The same theme came up again when our friend Katie had a brain aneurysm. She was in intensive care for a long time and finally got out and into a step-down unit. She was no longer covered with tubes and lines and monitors, but she was still in rough shape. A friend came and saw her and then stepped into the hall with Katie’s husband, Pat. “I wasn’t prepared for this,” she told him. “I don’t know if I can handle it.”

This woman loves Katie, and she said what she did because the sight of Katie in this condition moved her so deeply. But it was the wrong thing to say [to Katie’s husband, suffering more deeply]… Susan has since developed a simple technique to help people avoid this mistake. It works for all kinds of crises: medical, legal, financial, romantic, even existential. She calls it ‘Ring Theory’.

The whole article is called ‘Practical Advice’ by Susan Silk and Barry Goldman. It is on page 4 of the Summer 2013 BP/USA newsletter which you can download as a pdf here.

Whatever (again)

Steve Curtis Chapman's song 'Whatever' has been thumping around in my head and I looked back at the blog entry about it in 2010 (here), and thought I might post it, slightly altered, again.

Someone said the other day; "Have X and Y lost the plot? They were talking to me as if Ben died last week!"

"He did" I replied, surprised that not everyone felt the same: today, yesterday, last week. Forever.

And while the years keep rolling on, Ben the living still speaks. Ben the man of 23 who was nobody's puppet, nobody's fool and nobody's property, screams out to be remembered.

And as he nags at me to remember him, as he was, I am  drawn once again, to a song on a CD called 'Speechless'  by Steven Curtis Chapman. The song is 'Whatever'.

If you want to know how the real Ben lived out his last few years of life and the strength of his belief, as he got sicker and sicker, I think the words and the style of this song says it. The lyrics are below and you can hear and see it on YouTube here.

"Whatever" by Steve Curtis Chapman

I made a list, wrote down from A to Z
All the ways I thought that You could best use me
Told all my strengths and my abilities
I formed a plan it seemed to make good sense
I laid it out for You so sure You'd be convinced
I made my case, presented my defense
But then I read the letter that You sent me
It said that all You really want from me is just

Whatever, whatever You say
Whatever, I will obey
Whatever, Lord, have Your way
'Cause You are my God, whatever

So strike a match, set fire to the list
Of all my good intentions, all my preconceived ideas
I want to do Your will no matter what it is
Give me faith to follow where You lead me
Oh, Lord, give me the courage and the strength to do ...

I am not my own
I am Yours and Yours alone
You have bought me with Your blood
Lord, to You and You alone do I belong
And so whatever

We have asked for permission to publish these lyrics on this page.

Truly, madly, deeply

Tim and Olivia’s wedding was a beautiful and significant occasion where although Ben was physically absent, he seemed to be with us.

Olivia knew Ben well and suggested to Tim that a tribute be made to him during their marriage ceremony. Tim delivered it something like this:

For those of you who don’t know, Ben was my older brother—20 months older than me. Ben got cancer and died quite suddenly in 2008.

With no offence to my groomsmen, Ben would have been my best man had he been alive today.

Ben was known for his taste in very good quality music so we thought the best way to include him in the service would be to choose one of his favourite songs to play during the signing of the registry.

It only took the first two notes of Savage Garden’s ‘Truly, Madly, Deeply’ to sound and the church, full of hundreds who knew and loved Ben, laughed—with some tearfulness—almost as one.

We found ourselves wondering whether the playing of this song might not just do the trick and call him back from his ‘better party’, even if only momentarily.

More remembering

A friend of Ben’s sent us this message a few weeks ago:

Yesterday I worked on the bone marrow transplant ward and
was taking care of a girl who was one year older than me and
battling breast cancer. Her bravery and nonchalant attitude
reminded me a lot of Ben.

It really was remarkable the way he dealt with it. For someone
who was so good at living, he did an amazing job at dying. That
sounds terrible, but I hope you know what I mean.

While I still grapple with God's purpose in allowing his death, I
really am so grateful I got to meet Ben. He was a man who will
continue to challenge me about what is real and good and true.

--------
Next Saturday Ben will miss Tim's wedding to Olivia. And we will miss his presence at such an occasion. As Stu said at his wedding a few weeks ago, "Ben has a better party to be at."

Living in the fast lane

Matt and I with Tim and Olivia, were in a multi-storey Wilson car park in the city the other day after having seen Gladys play in a concert at The Edge in Fed Square.

We were on foot, returning to Tim’s car, when a car came hurtling down a ramp towards us, driving far too fast for a car park. I was feeling like a grumpy old woman about it, when I noticed that the driver was a young bloke with a satin vest and bow tie on.

He was, in fact one of those valet car parking attendants and his name might well have been Ben Mulherin a few years ago.

We all agreed that if it had have been Ben as the valet, he would have been driving that fast but, said Tim, it would have been more likely that he would have been reversing down the ramp.

Lindy

In response to the last blog entry, a good friend of Ben’s, Alice, wrote that she loved the image of Ben’s experience ‘up there’ being one of partying and general hi-jinks. She says,

I feel like Ben will have fitted in to that "party all the time" way of life better than most. More than anyone I ever knew, he had a capacity for endless fun times. On our way back from Mallacoota [where a group of 20 or so, spent two weeks organising and running the Theos drop-in centre, activity program for youth each January], I still remember him rallying people to "do something, somewhere" when frankly all I could think of was a shower and my bed.

But of course we always did do "something, somewhere" until the wee hours of the morning. I often find myself wishing he were here rallying us to do something… 

But then maybe he is...?

Stu and Julia, good friends of Ben’s, were married yesterday.

Ben seemed to be with us all day—and yet at the same time so dreadfully not with us.

In his speech later in the evening, Stu spoke of Ben and how he had been involved in both their lives. He said, "Ben couldn’t be with us today, because he has a better party to be at."

Stu and Ben in their 'youth'

That reminds me of a dream another of his friends told me about. In her dream Ben told her not to be worried about him because he was better than fine. I remember too, a mother at the hospital who wrote me a text soon after Ben had died saying she hoped he was giving them plenty of trouble ‘up there’—that same kind of idea of high spirits and incomparable good times.

So while we muck around here, where energy flags and fun can seem a little faded at times, we think of Ben somewhere else, where colours are brilliant beyond imagining and where drum beats and music and partying go on forever.

It's funny how some people seem to think that the Ben-shaped-hole would have just about closed over by now; but others are aware of the time things take and of the fact that those sort of holes never close over. If you haven't experienced such things yourself, do be slow to assume that healing is quick or ever complete.

This week a friend who we rarely see sent this encouraging note:

Dear Chris and Lindy,

Thanks so much for honouring your 'Ben shaped hole' with such great posts on the blog.  It is great that you don't have to avoid mentioning him in case 'some one will be sad'.  Four years is just a blink of an eyelid and after you blink it is not surprising to suddenly see something that reminds you of him, yet again, and again...  and again....!  

I love the vibrant photo you recently put on the blog.  "Are we there yet?"on his Tee shirt is a poignant reminder of the mixture of joy and sadness that elicits.   We know he is there, even though we would love him to be here.  May he continue to inspire others to live well, with such enthusiasm and zest for life and for our Lord.

With love and hope.

Happy Christmas. 

Forget the bottles: let's do this live!

Irrepressible!

Out of focus but not out of mind.

Four years today...

 

The two clocks

I said in an earlier post that it was unbelievable to think that it was four years ago that Ben was in his last week of life. In response, Jill wrote,

Yep four years is illogical – totally mad actually. It still feels like there has been a 'wrinkle in time’ - that there is Ben going home yesterday and then there is life that has rushed onwards –seems like there are two clocks/calendars in my world…

And it seems like that to us too. Life will always stand still for us in one sense—we want to loiter in the time when Ben was alive and well, but time is more insistent in pushing us forward to happy, hopeful places in the present and the future. How we wish that they could include a living laughing Ben.

Regardless of not being here bodily, it is funny the way we ‘see’ Ben occasionally. I was driving behind a very big, shiny, new-looking black Navarra ute the other day and as the traffic was moving fairly briskly I didn’t pay it much attention. When I had to stop behind it at a red light I had time to notice its number plate; personalised, bold white letters on a deep blue background, it simply read:

 CSB.

Lindy

Sepia photos and dusty memories

When I think of sepia coloured photos I think of names like Aunty Muriel or Great Grandpa Joe, or perhaps little Bobby who died suddenly as a child, staring enigmatically out from ornate and antiquated frames in sad and silent houses. These were photos which as a child I found slightly alarming, eliciting unnaturally hushed and anxious admonitions from adults to ‘not mention that photo because it will make [so-and-so] cry’. Were these photo people ever like us—walked, talked, laughed—or were they always surrounded by an unpleasant and frightening sense of mystery? Did the flavour of dying and death always define who they were?

One of the photos of Ben that we have repeated in various places around the house is a photo that is, I think, becoming one of those spotty old photos—sepia effect and taken when he had lost his hair and his face was thin. Sure the Ben smile is there but he somehow conveys that sense of ‘I don’t belong in your world’ and potentially leaves the lingering image of a bloke with cancer. And we know he never wanted to be thought of as ‘sick’ let alone ‘cancerous’.

We just can’t leave Ben like that. It is so untrue of his bounce and energy and full-on engagement with life. A benign smile in an insipid sepia photo is simply not representative of how he lived his 23 years!

So we’re working on downloading and framing some photos to put around the house which will give people who never knew him (and children of his brothers in the future maybe) a glimpse of the healthy Ben—unafraid, intrepid, not a cloud of cancer on the horizon.

For those of us who did know him it will be fun to have photographic reminders of his unquenchable spirit and physical strength. RIP is still not something that gels with the Ben he was—and surely still is.

By the way: If anyone has any photos, digital or otherwise, please do send them to us. We’d love to see any photo of him at this stage, nearly four long years since he left—it doesn’t even matter if it’s an awful shot of him.

Lindy

From Jill...

Today I remember Ben and I think of the witty comments he would be shedding about people skiing on unseasonal spring snow. Watching someone on ABC 24 trying to look "normal" ski-ing in 5 cm of snow made me think of a dry and quick wit that is missed all the time.

Reposting: December 29th 2008

From Lindy:

I 've been revisiting past blog posts. The one below is from from December 29th 2008 three weeks after Ben died.

December 29th 2008:

In Ben's absence his presence is even more strongly felt. His absence makes us acutely aware of how present he was and still is in our ways of relating and thinking. We are aware of 'what Ben would have said' or 'how Ben would have responded'. We miss Ben's caustic but not unkind sense of humour. We see Ben's bike and clothes and bedroom that will become someone else's. We see Ben's phone but Ben's characteristic way of holding and using it is absent.

And in his absence we realize how much a part of us Ben was and will always be. "No man is an island... any man's death dimishes me" said John Donne. Ben cannot simply disappear: his absence leaves a Ben shaped hole. But more than that: if in time we forget or cover over that hole, then we would be naive, because for those who have known Ben well, who we are ourselves is partly due to Ben himself. Ben has been part of our own formation and that cannot ever be undone. We are forever, people who have known Ben, people who have been changed by Ben - by his life and now by his death.

I still have Ben's phone by the way and Ben's old room has morphed into Andy and Tim's with very much the same 'laid-back' flavour Ben adopted when it was his.  And the phone still has 'cancer sucks' on the back where he wrote it on a bandaid and stuck it on in his hospital days.

...and a good time was had by all

When we asked some of Ben’s friends what they thought we should do for his birthday this year they agreed that to get together and catch up was a great way to remember Ben - especially as lots of them didn’t see each other much anymore. So we had 40 or so of his friends and family all making a merry noise, eating and drinking and, of course, true to tradition, snake tying.

During the night a few people told us how they thought of Ben often, remembering his boldness, courage, bravery and enthusiasm for life. And it seemed from listening to them, that the impact of Ben’s cancer encounter had changed them—probably all of them—to a greater or lesser degree, forever.

It was Tim who reminded me that it was when a group of them were together hanging out at the beach, in June 2008 sometime I guess—not a care in the world beyond perhaps whether to swim or eat first, or eat then swim later—that Ben, in response to someone asking about how the ugly lump on his leg was going, dropped his bombshell. It’s cancer, he said. They were stunned. A group of active, go-getting invincible blokes were suddenly confronted with something totally outside their imaginings. And as good friends are want to do, they went part way at least on the journey their mate was taking.

Happy Birthday Ben

Friday August 24th will be Ben's 27th birthday. I am of course wondering what he would have been up to, had things not all gone the CSB way.
If cancer had never happened to him, would he have been finishing medicine and heading off to Africa next week with Tim, to do his final student experience before graduating in December? Would he now be counting down the months until he began at his first hospital placement as a new Dr? What a lovely thought.

It seems to me though that once cancer was part of Ben's life, even if the experience had not been life-ending, it was going to be at the least, life-changing. Right from the time of his diagnosis in June 2008 his life changed in ways that he could never have imagined. Entering the merry-go-round world of doctors' surgeries, pathology labs, scans and x-rays, not to mention hospital stays, at times he felt a loss of normality and depersonalisation that left him feeling that people saw him as a 'sick person', worse—a person with cancer.

His attempts at remaining 'normal' were admirable, including finishing his science degree when he was barely able to drag himself to uni with tiredness and weakness. He also decided to attend his interview for entry into post-grad medicine at Deakin, making a trip to Geelong when the cancer was already quite advanced and he was struggling. But it was very soon after that interview that he said adamantly that he no longer had any interest in studying medicine. Not surprisingly, he was 'over it'—his words—the whole medical scene. He talked about finding out about joining the police force. 

Along with checking out the police force, Ben also expressed a keen desire to own a speed boat; his sick room before he deteriorated to the intensive care unit, was strewn with magazines filled with photos depicting various kinds of luxury boats. He had talked off and on about buying a boat with friends and brothers before he became sick and as he grew weaker and weaker the boat seemed to symbolise health and strength and hope. He said on more than one occasion, with his wry smile, it would be called the CSB.

I love to imagine Ben doing all manner of amazing things wherever he is now and I wonder if he does some tearing around in a Malibu boat with friends? Alternatively I can see him revelling in the skill required to get a yacht flying before the wind with the sails fit to busting. CSB.   

Lindy.

So happy...

Traralgon marathon June 2004

Tucumán memories

For those who are happy not to move on too far or too fast where Ben’s concerned I thought I would translate some of the memories written on the ‘I remember’ part of the blog. These ones are written in Spanish and refer to Ben’s time in Argentina where he lived for 12 years from age 9.

When I read through the memories they are often about Ben’s liveliness and infectious enthusiasm—a kind of ‘can do’ attitude to everything which generated energy and fun seemingly wherever he went.

  

Julieta says:

I remember Ben, recently arrived in Tucumán [1994] and new at our school. He sat next to me on his first day—that was fourth grade. We had to write a story and his main character was a cat. Yes, he really liked cats and I remember he also liked maths. I remember his smile and that he was smart and happy and friendly to everyone.  

Silvina says:

When I try to remember stories I remember so many of Ben—being at camps together and swimming; he was a good swimmer. I remember once a group of us went to a Christmas concert and there was a storm; it was pouring and it was still raining at the end of the concert. We had to walk to the centre of Tucumán and so all of us were trying to keep ourselves dry with towels and things. Ben was funny and didn’t try and keep dry but just walked along getting soaking wet. Every so often he had to stop walking to wring out his shirt he was so wet. It was very funny and we all laughed a lot. There was always fun when Ben was around.  

Marc says:

I remember I visited the Mulherins in Tucuman with a friend in 2002. Upon our departure and when in the bus, a group of Mulherins and uni students we had become friends with came to wave good bye to us. We waved back.  But then Ben and Tim decided to enthusiastically wave with the "Mulherin middle". Nobody else saw what they were doing. Unfortunately for us, we could not reciprocate as the others in the group might have become offended or confused.

As I think about these memories I remember Ben’s enthusiasm and ‘can do’ as I attempted to learn to ride a bike in the backyard of Tucumán at the age of 36. Ben often sauntered out while I was teetering and tottering around keeping on at me not to give up. Later when I could ride well enough to venture out of the confines of the backyard, various times he would coach me up the steepest of hills, riding his bike slowly and patiently next to mine and not letting me stop repeating ‘you can do it…don’t give up…nearly there’ until finally I did reach the top of various hills which I had regarded as impossible.  

As Chris and I are want to say, ‘Ahhhh Ben.’

Tubes, nurses and broken hearts

I was wandering through old blog entries and found myself chuckling away at this:

In the meantime Ben is trying to inflict grievous bodily harm on his carers. His night nurse is sure he has a hand injury from Ben crushing his hand in one slightly more wakeful episode, It included pushing and shoving while he was quite confused and trying to escape from his bed with his startling number of tubes, a couple of nurses and his father trailing behind him. 

I think it was the irony of the memory that makes me chuckle. Here was
Ben, only days away from leaving this mortal body behind as it had
given up on him and yet he could still command it enough to cause
comments about his surprising strength.

It reminds me of a childhood memory that was also included in a prior
blog entry:

When Ben and Tim were four and two respectively we were invited to
have lunch with a couple who were business associates of Chris's. We
had a vigorous and noisy lunch time as we tried to encourage both boys
to display table manners suited for the fragile tolerance level of a
young childless couple. As soon as Ben had finished eating he was up
and away from the table, charging all over the house. The husband said
to me as he watched our little human cannonball "Ben will break
arms…but that one, Tim, he will break hearts." 

Looking back now I can say that Ben didn't break anyone's arm as far as I know in all the high energy living he crammed into his short 23 years. But he sure ended up breaking many hearts.

Bumping into Rosie

I thought Andre’s suggestion was a good one about re-posting old blogs as a way of re-remembering for the blog site. And I came across the following one.

It mentions Rosie who was Ben’s nurse at the time and it made me smile because a few weeks ago I bumped into her at the swimming pool. After three and a half years I didn’t think she would recognise me but I thought it was worth a try so I spoke to her.

She knew who I was instantly and we had a tearful sigh and then chuckled together as she mentioned how Ben had indeed come out of his induced coma like a bull at a gate.

November 30th, 2008 

The waking up process has started for Ben. The Drs. are hoping to be able to extubate him on Tuesday which means the next couple of days are a weaning and adjusting period for him. So far, so good. 

Various drugs have been turned off and his sedation level has been lightened. This means that he can move his legs a bit and is clearly uncomfortable at times. I guess that’s not surprising given that he has something like a garden hose jammed down the back of his throat. 



His nurse of the last couple of days (Rosie who is fantastic) said this morning. “He’s coming out of this just like a young man should; like a bull at a gate.” 

It's great seeing his eyes open a bit. It's even better seeing his eyes without the look of total confusion they had before he was intubated and sedated. 



We are very grateful to the staff in ICU. They are dedicated, professional and caring. Thank you so much to you all.



Cheers for now and thanks to all of you too. We’ll keep trying to keep you up on the latest. 



Lindy

Ben loved cats...

Or if the sound or video don't work, go to YouTube: https://youtu.be/jMfWrRq4kxg

Re-remembering

I am always conscious when I haven’t written something on Ben’s blog that people may think this is a sign that Ben is not as much a part of our journeys now as he was.  I guess in one way that’s true. But only in one way.

It’s true in the sense that so many things have already been said. So many memories have already been shared. And so we ‘re-share’ and we ‘re-remember’. We won’t ever get sick of doing this—I just remembered that he called bobby pins ‘Bobsey Twins’. Things like that that are funny when we’re Sunday lunching together.

But for a blog perhaps it’s time to slow it right down and maybe that’s okay. I’m still trying to get used to that idea because it’s like another ‘ending’, another ‘finishing’, another proof that he really has gone—because yes we do still spend a lot of time thinking that it can’t really have happened and if we just keep waiting he will come back.

In life and speech we can re-say things. But on a blog it makes more sense to ‘re-share’ and ‘re-remember’ by simply scrolling back to what has already been said.  So if the entries to the blog are few and far between, know that this doesn’t mean that Ben has been relegated to the increasingly distant past. We at least, continue our life journeys very much with him at our side. We love to talk about him and think about him constantly—mostly with both laughter and tears.

Lindy

Things We Can Learn from a Dog

I came across this when looking for something to read to a group of bereaved parents to encourage and offer gentle hope. I thought it was so whimsical that it might be worth posting. I hope it makes you smile.

Lindy

Things We Can Learn from a Dog

Never pass up an opportunity to go for a joy ride.

Allow the experience of fresh air and wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.

Let others know when they have invaded your territory.

Take naps and stretch before rising.

Run, romp and play daily.

Eat with gusto and enthusiasm.

Be loyal—never pretend to be something you are not.

Dig until you find what you want.

When someone is having a bad day, be silent, 

sit close by and nuzzle them gently.

Thrive on attention and let people touch you.

Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.

On hot days, drink lots of water and rest under a shady tree.

When you are happy, dance around and wag your entire body.

No matter how often you are scolded don’t buy into the ‘guilt thing’…

run right back and make friends.

Bond with your pack.

Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.

Live only for today.

Author Unknown

Aerobics Mallacoota style

So many questions for Ben - from Lindy

In the last few days a new movie starring Josh Lawson ('Who?' say I.) called Any questions for Ben seems to have caught the public's attention. While not in any way shape or form is this an endorsement of the movie, the title caught my attention.

It was often worthwhile asking Ben questions even when he had only the smattering of wisdom his 23 years of life afforded him—And now? ... When we assume he has the whole universe of wisdom and knowledge in his grasp?

I often find myself directing questions to God about Ben and then have quiet imaginary conversations with Ben himself. I wonder how he would evaluate his life? I can remember his customary shoulder shrug when asked anything he interpreted as invasive, or too direct—refusing to get 'intense' about it all.

Then because it's all in my imaginings and therefore my control I take
the 'occasionally happy to be intense' Ben model and let my mind
wander into all kinds of conversations with him about the meaning of
life and how he would live it if he got a chance to come back now,
knowing what he now knows.

Continuing on with the movie theme, it reminds me that while waiting
for a feature movie to begin last week the cinema centre screened a
mini-documentary about melanoma. It was interviews and clips from a
young twenty-year-old man's family and friends talking about how
melanoma had robbed their son, brother and friend of his active,
healthy purposeful life. One brother talked about how all of them do
things differently now having watched their brother and friend die
from melanoma.

One of Ben's brothers has been medically advised to wear protective
clothing while in the sun. As he put on his rash shirt to go to the
beach I heard him telling his twelve-year-old brother that after being
diagnosed with cancer Ben had said to him that if he had the chance to
not get cancer he would wear sunglasses all the time and cover up with
shirts and creams; not get a tan, do whatever he needed to do… 'It's
just not worth the risk of getting cancer' he had said.

Any questions for Ben? So many!

Every now and then...

Ben with Camilla Allison - August 2007

Every now and then someone sends us a photo or a memory of Ben. They're fewer and further between as he fades from most people's present into their history. Of course it brings tears to our eyes but we know that's how it has to be. In the end, all of our lives on earth are ephemeral, but some partings are less abnormal than others and some leave deeper grief scars.

Extreme sports

It's nearly three years since Ben left us here, yet it seems like
yesterday that we were writing that it was two years since he left.
On the other hand it seems forever since we saw his cheeky grin and
heard his cheery gravelly voice.

"We only miss you when we're breathing," as the song says.

We are having an open house on Thursday to remember him. We'll eat a
meal together and some of us will try to win the fiercely competitive
Allen's snake tying race—an extreme sport Ben was expert at. Maybe
someone will set a new record. Is there a world record? Maybe it's
time to begin one.

Speaking of competitions, on Melbourne Cup Day this year the
Australian Armwrestling Championships were held down the road in
Doncaster East. Watching the promo video you can't help but be
impressed at the size of the forearms doing the wrestling. But the
smiles and laughing and "jolly good time" vibe captured on the video
make me wonder whether we mightn't add a new item to the December 8th
evening agenda. Given the size of Ben's biceps, his reputation as a
mean arm-wrestler and his irrepressible sense of fun, it could be
fitting to inaugurate an annual CSB Arm-wrestling Competition. We'll
let you know how it goes.

Random thoughts

It still amazes me to remember Ben's attitude to his life and to what
was happening to him and to what would very likely be the outcome for
him. Where did he get that inner strength from? I was reading Richard
Condie's sermon for the funeral the other day. At one point he says:

Right at the start of his illness, I asked Ben if he was angry with
God, that he should get this cancer. It seemed like an obvious
reaction to me, after all that's what I was thinking. Ben looked at me
as though I had asked a silly question, and said, "Why would I? – It's
none of my business."

Very occasionally (I wish it was more often) I get a sort of
connection moment with Ben and last night looking at the stars, I had
a sense of him as part of the unchanging rolling-on of eternity. I
"felt" that he was truly alive and truly well; free, happy way beyond
our understanding of that concept here.  And it reminded me of things
he had said before he died. Again from Richard's sermon in December
2008:

Just over a week ago now I was standing in the ICU next to Ben, and I
asked if he was afraid of dying. He thought for a bit and then clearly
said "No". Then he said, "I'll be fine – its just crap for everyone
else."

Indeed Ben. Indeed. CSB.

Lindy

You're too big for me to have to count to 3

 

Don't make me a plaque on the wall

Our church of St. Jude's has a few brass plaques adorning its walls. Over the last year we have been thinking about having one done for Ben. But last week during church I was looking at them and reading them. I reflected on what the plaques make me think about; oldness, sadness, loss. And about stillness and silence.

It was then that I thought that Ben would not want people to feel or think that way about him. He probably couldn't care less about any of it where he is now, but if I think about who he was here, he would want to be remembered as strong and energetic; he didn't want his friends to see him as he grew sicker and sicker.

And as the months and years go by he is still 23 (forever 23-isn't that what everyone wants?) And sometimes on those mornings when the sky is deep blue and the smell of summer is in the air and we have to head off to school and work, we can't hold him back from the beach: He's taken a car and he's off for the day, surf sand and sun.

Or on those mornings when the sun is pale and the air is snap freezing we know he's already off to the snow challenging the dizzying slopes of Mendoza with skis or snowboard.

And my thoughts return to the church walls and "Edith. Aged 74. Loved by her family. Rest in peace." and I wonder whether it's too tame to put him in brass next to Edith who is probably enjoying resting in peace when Ben is surely not doing any such thing but rather journeying to the sun and exploring the universe.

The vase

There once lived a family who felt they had been especially blessed, as they were all healthy and felt very secure in God's love for them and their love for each other.

On the mantelpiece above the fireplace in their living room, stood a vase. It was a strong, sturdy vase, attractive but not extravagant and had been a wedding gift years before.

It was a symbol of their family and had withstood the bumps of moving and toddlers' antics, just as the family had withstood the bumps and ordeals of life. Scars and chips could be detected, but only on very close scrutiny.

The day the oldest son in the family died, the vase was found on the mantelpiece, shattered into many pieces. Noone had the strength or desire to bother gathering up the pieces and it was left for a long, long time in its broken condition.

Eventually thought was given to putting the vase back together again. Little enthusiasm could be generated but eventually the task was begun.

The family worked together, each adding a piece or suggesting how to proceed. Each of the family members got discouraged and more than once, one or other of them was heard to say "It can't be done."

Finally after many months of working on it, the vase was back in its normal place. To the casual observer, it looked strong and sturdy and noone would have guessed it was less than perfect. However, on closer examination, it obviously had been shattered then put back together and on turning it around, it could be seen that one large piece was permanently missing.

This piece was never found and so the vase continued to symbolize the reality of the family; although their hearts might appear mended, their lives would never be the same again.

By Jeanette Isley. From the Newsletter of the Bereaved Parents USA

Marathon memories

Three years ago, on Sunday October 10, 2008 at around midday the humble but furiously enthusiastic Mulherin Marathon Support Crew could be seen at the front of a crowd of other furiously enthusiastic support crews, about 1km from the MCG and the finish of the Melbourne Marathon. We were waiting for Chris, Andy and I think Stu and Dan (two friends).

As we waited, watched and cheered the runners on, Ben was sending periodic texts of inquiry from his hospital bed like this one:

“Well done guys, solid effort. Hope you’re all happy.”

He was sick and had begun the last couple of months of roller-coasting predictions about his prognosis and increasingly nightmarish experiences with chemotherapy and surgery and had texted prior to the race;

“Haven’t slept…blood is a hassle…canula for IV has to be changed every 48.”

If memory serves me correctly, he had been planning to run that 2008 Melbourne Marathon with Chris and Andy and his friends before he got sick in the June.

Traralgon 2004

He had run two marathons previously - one with Chris and one with Andy who was running the 10km alongside them both. Ben was 18 when he did the Traralgon marathon.

Today Matt, Tim and I formed the cheer squad for Chris who ran the 42km with an unlikely yellow helium balloon bobbing up and down behind him on a tall thin stick, advertising that he was a “pacer” for people wanting to finish in 4 hours 30 minutes. This year Andy opted to don a fluoro vest, ear piece and walkie talkie in order to be a bike-riding official for the half-marathon leaders.

My thoughts today returned often to the marathon of three years ago and I found myself in that same surreal head space I find myself in so often; “Surely it can’t be true. Surely it didn’t happen. Surely he got better...” And on it goes.

"No one wants to know what you ate for lunch"

'Lunch' on our Patagonia trip in 2005.

This week in Manningham library a book beside the photocopier caught my eye. It was about blogging and it proclaimed loudly (in red) on its front cover:

No one wants to know 
what you ate for lunch.

So I ask myself: How can Ben’s blog continue meaningfully without degenerating into something akin to stories about what Ben had for lunch?

Until I die, I will of course (as his mother) reflect gladly on all the lunches he ate; what he ate, how he ate them, what he said when he was eating them and who was with him at those meals.

But I also realise that the publicly interesting/funny stories about Ben are running out and that perhaps you don’t really want to know what he ate for lunch! More to the point, if this blog continues, I wonder if it shouldn’t be about more than just funny stories about Ben.

Do we stop? Do we have a shift of emphasis? If so, to what? What would Ben say from his side of the grave?

Old friends and arm wrestling-from Lindy

Ben’s birthday has become a time to meet up with old friends who we don’t see much anymore.

This was said to me on more than one occasion a month ago when we celebrated his birthday.

It was a time of good friends and lots of laughter, good wine, plenty of food and a chance at winning the third annual Ben Mulherin-inspired, hands-free, Allen’s snake- tying competition (I think we will have to award prizes next year as some people are becoming quite serious about it!)

I am also wondering if his birthday formalities might extend to an arm wrestling competition. I’ll include this old memory from Dave to explain why:

I remember in the arm wrestle competitions at Theos he’d always win, so last year (January 2008) he retired and decided not to compete because it looked bad that a team member would win every year...  haha!

Pizza memories at Gino's

“Our grief journeys are not about closure, they are about adjustment and staying connected.”

When I look back on memories people have written about Ben, they are often about food, fun, friends and faith.

Jonty writes:

Ben was one of the pioneers of the after church, Sunday night, expedition down Lygon Street to our favourite pizzeria Papa Gino’s.  It’s difficult to summarise his eating preferences other than to say he seemed to favour quantity over quality. 

Whether it was chicken parmagiana the size of a pizza or a pizza the size of a chicken hutch, Ben would eat it all. He even took an interest in other people’s dishes, once commenting that a friend’s pizza of preference (No. 21 Ortolana with hot salami) was a “pretty pizza”.   

This photo was taken in May 2008, just before Ben was diagnosed with cancer. He didn’t want to stop and smile as he was too hungry. It looks like he was waiting to attack a large No. 17 Bolognese.

The phrase that Jonty quotes of a “pretty pizza” is so Ben that I can hear his voice in my head.

The after church Sunday night sojourns to Papa Gino’s with number 21s, and 17s, continue.

Is there pizza in heaven?

Ecclesiastes 3:11

"He has set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end."  (NIV)



Happy Birthday Ben.

When I think of Ben... from Claire

When I think of Ben, I think of:

• Tim Tams
• Multi-coloured speedos from Argentina
• My protective ‘Big Brother’ that never let me talk to any boys
• Diet Coke
• Picking me up and swinging me around
• My ‘on call’ moral compass when unsure
• Our Sydney Trip together: I was trying to make him choc chip cookies but only remembered to double some of the ingredients - it was the biggest cooking disaster of my cooking history and he never let me forget it.
• Great work ethic
• Backstreet boys and Savage Garden- when he first told me that was his favourite music i thought it was a joke...
• the way Ben waddled when he walked
• Ben's quiet but strong walk with God - without being pushy or intrusive, Ben followed his own convictions and encouraged and mentored me through many stages.

My life has been so greatly benefited by his.

Every tear is a waterfall

"Every tear is a waterfall" by Cold Play is out and is similar enough to "Viva la Vida" for me to connect it with Ben and to assume that Ben would have liked it.

Ben's music taste was unique to put it obliquely. He was however, particular. I remember a characteristic and constant lean to the left he seemed to adopt as the driver of any car; shoulder down, head not quite straight to the windscreen, as he pushed the radio station buttons looking for something good to listen to.

I feel confident that some of the latest Mylie, Katie, Rhianna style songs would have lent a certain kind of frenzied permanence to his driving lean and the punching of the radio buttons in between gear changes.

"Every tear is a waterfall" ... I think he would have paused to let it finish - they're not playing it much :-(

Pop-culture and the naive missionary kid

Josh remembers a camping trip a few years ago:

The first time I really spent getting to know Ben was on a camping trip several of us went on… setting up in the middle of nowhere. Though I think Ben was initially uncertain of what to make of such an odd assortment of characters, to his credit he immersed himself in our camping activities-we knew his strength to be particularly impressive when he assumed the task of uprooting large sections of forest.

In those days, fresh from Argentina, Ben’s lack of pop-cultural knowledge was a frequent subject of laughter for him and us (mainly us) but with those threatening arms of his, we were sure never to push it too far. 

Midnight on the slopes

In 2005 a group of Ben and Tim's friends visited us in Tucumán to help with some building / cleaning up / repairing of the IXTUS student centre. They were a group of 7 who worked hard, laughed a lot and tried and experienced many new and sometimes challenging things. They finished their few weeks in Argentina with a couple of days at a ski resort close to Mendoza south of Buenos Aires. The snow was plentiful, the lifts empty and the weather perfect.

Laura writes:

On our last night we had some fireworks to let off. We went outside where everything was covered in snow. There was a flat space and then a steep icy hill up to another flat space. We all stumbled up to the higher bit and let off the fireworks and laughed and had good times.

When it came to going back inside…Steve was very nice to go and get me a toboggan to go down (I didn't want to go down the ice on my feet). It was so much fun on the toboggan and then everyone wanted a turn.

Tim and Ben ended up making a mound of snow as a jump and whizzing down the hill to take off on the jump and see how many of us they could leap over. Good times to watch and participate in! In this photo Ben is jumping over three of the group while three of us look on.

From Meaghan: Turtle power

When a group of us went to Blairgowrie it seemed that Ben was either full of
energy, dominating the kitchen to single-handedly cook carbonara for
10, organising a dusk expedition over the dunes and leading us through
the bush when we got lost, or a complete sloth, retiring to the futon
and refusing to move for a board game, movie or even to animate his
conversation.

His energy levels were no reflection on his mood, it just seemed that
Ben's aim for a beach holiday fluctuated between activity and
condensed relaxation.

This evening Ben was in sloth mode, and I pulled up a cushion to join
him. We lazily struck up a conversation, which morphed into a Q & A
session and then into playing 'clinkers'. We didn't actually have any
'clinkers' available, so we contented ourselves with taking a bite
from an imaginary chocolate, rolling our eyes as we savoured the
imaginary flavour and waiting to hear if our prediction of the colour
matched what the other had imagined.

Wrong guesses required answers to questions such as what makes a church a good church…and what our favourite graffiti in the Bailleau [Melbourne Uni library] was.

Ben's was "Turtle Power" on carrel 25 [below] in the basement.
[Click on the photo and zoom in for turtle details.]



carrel |ˈkar(ə)l| noun
a small cubicle with a desk for the use of a reader or student in a library.

Mallacoota Theos

Mallacoota in far eastern Victoria was one of Ben's special places because of the years he spent on the Theos outreach team each summer. This video is a promo for Theos made after Ben died, but he features in a number of the scenes along with many lovely friends.

Snippets

When we emailed Jess about using the story below for the blog, we
asked if she had any other tales about Ben. She said:

I'll have to search my mind for any other good anecdotes that haven't
already been told. Mostly my memories of Ben are little snippets...
Like the way he could charm any cat into cuddling him for hours, but
didn't care much for dogs (too eager to please I think). Or how he was
such a wild feral jungle kid when he had dreads, but as soon as they
were gone he became Mr Stylish and was immaculately presented, all the
time.

Soccer anyone?

Ben and Jess directed Mallacoota Theos youth outreach together. Jess remembers...

This is a memory of Ben from Theos 2005/06. It was the year of the rustic Ben - very tanned, blonde dreads...spent most of his time in boardies and a blue wife beater :)

We were out on the oval one afternoon playing soccer when I rolled my ankle. Stubbornly I kept playing, even though the most pace I could get up was a pretty pathetic hobble. Finally someone (in desperation?) passed the ball to me, but when I looked up there was Ben pelting toward me like a steam train, moving in for the tackle.

I think a squeak of terror was all I managed to get out before we collided... but imagine my surprise when instead of flying through the air for an awkward landing, I was gracefully slung up over one shoulder as he neatly collected the ball and kept running.

He ran all the way down the field, and either scored a goal or came pretty close to, with me held up by one arm! I retired after that... but it certainly made my day :)

2008

This photo was taken just before Ben’s ‘lump’ became something sinister. We asked Matt if he could remember when the photo was taken. He said:

“I didn't want Dad to take a picture and Ben said ‘Yeh. Come on. Let's take a picture.’ Then we both looked at each other and had the same idea.”

Setting the record straight

Just to set the record straight:

Ben was not cross in the photo below!

Now that's not to say that Ben wasn't ever cross and that he may well
have looked like this when he was cross.

But if memory serves correctly, he was pulling what he called a
"funny" face and the sound effects that went with this particular
"funny" face were something like a dying donkey.

Further evidence: if you look at how calm and cherub-like Tim is in
the picture, it confirms that he was not expecting to be bopped at any
moment.

1989

A Ben-ish story from Lance

One of my favorite Ben Mulherin stories happened on the Concrete Lawn at the University of Melbourne during Ben’s first year. Our Student Life group was gathered on some benches to eat, chat and play four-square during our weekly lunch meeting. And nearby, another group started to congregate in large numbers.

They were the Socialist Alternative guys, and they were unhappy about a lot of things. They were upset with the USA, George W. Bush, and Israel, amongst other topics. Soon after they commenced ranting and raving over a loudspeaker, the Liberal Party group came to “peaceably” protest by waving Liberal banners and Israeli flags.

Things started to get kind of violent then. People were shouting at each other, and the Socialists were grabbing Israeli flags and tearing them in two, while one of their leaders was screaming into the loudspeaker. As you can imagine, this protest rally sort of overshadowed our low-key gathering and ultimately caused us to shut down our ultra-competitive game of four-square. And so, we all just stood watching the chaos unfold.

The shouting continued louder and louder, especially through the loudspeaker. And then, it all stopped suddenly. The microphone went dead, and the Socialists started scrambling through the maze of people to find the power point to which the public address system
was connected.

About this time, Ben arrived from class. He had a little impish grin on his face. “Did they figure out what happened?” he asked in regard to the confusion infront of us.

“No,” I replied. “I guess they’ve lost their power or something.”

“Or someone just unplugged it,” he said grinning, as he threw down his backpack.

[Editor's note: For those who recall a similar episode, yes Ben loved Strictly Ballroom. If you haven't seen it you must.]

Preacher man

Ben only preached once. Here's a three minute video of the practice run...

Knitting the miles away

Mattias wrote a comment on the Day 18 blog post asking "Do you remember what you were knitting?"

Knowing that Ben made a couple of references to my knitting in the Patagonia trip diary I went back and checked. It seems Ben was fascinated with my knitting...

Day 1:  Ben writes: "Andy's reading over my shoulder with all critical powers turned on. Pete…is leaning as far away from Matt as he can and looking out the front. Mum's knitting something. Dad's driving. Tim's not doing anything…"

Tim continues, "Pete throws some rubbish on the floor which was 'vexatious to all spirits' (said Ben.)"

Ben again two pages on but still Day 1: "Dad's still driving, Mum's still knitting. Tim's not doing anything."

Another Day 1 entry from Ben a page further on: "Dad's still driving. Mum's still knitting the Jessica Simpson shawl. Andy is sitting in the front middle seat. Tim is still sitting in the corner (doing nothing. Oh no, he's scratching his forehead.)…Matt's looking for a ladybird."

Day 8 and a passing reference from Tim: "Mum shows me the start of her crochet beanie she's knitting. Looks like a hat for the Paine [Torres del Paine National Park]. "

Day 17: From Ben: "We find ourselves in the car again. Pete's in the front… Dad's driving, Mum's knitting, Matt's listening to 'Prince Caspian', Tim's sleeping in his corner and Andy's craning his neck to see out the front."

And later that day: " 'tis 6 in the afternoon now, still on the dirt road. Dad's enjoying getting unstuck slightly on the corners. Mum's in the front, yes, knitting, Matt's drawing, Tim's in the corner and Andy's singing 'Find a girl'."

Day 18. Ben writes: Mum's finished her shawl and is reading Lonely Planet. [And a little further on...] Mum's started knitting something new. It's fluffy and purple and pink. Matt's next to her, drawing or something."

It was this 'fluffy purple and pink' thing that Mattias asked about and I can't imagine what it would have been! I can remember the huge Jessica Simpson (so-called) shawl I knitted and I can remember a beanie-but it was blue. Maybe I knitted myself a pink beanie too?

Day 19 and Ben writes: "Mum's in the front and she's not knitting. Must have lost the needles."

Patagonia tripping... will it ever end?

More excerpts from the laptop diary on our trip to southern Argentina 5 years ago.

Tim writes:

As Pete got out [of the van] he trod on Ben's foot so 'unco' was the only word for it.

[Later...]

"Do you guys ever have a civil conversation?" Ben asks Andy and Pete.
"What do you mean?" Pete says.
"You know. Talk like normal people," Ben says.
"I sometimes try to be civil," Andy pipes up.
"So," says Ben [to Pete], "you should try it."
"How?" says Pete.
"You know. When Andy asks for the water bottle, just say, sure."

[Later...]

Ben's crying about all the junk in the car. He says: "Jocks! Matt I think these jocks belong on your white little bottom."

Ben writes:

Andy's blending 'Fall to Pieces' by Avril into 'Rock DJ' by Robbie, at Mum's request…Australia is in the Germany 2006 World Cup after beating Uruguay in penalties in Sydney. Tim still driving. Just stopped at a roadworks thing and the guy stopping us had a Col Briggs smile. [Lindy's sister's husband.] The wind is intense, blew you around when we were running. I slept in the car LAST NIGHT, AND THE CAR WAS BUFFETTING AROUND THE ENTIRE NIGHT. TOO MANY NIGHTS I THINK. Damn it, I hit the caps locks button. Phil Collins is on. "Can I have a medialuna [croissant]?" asks Pete. "Yes. But you can't have ten," answers Mum. Fair enough answer, really.

Day 18 on the road and the trippers are going stir-crazy

Ben writes:

Matt and Mum seem to be boring of the car…"Slow down Tim," comes from Dad.

We've been talking about cars for awhile and Andy's been telling everyone which cars are the best bargain on carsales.com.au and which ones everyone should get. He's fairly set on a "fantastic fun bus put out by vokswage [sic] with all the fun filled extras." Dad seems set on going back to his Combi days too. "It's got two beds in the back and table and chairs and it's only 17 thousand."

Dad's just asked for a pillow and Andy has said that sitting in the front seat and going to sleep is a waste of a seat. "You could swap with me. I'm very responsible. I could tell Tim when to down-change or when to put lead on the foot."

Mum is reading Lonely Planet which says that in El Bolson where we will be stopping they all drive Combies and sell cheap hand-made jewelry. Fun times.

Andy's stretching his leg out next to me and is flexing his quads and saying that he would fit in in an Olympic village, to which Pete says "That's called skinny, retard." "No. That's muscle. Its massive! Its huge!" He now bends his leg up to show me the calf muscle and works through the same procedure with Pete…

"That was a Mitsubishi RvR!" exclaims Andy enthusiastically to Pete who's swallowing the Amazon again [reading "Swallows and Amazons" by Arthur Ransome] "WOULD YOU SHUT UP! I DON'T CARE!" says Pete beside himself, "TELL BEN! DON'T TELL ME!" He's smiling though, so it's all good.

Mum's started knitting something new. It's fluffy and purple and pink. Matt's next to her, drawing or something.