Eleven years, and signing off

Here we are ... 11 years since I (Chris) was in the USA and Ben told me lightheartedly in an email that the little lump on his leg might be cancer. And here, in this blog, the rest of that history is told.

As Lindy said in an earlier post, we think that it is time to close the blog. However, it remains as testimony to Ben and also to the many people who have walked this road with us in lesser or greater ways. We thank you so much for your care.

Below are Ben's nephews. The older ones talk about Ben ... Recently Henry has recounted dreams of Ben. In one of Henry's dreams, Ben did 10 somersaults and God was laughing. We look forward to the day when the pain and sorrows fade away and we can all laugh along together.

Ben's four nephews: Ben and Will, Henry and Liam

Of course, signing off on this blog is not about "moving on"; it is not about forgetting Ben; it is not saying things are all better, or even that "time has healed us". Things will never be the same, in so many ways; and we have been changed. Such is life really; sooner or later and in greater or lesser degrees, it throws us curved balls.

So, to use the old (Scottish) phrase, "we'll meet you in the morning Ben".

Until then, we send our deep gratitude to all who have shared the journey so far with us. We send our wishes that somehow this blog will have enriched your life.

Chris and Lindy

The boys at Los Cocos, Argentina, Jan. 2000. Ben with Matt, Tim, Andy, Pete.

In Memory of Edward (Ned) Isham 19/05/2012-29/03/2019

From 6/10/2014: The Leukaemia Foundation’s Light the Night events happen in states around Australia every year. Shine a gold lantern to remember a loved one, a white lantern to reflect on your life with blood cancer, or a blue lantern to show support. Emily has a white lantern for her small son Ned, who is undergoing treatment for leukaemia and Tim carries a gold lantern to remember Ben.


Dear little boy who had a terribly tough journey, and still managed to make the world all the sweeter by being in it.

We know our times are in your hands Lord, but sometimes we find it all very hard to understand and bear.

And with a more typical Mulherin tone – we hope you're giving them plenty of trouble up there Ned. Have you bumped into Ben?

10-year memories of Ben-Jill's speech at Ben's anniversary party

Memories of Ben, Beno—so many…

Visiting the Mercy Maternity Hospital 24th August 1985.

Ben the small baby at Bible study each week, often fractious and unsettled.

Ben in Tasmania for our engagement picnic at Risdon Brook Dam.

Colin and I getting married and Ben running down the aisle of Xavier Chapel, in the middle of the ceremony—yelling out something to Colin.

And then it was Ben and Tim … in Adelaide; Ben running off the front verandah and doing a bomb in the 15-centimetre-high inflatable pool and saturating a giggling Tim.

Ben at Glenelg beach in Adelaide and baggy pants. 

A slightly older Ben on the 4-wheel motorbike at grandparents’ farm – including up the hill with Chris with a pink stack hat on. 

Then four Mulherin boys (with Lindy and Chris and 23 suitcases lined up at Tullamarine airport) were off to Argentina.

Our trip to Argentina to visit them; memories of Ben with a shaved head and a rat’s tail, who liked his Dad driving the Kombi through the flood waters, bravely directing Chris as we tried to get out of a landslide, and waving farewell to us from the observation deck at Tucuman airport.

Rollerblading in Mont Albert Primary School grounds, driving the Kombi as crazily as he always wanted his Dad to—always with energy and a c’mon! attitude.

But there was also the fella that was caring: listening, thoughtful, engaged and connected. The young boy trying to teach Tom to crawl, the fella in the middle seat in the back of our SAAB singing along to Savage Garden.

Ben the cat whisperer: (Zipper, our one and only cat, was rescued from our front garden by Ben), and Ben who swam across the Murray and coached a group of friends to go with him. Ben who spent a harvest with us – helping Colin, and almost finishing painting the outside of our house; in jeans with no arse, and eating four steaks off our BBQ at one meal; and who served himself such an enormous sized dessert at a restaurant in Albury, that he had to undo the button on his jeans in the middle of eating of it, much to the amusement of Tom and James.

And we remember the cancer too well –looking at magazines full of ski boats, with plans to buy one; the Big M milk and Krispy Kreme donuts, the pain management, the hair loss and shaved head. And videos in intensive care with brothers, friends and relatives visiting him and Ben watching the clock…his courage and caring throughout those short months.

Still miss you Ben.

Finally … I remember Ben and Tim joining us for a picnic down a dirt track on the banks of the Murray River. When it came time to leave, Ben was confident that he could find his way back to the highway and home. Now any of you who have spent time on the Murray River know about the labyrinthine-like tangle of tracks along the river – getting to the correct spot required balloons and ribbons tied on particular trees, and getting out was just as tricky.

But on that day the car roared off, as the journey south began – Colin, Tom, James and me – we stayed at the river as the white Holden drove away in a (big) cloud of dust; only to see it re-emerge a couple of minutes later; the driver (Ben) unable to make sense of the tangle of tracks. He laughed and then they headed off again – ‘First turn left Ben and you’re out!’

I figure you have sorted most of the tracks now Ben – looking forward to you showing us around.

Ben ... day 1.

It seems like it’s almost time to wrap up Ben’s blog … as long as people know that it doesn’t mean we’re ‘wrapping up’ Ben and consigning him to ever increasingly distant memories. We at least will always take him with us on our journeys. Always present. Always missed.

Before we finish though, we thought we’d post a couple of the speeches that were given at Ben’s 10-year CSB party at our place, on the December 8th 2018.

Here is Tim’s speech:

I remember two moments with Ben that made me want to disappear and pretend I didn’t know him. I’m sure there are countless I can’t remember.

The first one was when we were back in Australia in 2001, I was in year 9 and he was in year 10 and we caught the train to school with a whole bunch of others from school. One day we were all standing on the station, about halfway down the platform waiting for the train. As it approached, just before it passed us, Einstein decided it would be a good idea to land a big green spit on the windscreen of the train, right in front of the driver’s face. The timing was faultless. We got in the train but it didn’t go anywhere and after a couple of minutes the driver came into the carriage where we all were and said “Right, who spat?” We all stood there not daring to speak and holding back laughter, luckily the driver realised it was too hard to work out which of the uniformed teenager had done it, so he left and we got going again.

The second incident was a few months later. We were now back in Argentina and Ben and I had gone into town to buy something at a shop that sold everything. The shop had a few steep steps at the front door. As we left, a guy in his thirties was leaving with his partner. She was carrying a few broomsticks under her arm but as she walked down the steps they started falling down around her waist and her husband went to grab them and pulled them out. Once again, the Professor forgot to engage his reasonably solid brain. He thought the situation unfolding in front of us was funny for some reason so in English he said: “Go mate, you pull those brooms out of her ar …” The chance of him speaking English proficiently enough to understand Ben’s bogan retort was very low. Alas he turned around and said “Thanks, I will.”

Apart from criticism about what he was wearing on his feet, Ben wasn’t scared of much. So he was the person you wanted on your side or team. Surprisingly, he didn’t get into many fights, but he was always up for a bit of argy bargy. He famously chased after someone at Mallacoota who had smashed a window. Everyone else had let the guy go but Ben bolted after him yelling to those behind him “Come on, he’s not that big.” Probably a fair statement from the person who ended up banned from entering the New Year’s Eve arm wrestle comp because he always won.

Despite his fiery nature and the fact that he acted first and thought about the repercussions later, Ben was loyal to those he cared about. I’m sure many of you remember times when you were feeling lousy and Ben noticed and was there to comfort you, often with a firm arm around the shoulder rather than a lot of words. I know Liv remembers a time when she was on camp and visibly upset about her great aunt dying and Ben went over to her, away from the group and just sat with her to comfort her.

Another thing I admired about Ben was the fact that he didn’t really care what other people thought: his favourite bands were Savage Garden and the Backstreet boys for heaven’s sake!

We are sad that Ben isn’t around to be a feisty but protective uncle to our boys.

At Ben's 10th anniversary get together this month, Lindy asked Ben's good friend Jonty to jot down some thoughts of 10 years ago. Jonty writes:

2008 is a very distinct year in my mind for a number of reasons: I turned 21; it was my final year of university; it was my first time staying in hospital (appendicitis); and, most memorably, it was a time of uncertainty and grief as we witnessed Ben's body deteriorate and eventually succumb to cancer.

Not too long after Ben's diagnosis, we began planning the annual Unichurch September Conference. Pete Young II was given the responsibility of organising the music and the musicians. There was Pete, Penny Jackson, Pete Young I, Stu Lenthall, me and Ben on the drums.

We introduced a few songs at that conference including "Made to Worship" and "How Can I Keep From Singing", the latter of which brings to mind strong memories of Ben. It is a song that expresses the unbreakable joy that comes from knowing the love of Jesus, even in the storms of life and its darkest nights.

Ben was known for his enthusiastic and heavy drumming style. But his arduous treatment had seen his energy and strength deteriorate. I have a distinct memory of Ben lying flat on the floor of the St Jude's building, eyes closed, listening to the rest of the band rehearse.

Over the following weeks, Ben's condition worsened to the point that he was forced to pull out of the conference, which was held in Creswick near Ballarat. Somehow, Ben got himself up to travel the two-hour journey to be with his church family for the final day of the conference. 

That day, Sunday, 14 September 2008, Ben took his place behind the drum kit and picked up the sticks for what I understand was the very last time. And we sung "How Can I Keep From Singing". I remember looking across the platform from my position and watching a bald and battered Ben whacking the snare with every bit of energy he had left to give. It was only a momentary glimpse, but is now a memory that I'll never forget.

***

Three months later, almost to the day, hundreds of Ben's family, friends and others gathered at St Jude's, where we sung "How Can I Keep From Singing". It was a mighty rendition sung with the same passion that Ben brought to the drumkit and in the faith that Ben carried till his last breath.

There is an endless song
Echoes in my soul
I hear the music ring

And though the storms may come
I am holding on
To the rock I cling

How can I keep from singing Your praise
How can I ever say enough
How amazing is Your love
How can I keep from shouting Your name
I know I am loved by the King
And it makes my heart want to sing

I will lift my eyes
In the darkest night
For I know my Saviour lives

And I will walk with You
Knowing You'll see me through
And sing the songs You give

I can sing in the troubled times
Sing when I win
I can sing when I lose my step
And fall down again
I can sing 'cause You pick me up
Sing 'cause You're there
I can sing 'cause You hear me, Lord
When I call to You in prayer
I can sing with my last breath
Sing for I know
That I'll sing with the angels
And the saints around the throne

A random blog because it's nearly 10 years and just because these are smile-worthy

I was thinking of Ben last night at home group actually, about how he sewed a button on my duffle coat for me before I went overseas in 2008, on the same day he told me about the cancer ...

Erin Turnbull

I also want to tell you that as soon as I heard Savage Garden playing at the T&O event of the year I 'saw' Ben in my rear vision mirror of the SAAB – on your first trip home from Argentina he came and visited us and when we drove anywhere it had to be Savage Garden with Ben, James and Tom grooving in the backseat – his grin as I caught him in the mirror – occasionally grinning down at the boys …

Jill Briggs

Happy birthday ... again

You’re 33 Ben and we remember you running, jumping, riding, leaping, skiing, skating, surfing, swimming, laughing. As always, we remember the good times and we miss you as much now as ever.

Happy Birthday Ben.

Dear Ben ...

Hi Ben,

It's nine years today, so I'm just checking in—I feel like it’s been awhile since we last saw you. Funny about that.

Dad sent a text to your phone on Sunday but you didn’t reply. Funny about that too.

So it’s nine years and I am hoping that you’re doing okay ‘up there’—or wherever you are—up there, over there, behind a veil. Hope it’s a ball. Hope it’s a real ball.

But hey, I just wanted to let you know that after nine years, life here is still—offensive and impossible as it seems to me—going on without you!

And it has to be said, you have missed a whole lot. But do you know that already? Do you get our news up there? Or has this life become a misty memory like a dream? Have you forgotten us?

Because we haven’t forgotten you (as if).

You are, as I think you would expect, still very much alive to us. Your brothers and now also your nephews remind us of you often and in many different ways: your smile, your laughing voice, your broad shoulders (literally and figuratively), your listening ear and quietly confident advice, your unshakeable faith, your mix of cynicism and optimism, your interest in everything, your love of music, dancing, ice hockey, surfing (you name it, everything and more).

We have not forgotten the way you seemed to run at life head on, like a bull-at-a-gate when you were young and like it (life that is) was something to conquer when you were older.

We remember your fierce independence and how you held onto your dignity and autonomy even in your last sad weeks when struggling for breath was too much for you. We will always be amazed at your courage, fearlessness and your sense of humour, even unto death (as they say).

We know there were those who loved you quite passionately, and we also know there were those who had reasons not to care for you, but their reasons were not part of your ‘best self’, and I don’t think they have to be mentioned.

I know, I know, this is not the sort of letter you will be interested in; you possibly think me self-indulgent for writing it. But even though you might not be interested in how you are (or aren’t) remembered, it is very important to me because how we talk about you, especially with our grandchildren, will to some extent determine how you journey on with us; whether you remain a participating member of the Mulherin clan or become increasingly an out-of-date photo on our wall. As I have said before, the last thing we want you to become is a rather frightening bloke in sepia on our walls.

On a lighter note, I think you would be pleased to know that the ‘Mulherin-Middle’ is firmly entrenched in the family culture. Did it start as a family tradition on those uni mornings as you strode away from the car to catch a train? Brothers in the car on the way to school, me two toots on the horn and you one prolonged Mulherin-Middle salute held high above your head. Made all of us smile then, every morning, still makes me smile as I write.

And so even if it is just me with the ‘same old, same old’, I will repeat that you still inspire us to try and live our lives well, even if we run at a slightly less relentless pace than you did. And well, let’s be brutally honest, it’s just as well you went full-speed because your days were cruelly cut short. But for the rest of us, well, we seem to be here for the long haul, so we kind of take it a bit easier.

Oh and before I end my rave, I couldn’t possibly forget to say that we do miss your fun dreadfully, however we seem to manage some pretty good attempts at it even without you here.

CSB Ben.

Love Mum

August 24 2017 ... Happy 32nd birthday

Looking through photos (again) in order to compile a photo wall at home, I was reminded of Ben’s affinity with animals of all sizes—from sitting on bulls at his grandparents’ farm, staring quietly at a kangaroo at a zoo, persuading a parrot to sit on his arm, talking to a horse or taking time out of his busy 3-year old schedule to ponder the meanderings of a snail, he was always quietly curious and respectful.
     If you read back through the blog you will see that he was somewhat of a cat whisperer, was fond of big dogs and managed to tolerate small dogs, and was kind and proactive about various dying street animals in Tucuman. His care and concern for animals never changed and our last two cats were part of his dying months.
     I don’t think Ben swam with whales but I can imagine him doing it, and he would surely have been curious, respectful and fearless.
     Lindy

Nearly 32

From Jill ...

Nearly 32 Ben. I so wish that I could have the conversations that are going around in my head with you face-to-face. I am just going to have to wait.

But I particularly want to say how deeply I felt you while I was in the South Pacific last week. I thought of your willingness to take on a challenge and to be fearless as I slid into the ocean to swim with a humpback whale and her young calf.

And again just after the calf swam past within 30 metres of my outstretched hand, the calf's eyes wide open watching me (her mother in hot pursuit) I thought about your fearlessness but your care of those around you.

Thanks Ben you continue to be in our lives and we miss you desperately.

December the 8th: another year rolls by

You and your fun,
laughter, energy,
continue with us
in so many ways.

Eight years is ridiculous.

Never ever forgotten,
always missed.

I remember ...

• a dark eyed boy who looked straight at you
• a toddler who never stopped and then slept when his head hit the pillow
• random acts of toddler aggression
• his independence
• his energy
• not always understanding him, but loving him beyond myself, beyond my need to control
• worrying, being unsure, praying for wisdom and being grateful that Chris could stand his ground
• noticing parents with ‘easy’ children, and their watchful (and sometimes critical) gaze on our ‘not easy’ child
• sometimes guiltily wishing we had an ‘easy’ child but never wanting to swap despite the challenges
• his connection with animals and lively games with cats and a dog in the backyard
• (his energy)
• a cheeky laugh
• an inquiring mind
• the way he gathered people together and made things happen
• that there was never a moment to waste
• (his energy)
• his interest in so many things, and his impatience to learn
• how he was good at many sports, 
• that fear never stopped him doing anything, just made him more determined
• moral courage
• that being corrected was not his cup of tea; he liked to be right
• that people told him their fears and worries because he could cope; ‘his broad shoulders’ were literal and metaphorical
• how he inspired loyalty and was dauntless in leadership
• sarcasm, and harsh judgements at times, but quick to forgive, quick to apologise
• (his energy) 
• that he didn’t suffer fools, but was also a rescuer 
• his deep and unshakeable faith which saw him leave his earthly life as comfortably as anyone is able to

from Lindy

Gone 7 years today—A reflection on the cancer journey

A brief re-glimpse of the cancer months.

Sometime in early May 2008, a small lump appeared on Ben’s leg. The small lump grew until it was the size of a tennis ball, red, swollen, but painless.

After weeks of different doctors with different opinions—“That’s a cyst. I can cut it out right now if you like” or “I don’t know what that is.”—the lump was diagnosed as NK cell lymphoma. We’d never heard of it. Nor had most medical people.

The diagnosis catapulted Ben into six months of aggressive and relentless cancer treatment with increasing time in hospital. Radiotherapy reduced the lump but the cancer had already spread.

After weeks of chemotherapy, Ben had surgery. His spleen was removed—much bigger than its normal size—along with his gall bladder which was rotten with malignant cells.

A new, tougher chemo regime followed, which included a miracle drug. He responded badly and needed increasingly large doses of morphine to manage his pain. His suffering was intense and we were amazed at his bravery and lack of complaint. He was moved to ICU sometime in October, due to failing pulmonary function.

By November his lung function was so bad he was placed in an induced coma, intubated and on a respirator. We stood watch over an oblivious Ben, swathed in intravenous lines and cables. We listened to the rhythmic hiss and swoosh of the respirator and the beeping of monitors. We asked questions. We saw his chest X-rays were increasingly bad.

We rejoiced when he was extubated and woken up eight days later. We tried to believe the best, but he was already dying.

In his last three days alive, he watched videos from his bed with his brothers, all squashed into his ICU cubicle. He saw friends and family and said his goodbyes—just in case.

We asked him about dying. He encouraged us.

His blood oxygen levels continued to drop. His body systems were giving up. He was exhausted. He said “I just want to come home and sit in the sun.” And on another occasion, “I’ve had enough.”

We were going to lose him.

Three days after being brought out of the coma, the medical team said he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. He said, “If I have to go, being in an induced coma is okay. I know what happens. It’s just going to sleep.” So we said goodbye as though it might be the last; all the while believing that it wouldn’t be.

December 8, 2008. 3.30 pm.

20 years the difference and unchanged taste

Facebooked memories from Elisa

"Today I was remembering with my Mum what you were like Ben.

You were always such a sticky-beak (‘chusma’), wanting to know everything about everyone. Ha Ha!

With me it was about, who was the best in our ping-pong competitions, and who could run faster. Or who was the strongest, and even who could spit further! :-)

I’m sure there were lots of other things, but I can’t remember them now.

Sometimes I wonder how it would have been if you were still alive.

Would we still be in touch? Would you have a family? Would you still do crazy things?

I would like to know.

But God wanted to have you with him. He had other ideas and we don’t understand, but we accept it.

At times it seems really wrong. But I don’t cry because I can handle it! And I don’t want you to think you beat me. -:)

I hope that on the day when we see each other you will give me one of your big hugs. You learned how to give Argentine hugs really well while you lived here in Tucumán.

I’ll see you in heaven Ben Mulherin."

Ely Garcia—Facebook

Happy Birthday!

You left us wishing you’d hung around for a while longer.

Thanks for it all—the good times, the laughs, the pain
and the tears.

And in these ‘after’ years, your story reminds us to make
our lives count because they are short.

Meanwhile, we remember your hope for heaven and your confidence
that the best was yet to come.

Thanks Ben.

And happy 30th birthday.

Thanks Alice for the photo.

Waking up in an 'after'

Ben was the oldest of five boys.

He was often with one, two, three or even four of his brothers.

These five brothers, growing up together fought, shared, competed, respected, and sometimes, tired of each other.

They had their ups and downs, but they shared lived experiences which united them and gave them an understanding of each other.

Ben was the oldest of five boys and always will be.

"You don’t even realise you’re living in a before until you wake up one day and find yourself in an after." (Robin Wasserman, The Book of Blood and Shadow)

One small life ...

‘One small life’ is a phrase that runs through my mind as I look through photos of Ben, wishing and hoping, that I will miraculously find a new one that I haven’t seen before.

I know I am actually wishing that I could add on to his life, or rewind it somehow.

His dates 24/8/1985–8/12/2008 confirm how brief and little is an earthly life but the quote from Revelation reminds me that there is no ending date in heaven.

Lindy

Loving life

Loving life to the full is how we remember you mostly.
[Click the picture to catch the smile.]

Still missing you, still waiting with hope…

Authenticity

The following thoughts were inspired by this photo of Ben and Matt, which Pete put on the last page of a book he compiled for us for Christmas.

Since December 2008, many people have said that Ben lived an authentic life.

In looking up authentic I read that it can mean emotionally appropriate, significant, purposeful, responsible, reliable and genuine.

I remember that—

Ben was opinionated and competitive, yet kind and compassionate. 

He drove his youth leaders and teachers mad with his energy and occasional disregard for authority, but would then surprise them by his ready apology when he believed he had behaved badly. 

He could be rough and impatient with his brothers and yet they all knew he would be there for them. 

A young bloke who disliked Ben’s arrogant manner, changed his opinion when Ben asked him conversationally one day, ‘You don’t like me much do you?’ 

A middle-aged man who Ben had had disagreements with, fell into serious depression. This man was amazed and encouraged when Ben visited him in hospital. 

More than one friend with a troubling problem, sought Ben out, knowing he would listen, be unfazed by anything they might say, and would offer advice only if wanted. 

Throughout his short, imperfect, adventurous, challenging life I remember he was quick to speak (and sometimes offend) but equally quick to ask forgiveness and to forgive.

An authentic life? Yes, I think so.

Lindy

Not moving away

A friend sent us these thoughts in 2014:

I want to try to explain what ‘moving on’ means for me. I don’t see life as a straight-line progression, moving from our past, through the present to the future, and at each point leaving behind what is in the past.

If anything, life is more like a spiral staircase that we’re on. CS Lewis used a phrase in his book "The Last Battle", which was something like higher up and further in. That also gives me a picture of our life becoming richer as we journey on with God.

As life moves on, all of our past life is gathered up and brought with us, and can enrich our lives in the present. As I revisit past experiences, I value them as being part of my life, but each time I revisit, I feel as though I’m higher up the spiral staircase. So I may do things differently this anniversary, not because I’ve left behind something special, but because I’m on a higher rung on the staircase. I’ve moved on, but not moved away. I’m higher up and further in to life.

So ‘moving on’ for me doesn’t mean leaving anything behind! I realise that if I try to leave things behind, they just get hidden in the shadows of my life, and will cause me inexplicable pain and confusion. It’s much better to keep my eyes open to as much as I can of all of my life, and realise that all the experiences of my life are part of me, and can be used by God.
In relation to Ben, I know full well that you can never leave him behind, even if you tried! There’s no reason for you to try though. I believe that Ben’s life will always enrich and deepen your life in many and different ways, and that one day in the future, you’ll be fully present to each other.

Ben’s life also enriches the lives of all who knew him. His life and death have challenged me more than you probably realise. When he was diagnosed with cancer, I was really shaken, which then led to questioning deeply what I really believe, which is now an ongoing process for me. Ben’s life and death have led me to take God very seriously, and to be more authentically the person He made me to be.

Nine Tips for a Happy Life

We have just returned from another Theos beach mission in Mallacoota, run by Scripture Union Victoria.

Chris does nine talks to the team during the two weeks of the mission, and this year they were titled "Nine tips for a happy life". In one of the sessions he included Ben and his story.

He showed this brief, funny video clip from Ben’s last year as director of the team in 2007/2008, and talked about when he was a fun-loving, fit, healthy, dynamic and ambitious young man—and then the sudden and tragic changes that he was faced with a few months after the Theos mission.

Chris then read out this conversation between Ben’s church pastor and Ben:

Right at the start of his illness, I [Richard] 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”.

I think what he was trying to say was that he trusted God with whatever outcome for his life that God had in mind.

We are continually grateful that Ben’s story goes on having an impact.

We are constantly glad that he is not forgotten.

Lindy

Six years

A friend wrote an email to us yesterday, knowing that the 8th of December was only a couple of days away.

Yesterday, I 'saw' Ben as a vibrant, healthy young man (i.e. no cancer causing in his body) and felt surprised that he wasn't around, wasn't getting on with his life amongst us. It was as if I forgot momentarily that he had those 6 months or so with cancer in his body. Then I remembered and suddenly felt a surge of anger at what happened 6 years ago. It seems so incomprehensible, so senseless that Ben died at 23. Everything in me wants to scream out that it's wrong, it shouldn't have been that way.

From Meaghan's Private Collection

This is from Meaghan’s Private Collection and it echoes what the blog is about really—memories and reminders and reminiscing.

Carlton is a pocket of memories about Ben. Being in certain places is indistinguishable from remembering. It's good to be able to be in a place and feel that a memory is tangible. It's hard to give a memory shape so that someone else can hold it. But if you can, what a joy to share it! To hand it over and let someone else turn it over in their hands, then pop it into their pocket until they want to enjoy it again.

And from Cathy. (Please let us know if it’s not okay to post this-we couldn’t
find your address to ask your permission. Apologies.)

I first read this blog back in 2010, drawn to it by the saddest of reasons. I had lost my eldest son Chris at the age of 24 and connected deeply to the journey of Ben's family.

We too worry that our memories of Chris will become less sharp as the years go by. We try to mark the milestones like his 30th birthday and find joy as his friends marry and have children. Even though it is five long years since Chris died, the ‘constant presence of his absence’ remains.

Thank-you for continuing to share your stories. Maybe Ben and my Chris are even partying together

Wouldn't that be lovely?
Cathy

Twenty three short years.

Six long years on the 8th.

A cheering email

We received the following email last week and the sender was pleased to have it put on the blog.

It is no small comfort that Ben still lives on in people’s minds. And very thoughtful that people tell us so!

Dear Chris and Lindy,

It has been several years now and it is very possible that you will not recall, but I was the registrar who took care of Ben at Box Hill Hospital (for almost the entire 4 months of my Haematology rotation).

I'm not sure what has compelled me to write today, but I think of Ben and your family not infrequently (even now), and always remember the grace with which you all handled a very difficult time.

I do apologise if this email has brought up unpleasant memories, but I wanted you to know how Ben remains ever present, even among those you may not have expected.

I hope you and the boys are well, and send you all my warmest wishes.

Carrying a lantern

The Leukaemia Foundation’s Light the Night events happen in states around Australia every year.

Shine a gold lantern to remember a loved one, a white lantern to reflect on your life with blood cancer, or a blue lantern to show support.

Emily has a white lantern for her small son Ned, who is undergoing treatment for leukaemia and Tim carries a gold lantern to remember Ben.

I heard about Rare Cancers Australia Ltd (RCA) a couple of weeks ago, investigating the less common types of cancers, but I can’t see T/NK cell lymphoma mentioned on their website.

Lindy

No, never

We missed seeing Ben’s lively laughing birthday crowd this year.

When a friend asked me if we’d ‘moved on’ and if that was why we didn’t have a big celebration, I wanted to stand on the top of a tall building and shout to everyone ‘No! Never!’

But friends with commitments and us returning to our small house meant we didn’t organise a big day, only a small family-ish group.

We are hoping that for Ben’s 30th next year, his birthday will be unrivaled in people’s social calendars and we will have a big gathering.

Time moves on Ben, but we won’t leave you behind, like a sepia on the wall.

Lindy

Happy 29th birthday Ben

We had a laugh with you today, in your absence but with a sense of your presence too. Hope you're giving them heaps up there.

Floating

I see myself with elongated arms, like a stretchy Gumby doll, thinner and thinner, trying to reach back to the past to when I could feel Ben with us.

Sometimes it all seems a dream and it’s not six years since we were with him last.

Not that I don’t miss him now. I do, every day; some days worse than others.

The feeling of a dream makes it bleaker and sadder in some ways—every day a reminder that while we move in one life-propelled direction, he doesn’t really move with us.

He floats somewhere out of reach, out of sight, out of earshot, a memory, which loses its sharp focus, with the passing time.

The final slide

This photo of Ben stares out at me across the loungeroom and into the kitchen. I wonder what he would be saying and I found this quote today and thought he might agree with it.

Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but to slide in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming ‘Wow . . . What a ride!’
(Bereaved Parents USA, Summer 2014)

A Memory of Ben from Gumpa

Whilst memories of Ben remain very much part of our daily lives, (Wilga and I offer a little prayer each morning and night), last week a special time with him came flooding back.

The occasion was Easter Monday, Wilga and I joined some members of the Mulherin and Briggs families on Colin and Jill’s farm at Rutherglen. We had gathered to help with cutting firewood for Brigg’s winter fires and a bbq to follow. Matt was practicing his driving skills in Colin’s ute, which was moved as the need arose, to be close to the chain-sawing action. For me the face in the vehicle was Ben’s, as clear as if it was yesterday.

Matt in the ute took me back to many years ago. We were on our farm at Gundowring. Gumpa, and the grandsons had driven out into the paddocks to dig out Patterson Curse plants. As we worked we had moved quite a distance from the “tuk”—Ben’s first efforts at pronunciation of truck. The old Landcruiser got “tuk”, and I got “Gumpa”. I asked Ben, perhaps aged 12, if he thought that he could bring the vehicle to where we were.

The eyes lit up and in a quiet, but very proud voice announced to the brothers, “Gumpa wants me to drive the truck”. In response to his “yes”, my question was, “what is the first thing you need to know?” My answer to his blank expression was, “know how to stop it, before you start it”. Ben loved a challenge, the bigger the better. Here was a challenge, not only of driving a motor vehicle for the first time; it was to happen in front of those younger brothers.

Managing a heavy old ute, manual gear box, no power steering and a clutch that had “issues”, provided a test of skill for experienced drivers, daunting for a first-timer. Ben was not going to let that get in the way of this opportunity, so off he went. To sounds of a roaring motor, and some grating of gears, the occasional stall, Ben and the truck “hopped” their way over the paddock to us. To say that, it was a very proud Ben who got out of the vehicle, would be the understatement of all time.

Ben was the first to give that old Toyota a workout and over the years Tim, Andy and Pete all spent hours learning some basics of managing the tuk. Yesterday when I was looking into Colin’s ute, Matt was driving but my mind, was dwelling on a precious “grandfather” moment many years ago. Just one of many treasured experiences with a much loved grandson—memories that are becoming ever more precious as years tick by.

Gumpa

Passing this way but once

A year or so ago, I spent a day with a woman, who I will call Sue, whose daughter had recently died from a brain tumour.

Yesterday, in the mail, I received a copy of a beautiful book from Sue. It is a one year devotional; a bound, illustrated coffee-table size book which also includes a CD of inspirational songs.

Sue wrote and produced this book, in remembrance of her 15 year old daughter. She also oversees a Christian charity, inspired by, and named after, her daughter. It continues to raise thousands of dollars for a worthy cause.

And I think with sadness that no book has been written about Ben, to inspire people’s faith, and no excellent charity has his name blazoned on it.

And like I have so often, I think about him being forgotten and how to appropriately continue honouring and remembering him.

And again, like I have so often, I get to hoping and praying that the impact of his life and the way he died, will be remembered in and through the way we continue to live our lives without him.

‘I shall pass this way but once; any good that I can do or any kindness I can show to any human being; let me do it now. Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.’ Etienne de Grellet (1773-1855) Quaker Missionary.

Lindy

More from the private files of Meaghan

Ben was good at working with spaces.

One of the awkward spaces at our Rathdowne Street flat almost beat Ben. There was a hole in the kitchen to fit a dishwasher. Ben found a dishwasher on hard rubbish that would fit the cavity and brought it over. I remember watching in silent awe as Ben solely dragged the dishwasher up the stairs on a trolley. The stair well was an awkward space. Too narrow and with too low ceilings to service moving in and out of the apartments well. The scars in the paintwork were evidence of the challenge. The dishwasher was big and cumbersome, and required a combination of careful maneuvering and endurance lifting. It was truly impressive to see it ascend the three stories without adding to the chipped décor.

Ben had measured the cavity and so the dishwasher would slide into place. Except it did not. There was a u-bend pipe sticking out from next to the sink. Ben was sweating and puffing from lugging it up the stairwell. I waited for the frustration to surface. Ben leaned on the dishwasher and looked at the floor tiles while he caught his breath. ‘Ok,’ he said and started the slow and heavy descent down the stairwell with the dishwasher.

Imagining...all the boys at the wedding

We knew he should have been there so we Photoshopped him in.

More wedding bells

So we had another beautiful wedding in our family. This time Pete married charming Chermaine.

It was a lovely day of celebration, love and laughter.

Ben would have contributed had he been there physically but he contributed from behind the scenes as best he could; remembered in speeches and also in our collective memories.

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