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.