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