In Memory of H. Benjamin Malliett

I have not been avoiding making note of H. Ben’s death several days ago ... rather, I’ve been quiet because I haven’t quite known what to say. Today, his family is hosting a memorial celebration of his life; and while I would like to attend in person with his many other friends, this will need to do.

I don’t even remember how I discovered his blog—the most likely explanation is that I noticed traffic from his site to this one—but one of the first things that struck me about his writings there is how full of life H. Ben seemed, even as he was struggling with the awful disease that ended up taking his life. Having worked in a research hospital that treated people with the most difficult cancers, I’ve seen how easily cancer can ravage both body and spirit. In contrast, his spirit was a pleasant surprise that uplifted me. Being the wordy snake I am, I jumped right in with a few comments, which led to a brief email correspondence. It turns out that H. Ben had been a commenter here a while back (before the registration requirement came about). Looking at those comments, they, too, struck me as coming from a caring, bright, freedom-loving person.

In both private and public, H. Ben commented regularly about his “chemo brain” that made thinking and remembering challenging. While that may have been accurate from his perspective, from mine I was impressed with the penetrating insights he offered with his words; and his attention to detail (and willingness to wield it in humorous as well as serious ways) amazed me. H. Ben’s quest to find better methods to treat his cancer inspired me; his wry, often quality-control-oriented commentary regarding the handling of his “case” by the medical system amused and angered me; his concern over the pain others felt while trying to cope with his illness deeply touched me.

Who knows where our nascent relationship might have gone ... our correspondence was cut short by his ebbing energy weeks before his death. While it would have been a long drive to visit him, it was certainly a doable one while I was living in the upper midwest; but I allowed the convenient excuses of time and money costs to keep me from making the trip. The truth is, I was afraid. I had seen cancer take individuals I liked while at the hospital, and later, both my parents; and I didn’t want to start liking H. Ben more, only to have that painful scenario play out again. Also, I had told myself there’d be time. Even after his prognosis shrank to 3–6 months, that gave me time to get moved, settled in, then return and make the trip at greater leisure, I told myself—all the while pushing away the inconvenient fact that my mother didn’t survive through her minimum prognosis.

Such reassurances are nice, but they conceal the truth that there are no such promises in living; it is always an uncertain proposition. H. Ben understood that, probably well before his cancer diagnosis was made. And, I think, that is partly why he filled his life with positive things; it’s the best way to ensure the fewest regrets when one’s time is up. I think H. Ben would have understood my fear and how it drove my behavior; I also think he would be pleased to know how his passing taught me an important lesson.

And so, even though we never met in person, and even though the words we personally exchanged were few, I do consider H. Ben Malliett a friend. I write that in the present tense consciously and deliberately: while his body is no more, and we don’t know what happened to his spirit or soul (assuming such a thing exists), his example lives on in me and every other person who knew him and honors his life.

I don’t know what kind of music H. Ben liked, but irrespective of that, I think he would like the sentiment expressed in this song, brought to my attention via another loved friend:

[direct link to the vid on YouTube]

Thank you, H. Ben Malliett, for all that you shared with me and others who care about freedom. Thank you for being a positive, warm, courageous, witty example of strength under adversity. I miss you, but I am glad your suffering is over; and I hope to be as inspiring an example for someone else as you have been for me.

“Kunolunkwa, y te quiero!”