My love will find you

Benjamin passed away in my arms, surrounded by the infinite love of our family, Saturday, May 24th, 2025, after a heroic effort to tame his cancer and extend his earth-side years.

Flashbacks of his final days, playing on a loop, have taken up residence in my mind the past few days. The first of which is the moment immediately after we learned Ben's disease was traveling full tilt toward a heart-breakingly premature terminus. His sole response to the news was to remove his BiPap mask and utter, "I want my girls. I just want to be with my girls." For context, Ben was in the Huntsman Intensive Care unit at this point, vacillating in and out of atrial fibrillation (a-fib) with rapid ventricular response (RVR), and on BiPap for hypercarbic respiratory failure. He had been hospitalized for two weeks and had traversed the heinous and cataclysmic events set in motion by his advanced disease, which left his mind, body, and spirit in a state of exhaustion I cannot even begin conceptualize. Even so—even in the depths of it—he knew one thing for certain. He wanted to be with his girls. 

After witnessing his wish, everyone mobilized to get Amelia and Eleanor to him and roughly 45 minutes later, they arrived at his hospital room door. The moment they crossed the threshold into his room, Ben came to life. On a day that was marked by levels of consciousness varying from lethargy to obtundation, Ben mustered everything—every ounce of his spirit— to give the girls his physical and mental presence. Per his mumbled request through the BiPap mask, we turned his hospital bed their direction, and Ben simply sat, locked in on Eleanor and Amelia. Time stood still. Our surroundings faded away and, for a beautiful moment, we all seemed to exist in a different universe while we witnessed Ben soak in Amelia and Eleanor one last time.  The way he so joyfully shared his time and presence is a memory that will stay with the girls and me all of our days, reflecting Ben's unconditional love for his family.

Another recollection, playing on repeat, exists as a compilation of moments throughout Ben's hospitalization. Every single time someone walked into his room, regardless of their contribution, Ben refused to let them leave without a heart-felt message of appreciation for their role in both his care and life. At the beginning of our stay, these were marked by extended conversations with every member of his team, during which he detailed all the specific ways the individual had impacted his life. As his health declined, the assertions of gratitude shifted from conversations to shortened utterances. Nevertheless, the magnitude of his appreciation was felt through and through. After all, many of the individuals on the receiving end of his brief declarations were also on the receiving end of his longer conversations surrounding his gratitude, so the feelings of acknowledgement and recognition weren't foreign. Even when simple utterances were no longer an option—when his body had exhausted every modicum of energy and the few words that managed to cross his lips were muffled by the BiPap mask—Ben managed to sign "thank you" followed by a glance and gesture to me to verbalize the message to each member of his team, should his sign be missed. Ben's gratitude is a force of nature unmatched in its constancy and a goodness that will guide us as we navigate the uncharted territory that is the grief of losing him. 

The third image I can conjure so vividly, is a mental slideshow of all the tender moments. The slivers of space wedged among the chaos when Ben shot me a glance, or flashed an "I love you" sign. When he squeezed  my hand or motioned for me to come close for a hug or to lie near. The times we turned DoorDashed Indian food into full-fledged hospital date nights—sitting opposite each other across his bedside table, recounting our favorite memories. The times we wept together, wishing we could protect the other from the freight train headed our direction at full speed. The conversations we had, promising to love each other through every step of the unknown. The moments we sat together in our grief and simultaneously reassured each other our love will find a way to grow through this new existence. These moments are a salve for the earth-shattering heartache that is learning to exist without Ben's physical presence. 

I'm in awe, though not the least bit surprised, that even in his passing he shone so brightly. The way Ben loved, acknowledged, and comforted everyone right up to the end is the ultimate illustration of his essence—kindness and goodness at his very core. 

P.S.

To the inexplicably sorrowful yin of grief, exists an equally comforting yang of gratitude. And the gratitude I feel exists beyond any conceivable measure. I struggle both to comprehend and articulate the magnitude of my appreciation for every single individual who has played a role in loving us through his experience. Every act of kindness and support has amassed into an enduring convoy that has carried us through the darkest moments. It's truly unconscionable and leaves my head and heart reeling. The same feeling I get when thinking about infinity or eternity—tangible enough to conceptualize but impossible to grasp the vastness and influence. 

So to you, our dear friends and family, please know we feel your love and support on a scale we cannot fully grasp. It is much bigger than we can ever fathom. 

All our love, 

The Nalder Family