As with every teenager who grows up in a small town, he belonged to all of us. His family, like a lot of other families back then, moved in with the paper mill at Counce so even though he wasn’t a Savannah, Tennessee original, he lived here long enough that we claimed him, and he claimed us. At 6’7”, he dominated the high school basketball court which allowed him to play Division 1 ball with Western Kentucky before transferring to Lambuth in Jackson. His sense of humor was epic, and you just never knew how that sense of humor might manifest itself, for example, that time he got down on his knees at Santa Switch to dance with the girls who were somewhat vertically challenged, like my now daughter-in-law Natalie . . . Even then, he was still a head taller.
Ben Mauck, his brother and two sisters grew up just a few blocks down the street from the funeral home in Savannah. His mother worked at our high school from which Ben graduated before attending Lambuth and then the University of Tennessee Health Science Center. He chose to specialize in hand, wrist, and elbow surgery, serving his residency at UT-Campbell Clinic before receiving a fellowship to study at the University of Texas Health Science Center in San Antonio.
He began his work at Campbell Clinic in 2012 and the following year also affiliated with Le Bonheur Children’s Hospital as the director of their Congenital Hand Deformities Clinic, performing surgeries on children born with defects that kept them from using their hands as hands are meant to be used—surgeries that gave them the chance to have a better, more normal life. It was Ben who cared for our Anderson when he used one of his nine lives falling 22 feet from the neighbor’s magnolia tree, fracturing several bones and his skull on the way down. It was Ben who walked into the exam room, smiled at Anderson’s mom and dad, and calmed their fears, even if just for the moment.
If you look at his biography on the Campbell Clinic website, and you read the reviews from his patients, you find a man who gave of himself to every person who entered his practice. There were so many positive comments—comments using words like brilliant, professional, friendly, sweet, humble, wonderful, knowledgeable, caring, gentle . . . he was the kind of doctor patients loved and appreciated, the kind of doctor patients wanted every doctor to be. The kind of doctor whose peers recognized his dedication and contributions and honored him accordingly. Just a few weeks ago, Memphis Magazine named him as one of the top doctors in Shelby County. Just a few weeks ago . . .
All of that came to an end on Tuesday, July 11th when a patient took the life of Dr. Benjamin Mauck in one of the clinic’s exam rooms.
Now his family must learn how to live without him. His wife must learn how to navigate the world without her partner, the father of her children. Her little ones will want to know when Daddy’s coming home . . . and it will be left to her to explain—possibly over and over—that he won’t be . . . until one day they will simply stop asking. Because they will finally understand. Family gatherings . . . holidays . . . birthdays . . . will never be the same for them or his parents and siblings. And they will always feel his absence. It won’t have to be a special occasion. Any day will do . . . because every day will be steeped in his memory.
His family issued a statement several days after the tragedy, part of which stressed they are choosing “to focus on the positive contributions Ben made to the world personally and professionally.” They are choosing to do what really all of us should do when someone we love is tragically taken from us. Remember how they lived. Not how they died. And from what I know and have read, Ben Mauck was not only an amazing doctor. He was an amazing husband, father, son, brother, and friend to so many.
I felt almost compelled to write about Ben and his life in last week’s blog, but I couldn’t. It was too soon, and the emotions were too raw. Even now, a week later when his name is no longer in the headlines . . . his story pushed aside for more current events . . . it makes me physically sick to think of what the world has lost. As I pondered how to end my attempt at acknowledging his life and the difference he has made in the lives of so many, I started to say the world is a much dimmer place because he is no longer in it, but I had second thoughts about my choice of words and changed my mind. Instead, I’ll tell you the world is a much better place because he was here.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
