Certain times in the year remind me of my dad. Obviously, his birthday and Father's Day; obviously the anniversary of his passing. Christmas, yes, to a degree--although not as much as when my mom passes, since practically half the ornaments on the tree are ones she made or gave to us.
But I found myself caught unexpectedly last week with the passing of Ambassador Richard Holbrooke on December 13th. I never knew the Ambassador, it probably goes without saying. But a number of the circumstances surrounding his death brought my dad's back to mind in a way I hadn't expected.
Amb. Holbrooke was 69. He was at work, in a meeting with Secretary Clinton, when he took ill and was rushed to the hospital; surgeons quickly identified a torn aorta and set to work trying to repair it. As I understand it, he survived the surgery, but complications set in and he passed rather suddenly.
The parallels affected me moreso than the passing of probably any other Washington figure this year. The age, 69, was the same. The fact that it was a failing heart that first brought him to the attention of doctors. The notion that he survived the surgery but not the aftermath--or, as my own dad had put it en route to the hospital for the last time, "the surgery was a success, but the patient died anyway." And the collective Wow of people coming to grips with the suddenness of the loss, the capriciousness with which we all live day by day.
One radio commentator observed how his passing shows the importance of living each day as if it were the last, because, You Never Know. I confess to not being able to do that, especially at this time of year, so wrapped with To-Do-Lists as we are. But the gentle reminder embodied in the passing of the late Ambassador has stuck with me. God willing I can so order my life that way.
