Ian Bradley Vincent

Friday afternoon Lynn and I left for Houston for the memorial service, and it's a good thing I'd walked earlier; there was no time for it that night.  I had gotten up close to 1:00am that morning, and after Friday night's dinner gathering of friends and family, I was so tired that, sitting on my bed in the hotel, I was falling asleep while people talked to me. 

Fortunately, there was a gym at the hotel, just as I'd hoped; we were on a street called "Airport Drive" (or Road, or Blvd), and it was pretty commercial and not conducive to a good walk.  They kept the gym hot, I guess so you'd feel like you'd worked  hard, and there were TVs affixed to the treadmill, so the five miles went pretty quickly.  I finished up, went downstairs for the breakfast buffet, and promptly undid everything I'd accomplished in the previous hour and a half.

I had approached Ian’s memorial service with a mixture of dread – dread over witnessing his family’s grief first-hand – and sadness, such sadness, over the loss of this incredible young man.  Ian was a fourth year resident in anesthesiology in Seattle.  It was beautiful hearing the stories of his fellow residents in that program.  I believe Ian was going to specialize in pediatric anesthesiology, and his colleagues talked about the fact that Ian’s easy rapport with the children and their families was something they could only aspire to.  One said “He’d go out partying Friday night, then Saturday morning he’d come walking through the door with a little kid in his arms.”  In addition to his bedside manner, he was also technically brilliant.

Ian had a heart for those who were suffering, and had participated in medical mission trips all over the world.  In fact, he had just completed one of those, in Nepal, before flying to Australia to visit his uncle David (Vicky’s brother) for a few days, and that’s where the surfing accident happened. 

Before the memorial service, Lynn and I had talked about what to expect, and we both agreed that when someone this young (Ian was 31) dies, it’s tragic, pure and simple, and there just can’t be the kind of “celebration of life” aspect to the service that you see with the elderly or with someone who has died after a long illness.  But we were wrong.  There WAS humor and laughter interspersed with a lot of tears.  There is no way to revisit a life that well-lived without ultimately celebrating it.  

And I have a new heroine. Vicky, Ian's mom.  She is one of the most thoughtful, sensitive and soft-spoken people I know, and I foolishly expected her to be in pieces.  She was a model of composure and grace, and demonstrated a kind of strength I did not know she possessed.  I am in awe.

Below is Ian in Nepal; the photo was snapped by Matt, a doctor friend who also participated in the mission trip and was with Ian in Australia when he died.  I love this picture.