He was 32 at the time, the essence of cool and one of the most powerful men in America. I was 25, toiling in relative obscurity in the depths of the White House press office.

He dropped by my office occasionally to read editorials clipped from out-of-town newspapers. I tiptoed by, awestruck, as he thumbed through my files of tattered clippings, certain that the information he sought was destined for the President’s ear alone.

My earliest impressions of Hamilton Jordan, the former White House chief of staff, were shaped by those clippings. Young and brash, the press had said of him at the start. Cocky. Brilliant. A political boy wonder, he had devised the strategy that brought Jimmy Carter to Washington.

With that 80-page memo, Hamilton had changed my life and the lives of countless others, leading us to Washington under a banner of change. Years later, I told him that he got the credit for my marriage, since I never would have met my husband had I not been among the lucky ones swept into the White House in the spring of 1977.

Hamilton waggled his eyebrows and quipped that he hoped it was credit –- not blame. He then got down to what really interested him, asking many questions about our daughter’s battle with leukemia and offering encouragement with an earnest squeeze of my hand.

All those memories welled up last week at the news of Hamilton’s death at 63, a shock to those of us who had seen him recently and basked in the glow of his warmth, wit and keen intelligence.

The man who had at one time been on top of the political world had been engaged in another, more personal, crusade for the past 20 years, one that defined him as much or more than his years as a White House whiz kid.

Shortly after leaving Washington, Hamilton was diagnosed with the first of what was to be six different cancers. Instead of avoiding the public eye — a typical reaction for cancer patients, by the way — he actively sought it and transformed his personal experience into a national lobbying effort.

His bestselling book, “No Such Thing as a Bad Day,” showed how a patient could fight for survival with the help of a well-informed mind and a positive attitude. It was upbeat, helpful, pragmatic and laced with just enough insider political storytelling to make it a guilty pleasure. My own copy is dog-eared, the result of many trips home with friends.

Essential to the book, and to Hamilton’s life over the last two decades, were tireless advocacy for better research funding and a selfless effort to make easier the lives of other cancer patients. He also helped his wife Dorothy, a pediatric oncology nurse, run Camp Sunshine, a summer camp for kids with cancer that she founded before he was ever diagnosed himself.

Hamilton was still in fine form just two months ago, addressing a packed house at the Atlanta Press Club while toting an oxygen tank, promoting cancer awareness while employing opinionated political insights and bawdy humor to keep the audience entertained. (A Hillary presidency? “Heaven forbid!”)

Much has been made of Hamilton’s courage in the face of a formidable foe, but it must be said that the man’s zest for analysis and organizing, in pursuit of a cause, were worthy of equal admiration. In what were to be the waning days of his life, he was still offering pithy messages of hope (”I’m not through yet”) and actively seeking ways to bring data and people together in service of the greater good.

His remarks that day packed a powerful punch:

• By the year 2010, half of all Americans living will have cancer at some point during their lives.
• Today, for the first time in the 35 years since President Nixon declared war on cancer, federal funding for cancer research is going down.

“This is not a political statement,” Hamilton said then, in a clear, calm voice. “This is a statement of fact. We spend more money in Iraq in 6 months than we spent on cancer research over the last 35 years, in a time of greatest opportunity for scientific discovery.”

As I listened, it struck me that Hamilton was showing us all what it looks like when a man lives his life conscious of his own mortality, changed irrevocably by a life-threatening illness but not immobilized by it. For him and his family, vulnerability had become strength and brought with it compassion and a fervent sense of purpose.

Back in White House days, Hamilton played Butch Cassidy to Jody Powell’s Sundance Kid in a classic Annie Liebovitz photo on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. It must have taken the whole Bolivian army to take him out while the rest of us weren’t looking.

_________

Here are links to other news and commentary, thanks to Rex Granum, former WH deputy press secretary:

Atlanta Journal-Constitution coverage of the memorial service Friday at the Carter Center.

Link to a posting on the C-Span website of Hamilton’s November 1972 memo on how Jimmy Carter could run for president.

Former WH press secretary Jody Powell’s op-ed in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

Former WH speechwriter Rick Hertzberg’s post on his New Yorker blog. (Scroll down for the postings about Hamilton.)

Former WH deputy chief of staff Les Francis’ op-ed in the San Jose Mercury News.

Bob Schieffer’s column on the CBS News website.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 28th, 2008 at 12:58 pm and is filed under NOT2BEMISSED, PB Articles & Essays, advocacy, cancer, chronic illness, commentary, personal stories, politics, research funding, research news. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.  Email This Post