Gone too long; Three decades later, former campers get together

A bunch of people who went to my camp 30 years ago got together this weekend - all because of you. It is a bit of a long story. The short version is that a guy I went to camp with all those years ago, Barry Eisenberg, saw me mention Camp Tel Shalom, here in these letters to you. He got in touch and we decided to put together a reunion.

Barry is a beautiful writer and even more beautiful person.

He said some very sweet and very funny things at the reunion. I asked him for a copy. Like your brother Jack, you would have loved camp.

Barry Eisenberg

Reunion Remarks

September 6, 2008

Hakshevu, hakshevuna, Camp Tel Shalom! I want to welcome you all to the reunion, and thank you so much for braving the weather – particularly those of you who came long distances.  I also want to thank you for your enthusiastic response to this reunion from the moment we launched the idea. It is a tribute to Marshall Green, Karen, the entire staff and even campers that together we all played a role in creating such a special place that even after 30-plus years still means so much to us.

My remarks are a mixture of my perspective as one of the organizers of this event, and just my personal thoughts as a camper for four years. Over the last year, and particularly over the last 2-3 months, Allen Goldberg and I have spent a lot of time talking to each other, to some of you, and even to interested people outside our camp community about what it all means, major themes and big questions. And a few days ago I realized that, without knowing it at the time, when I wrote the short intro to the camp reunion web site I had actually captured some of the major themes about the camp Tel Shalom experience that are personally meaningful to me (and I hope to most of you as well).  Paraphrasing a little bit, I wrote on the web site that Camp Tel Shalom was…

…a launching pad, a proving ground or coming-of-age incubator that spurred growth to new places and phases. For others it was simply a fun place that bolstered their confidence, offering a chance to be a bigger fish in a smaller pond. Remember the way 100-plus voices rocked the chader ochel with rousing renditions of Im Tirtzu or Bashanah Haba'ah? Whatever happened to the girl sitting next to you who always softly sang harmony to Dodi Li? Was Camp Tel Shalom the site of your first romantic kiss or your first real girlfriend/boyfriend? Do you remember learning to swim or navigate a kayak in the slimy-bottomed lake? Were you amazed when you chanted the birkat hamazon as well as the kids from Jewish Day School?

For me, those lines reflect the strong sense of community that our camp built really rapidly.  How friendships, romances and bonds are formed extraordinarily fast when you are living a highly concentrated daily life that is jam-packed with excitement, achievements, challenges, and so many rituals  -- both religious and secular  -- in a supportive and communal environment. Things happen faster and with greater impact in our “world away” than in the “real world.”

In particular, the lines about being a bigger fish in a smaller pond are personally meaningful. Camp was important to developing self-confidence, trying new things, being a little bolder than you were at school.  Once you got on the bus at Adas Israel and departed for camp, your confidence was bolstered. At camp, you walked a little taller and with a strut to your step, you were more self-assured and flirtatious with the opposite sex than at school. And at the end of camp, you went back to school and the more diverse, secular world, still equipped with at least some of that gained confidence.

The sentences on the camp web site that mention singing Im Tirtzu and Bashhanah Haba'ah and being amazed when, after only a week, you could chant the birkat hamazon – and enjoy it – point to a crucial role Camp Tel Shalom played in giving some of us a greater sense of Jewish identity and pride.  Particularly for those of us, like myself at ages 11-14, who were not so receptive to what seemed like stale lessons being delivered at Hebrew school and the institutionalized spirituality at my synagogue’s services. Camp was almost like sugar that made the medicine go down for a kid like me. In fact, at camp, it was no longer medicine at all. Certainly for a young kid, the beauty and spirit experienced at outdoor services in a rural setting, or the loud, highly energized singing of Hebrew songs in the camp dining hall, instilled a strong Jewish pride that I had not found elsewhere and I am grateful that camp gave me this taste.

As I looked forward to this reunion tonight, and wondered what it would be like to see you all after 30 years, another theme struck me.  Over the months leading up to tonight I have communicated by email with so many former counselors who, in all probability, I had never said more than three words to as a kid. I began to enjoy the initially strange yet eventually nice leveling of the age gaps and social structure that seemed immense at camp but have disappeared today. For example, when I was 13-14 years old at camp, my counselors were my friends, but also caretakers and authority figures. Today I realize they were practically kids themselves -- many in college and most maybe only 4-6 years older than me.  Similarly, the gap between the oldest campers of say 15 and the youngest at 8 or 9 seemed so huge at camp. I really didn’t pay attention to the Chalutzim when I was in Bogrim. Now one of those whippersnappers could be my boss!  So, 30 years later, the reunion flattens all that out in a fun way as we have all become middle aged peers!  At least I think so…But I did have this dream about a week ago…

DREAM:  A beer with Jeff Bernstein, brings out paper plate job wheel, cleaning toilets, Aryeh Davis: “or else no canteen.”

I want to finish up by thanking a few groups of people in particular for keeping the Camp Tel Shalom spark going in me over 30 years – enough so that I would be crazy enough to be involved in planning this evening. 

1.        I want to thank Herman Rubenstein and his family.  A few months ago my friend, Paul Finver, asked me, "Do you realize how beautiful Buffalo Gap was?” And it really was and we should all thank the Rubensteins for such a setting for our camp.  But I also thank Herman for really getting me to the Camp Tel Shalom community at all. In 1972 he came to my family’s house in Silver Spring with his camp slide show and convinced my parents to send me to good old, secular Buffalo Gap Camp with my brother and my oldest friend, Peter Shapiro, who many of you know. I really liked that camp, went back in 1973, and was prepared to return again in 1974 when a letter came to my parents explaining that Buffalo Gap Camp would be closing, but encouraging me to give something called Camp Tel Shalom -- a new camp that would be using the same property -- a try. I’m so glad I did. So thanks, Herman. 

2.       I want to thank the 30-40 people – many who are in this room – who, like me, took their Camp Tel Shalom experience with them over to the Ramblewood location of the camp in 1981.  I was a counselor there for four years, and despite the Camp Tel Shalom name, it was really a different camp, a totally different era.  But those 30-40 people who went over to this new Camp Tel Shalom tried to bring over some tradition and institutional memory from the 1970s era of the camp, and that went a long way in making it a good experience for me.  It kept the spark alive. 

3.       I want to thank everyone who sent us photos, rosters, ideas and suggestions that made this reunion so much better than our reunion committee could have managed on our own. Speaking of which, I particularly want to thank Penina Handlesman Maya, Andrea Schneider Rozner, Dale Madden Sorcher, Sharon Burka, and Jon Miller for all of their heavy lifting. And a huge thank you to Cantor Rochelle Helzner and Carmi Cohen Kobren for leading our Havdala service tonight and bringing the musical element to this reunion that was such a critical component of our camp. It would not be the same tonight without your contribution. 

4.       Lastly, I’d like to go back to the beginning…and thank my partner, Allen Goldberg, for his cool-headedness, creativity, drive to get things done and just for sharing the load.  OK, and I guess also for putting up with me sometimes being a nudge and with my all my muschagas. Particularly my near meltdown in mid-June which prompted a memorable email reply to me from Allen with the subject line of “Dude, dude, dude.”  I hope, Allen, that you agree that all in all it was a lot of fun and very rewarding. 

Allen and I really didn’t know each other that well at camp. But it’s really cool to be able to say that you’ve made a new camp friend 30 years later.

I want to thank Allen along with Henry – Allen and Laurie’s son who passed away in 2002, for really being the catalyst for this whole event.  After Henry died, Allen and Laurie started the Hope for Henry Foundation, which works to improve the lives of children with life-threatening illnesses. In 2006, I guess I was feeling nostalgic and I was surfing the net  and decided o Google “Camp Tel Shalom”  to hopefully find out what eventually happened to it or if anyone was blogging or chatting about it.  There was only one single result that came back that had anything to do with our Camp Tel Shalom.  It was a few sentences about the camp that Allen had written in 2004 on his “Dear Henry” blog in which he writes letters to his son. That was the only mention. I remembered Allen from camp, so I contacted him and, well, here we are today at a reunion.

I think it’s just wonderful that the catalyst for a camp reunion is a child. So, thanks to Henry Strongin Goldberg as well.

 

The reason I was going through the bin from the garage was to find stuff from the 1970s when I went to camp. A friend and I are trying to get in touch with everyone we went to camp with and we may have a reunion. That should be fun.

One of the things I found was an autograph book, which is a lot like your Disney autograph book. Instead of Buzz, Woody, Chip and Dale, I have some nice notes from people who went to camp with me. Here is one from my counselor who said some really nice things. Interestingly, I remember almost getting kicked out of camp one year. Maybe when we have a reunion, someone will fill me in on what happened.



On Friday night the new Harry Potter book comes out. We'll be waiting on line at midnight to get the books to bring to the hospital on Saturday morning. Hope for Henry is giving books to kids at Georgetown, Hackensack, Fairview and Aunt Jen and Hannah are bringing them to kids at St. Louis Children's Hospital.

After the Harry Potter party at Georgetown, we jump in the car to drive up to Massachusetts to pick up Jack at Camp Ramah. Last year we went to the Basketball Hall of Fame and Fenway Park for a Yankees/Red Sox game after we got Jack. Not sure we'll have time this year.

Last night I dragged a big bin out of the garage and went through it looking for stuff from my camp days. I found out that I've saved a whole lot more stuff than I thought I had kept. I have all of the letters people wrote me from camp through college to girlfriends to mom. The coolest letters were the ones that Grandma wrote me when I lived in London, and the letters that Uncle Bill sent me from the war. I am going to scan those letters for Bill to give to James when James gets older. There are some bad words.

I also found something that got me really excited 'cause I didn't think I still had it.



This is a picture of me and my friend Jon Miller dressed as Jake and Elwood Blues, the Blues Brothers. The second I came across the picture late last night, I scanned it and sent it in an email to Jack. He loves the Blues Brothers, and I had told him that my friend and I used to perform as the Blues Brothers. I hope he thinks it's cool.

Here are the real Jake and Elwood. I saw Dan Ackroyd, Elwood, in person once in a small bar in Martha's Vineyard when we were getting ready to take the ferry. He is a big guy, like my friend Jon.

Your aunt and uncle's beach house was in a magazine. I am happy for them. It looks beautiful. You were really sick when we were there. I remember us all in that big cycling contraption. I think they fixed the house up after you died. Not sure. We haven't been for a while, but I bet we'll go over and visit when we go to the beach in August. We rented a house in Rehoboth for a week.



Jack is going away to Camp Ramah on Sunday. Mom spent last night ironing name tags into his clothes. That is something my mom (Grandma) did for me when I went away to Tel Shalom. I bought Jack a bunch of Simpsons comic books to read in his bunk. I think he'll be psyched. He'll use his headlamp!

I know he is excited about going. As excited as Mom is bummed to have him leave. I will miss him. Cousin Hannah is already away at her camp. Aunt Jen and Uncle Dan are coming to town on Friday for Papa Teddy's wedding.

Joe and Jack are going to Home Run baseball camp this week. Joe is going to go to camp at St. Alban's. I am not sure when he starts. Remember when you and Joe and I brought Michael to camp at St. Alban's. Joe was in a stroller. I was worried about how much walking we had to do. You weren't doing that well.

Jack finished up rocket camp. His friend Maxwell was in his group. Next week Jack goes to movie making camp. I think next year he'll go to one camp for the summer. I think it is better that way. Sooner or later I hope he goes to Camp Ramah. That is where Aunt Jen went to camp. When I was a kid I went to Adas Israel's Camp Tel Shalom, but that isn't around anymore. Too bad because it was like going to the Gan. It was a lot of fun.

This was your headstone unveiling service

October 26, 2003

1. Introduction and Welcome

Henry died on Wednesday, December 11, 2002.
He is the son of Allen and Laurie.
He is the brother of Jack and Joe.
He is the grandson of Pat, Sy, Phyllis and Ted.
He is the nephew of Jen, Dan, Tracey, Andrew, Abby and Andy.
He is the cousin of Joshua, Rachel, Michael, Hannah, Sam and Emma.
Today we gather to remember him and to dedicate a monument in his memory.

2. The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery



"People have stars, but they aren't the same. For travelers, the stars are guides. For other people, they're nothing but tiny lights. And for still others, for scholars, they're problems. For my businessman, they were gold. But all those stars are silent stars. You, though, you'll have stars like nobody else."

"What do you mean?"

"When you look up at the sky at night, since I'll be living on one of them, since I'll be laughing on one of them, for you it'll be as if all the stars are laughing. You'll have stars that can laugh!"

And he laughed again.

"And when you're consoled (everyone eventually is consoled), you'll be glad you've known me. You'll always be my friend. You'll feel like laughing with me. And you'll open your window sometimes just for the fun of it...And your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you're looking up at the sky. Then you'll tell them, 'Yes, it's the stars; they always make me laugh!'"

3. Mi Ha'ish Psalm 134



Me ha-ish hefafetz chayim, Ohev yamim lirot tov
Who is the one who desires life, loving their days, doing good?
N'tzor l'shoncha marah, guard your tongue from evil
Us'ftecha d'daber mirma, and your lips from speaking falsehood.
Sur marah, v'aseh tov, Depart from evil and do good;
Bakesh shalom v'rodfayhu, Seek peace and pursue it.

4. There are Stars, Hannah Szenes

There are stars whose light reaches the earth
Only after they themselves have disintegrated and are no more.

And there are people whose scintillating memory
Lights the world after they have passed from it.

These lights which shine in the darkest night
are those which illumine for us the path.

5. Relatives at Judean Memorial Gardens

We note that this cemetery, Judean Memorial Gardens, is where a number of Henry's relative's are buried. His Grandma Phyllis Goldberg, Great Aunt Ida Tishman, Great Uncle Ben, Great Grandparents Miriam and Sol Strongin and Great Aunt Ruth.

6. Unveiling and Dedication
[We remove the cloth from the stone and read from the stone's inscription.]



In memory of Henry Strongin Goldberg, we establish and consecrate this monument.
It is a token of our deep love and respect.
He is remembered now, and forever, part of the good in each of us.
May his soul be bound up in the bonds of life.

7. Eulogy

Laurie Strongin

8. El Malei Rachamim, God Filled with Compassion

Let God remember the soul of Henry Strongin Goldberg
who went to his place of eternal rest.
Please let his soul be bound up with living in the continuum of life,
and may his rest be honorable.
Grant him abundant joy in your presence,
and sweet pleasures at your right hand for eternity. Amen.

God filled with mercy
dwelling in the heavens' heights,
grant perfect peace beneath the wings of your Shechinah,
amid the ranks of the holy and the pure,
illuminating like the brilliance of the skies
the souls of our beloved and our blameless
who went to their eternal place of rest.
May you who are the source of mercy
shelter them beneath your wings eternally,
and bind their souls among the living,
that they may rest in peace.
And let us say: Amen.

9. We Remember Them, Ronald Gittelsohn

At the rising of the sun and at its going down
We remember them.

At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter
We remember them.

At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring...
We remember them.

At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer
We remember them.

At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn
We remember them.

At the beginning of the year and when it ends
We remember them.

When we are lost and sick at heart
We remember them.

When we have joy we crave to share
We remember them.

When we have decisions that are difficult to make
We remember them.

As long as we live, they too will live,
for they are now a part of us
And we remember them.

10. Mourner's Kaddish


Mourners: Yit-ga-dal ve-yit-ka-dash she-mey ra-ba
Be-al-ma div-ra chir-u-tey
Ve-yam-lich mal-chu-tey
Be-cha-yey-chon uv-yo-me-chon uv-cha-yey de-chol beyt yis-ra-el
Ba-a-ga-la u-viz-man ka-riv
ve-im-ru a-men.

Congregation: Ye-hey she-mey ra-ba me-va-rach
le-a-lam ul-al-mey al-ma-ya.

Mourners: Yit-ba-rach ve-yish-ta-bach ve-yit-pa-ar ve-yit-ro-mam
ve-yit-na-sey Ve-yit-ha-dar ve-yit-a-leh ve-yit-ha-lal she-mey de-kud-sha
Be-rich hu

Le-ela le-ela mi-kol bir-cha-ta
ve-shi-ra-ta tush-be-cha-ta
ve-ne-che-ma-ta da-a-mi-ran
be-al-ma
ve-im-ru a-men.

Ye-hey she-la-ma ra-ba min
she-ma-ya
Ve-cha-yim a-ley-nu ve-al kol
yis-ra-el ve-im-ru a-men.

O-seh sha-lom bim-ro-mav
hu ya-a-seh sha-lom a-ley-nu
ve-al kol yis-ra-el
ve-al kol yosh-vey tevel
ve-im-ru amen.

Mourners: Let God's name be made great and holy in the world that was created as God willed. May God complete the holy realm in your own lifetime, in your days, and in the days of all the house of Israel, quickly and soon. And say: Amen.

Congregation: May God's great name be blessed, forever and as long as worlds endure.

Mourners: May it be blessed, and praised, and glorified, and held in honor, viewed with awe, embellished, and revered; and may the blessed name of holiness be hailed, though it be higher by far than all the blessings, songs, praises, and consolations that we utter in this world. And say: Amen.

May Heaven grant a universal peace, and life for us, and for all Israel. And say: Amen.

May the one who creates harmony above, make peace for us and for all Israel, and for all who dwell on earth. And say:

Amen

This is what Mom said for her eulogy. She was able to read the whole thing which was very hard. Everyone was crying.

Mom's Eulogy

On October 25, 1995, just eight years ago yesterday, my son Henry was born. Two weeks later, he was diagnosed with Fanconi anemia, a disease that threatened to take his life, and challenged us to live well despite it. And live well, we did.

Henry embraced each opportunity for living completely and reminded the rest of us to do so. His sparkly eyes, mischievous grin and infectious smile was a call to action to smile back, laugh along, and dance with him. Instead of associating each doctor with one who inflicts pain, Henry had a special nickname for each. Dr. Gillio became Dr. Silly-o; Dr. Wagner became “Dr. Have you Wagged Your Tail Lately?” Henry didn’t associate hospitals with procedures, but rather, by their proximity to the things that he loved to do. So, trips to hospitals in or near New York didn’t mean bone marrow biopsies and surgeries, but rather opportunities to ride the black panther on the carousel in Central Park or to go to Joker’s Child, the best Batman store ever; Minneapolis was not about Henry’s seemingly endless transplant-related hospitalizations, but was synonymous with the Mall of America.

Despite the relentless wrath of his disease, Henry had the physical and emotional strength to fight back. His ear-to-ear smile and joyous laughter were far more noticeable than his many surgical scars and low-platelet related bruises. He suffered plenty of setbacks and spent more nights in the hospital fighting against whatever Fanconi anemia would throw his way, but just when it looked like the disease was too tough of an opponent, Henry would rise like a phoenix from the ashes and get back to the life he chose to lead. He would transition from the hospital to running a lemonade stand in a matter of minutes; from the intensive care unit to hitting a baseball over our neighbor’s fence.

Henry was a superb athlete. By age three, he could traverse the monkey bars over and over again, triggering disbelief from other parents and envy from their children. Just days prior to departing for Minneapolis for his transplant, Henry scored the winning goal of the Dolphins’ season closing soccer game. He secured a punching bag and boxing gloves in his transplant isolation room to help regain his strength while he recovered from the negative effects of the radiation and chemotherapy. Once he was discharged from the hospital, Henry asked us to get a karate instructor so he could begin working on his white belt basics. The power of the chemotherapy was apparent by Henry’s bald head, but it was powerless against his determination to master new skills, build his strength and defeat Fanconi anemia.

With each blood draw, blood transfusion or other medical treatment, Henry would grin and exclaim “Let’s just do it” so he could get out of the clinic and get back to living his life. Seven months after Henry’s transplant, we took him out in public for the very first time to the most “Henry” destination in Minneapolis, the Mall of America. As we walked past the indoor rock climbing wall, Henry got that look of determination in his eyes. With IV lines hanging out of his shirt and a protective mask on his face, Henry practiced numerous times on three separate occasions, first making it halfway, then two-thirds, over and over again. Finally the day before we were to leave Minneapolis, Henry wanted to go back and try one last time. He would settle for nothing short of victory. With a burst of energy, Henry made it all the way to the top and rang that buzzer symbolizing to everyone in Camp Snoopy that he made it. Fist in the air, he made his descent and once on land, did his hip shaking, ear-to-ear smiling, “oh yeah” dance.

During Henry’s bone marrow transplant recovery, he and Jack developed an assessment scale of Henry’s health status that ranged from “Not Good” to “Super, Duper Better.” Every day, Henry worked towards Super Better. He possessed a level of patience that eludes me, and thankfully, was willing to suffer through plenty of Not Good Days, recognizing them as a necessary means to an end. He stayed focused on the end game of Super, Duper Better, settling for moments or hours of great times here and there, as he worked hard for it to become his way of life.

Henry taught his friends how to negotiate the monkey bars and hit a waffle ball across our street, and shared his encyclopedic knowledge of everything Batman and Pokemon. As he got older, Henry’s lessons went beyond the typical little boy stuff. At a school assembly, his fellow first-graders shared what they had learned from Henry, ranging from teaching them all about whales and nature; to basic truths including to love super heroes and brothers, to smile a lot, and my favorite, “to take a good nap when we need one.”

For adults, Henry was a walking motivational speaker. Despite the adversity he faced, he never felt sorry for himself. His positive attitude and courage inspired people to be and do better, and as a result, thousands joined the National Bone Marrow Registry, collectively donated money to support research into Fanconi anemia, and noticed things about their children and themselves that they may otherwise have overlooked. Henry had an ability to enjoy all the enjoyable things in life, even when they were sorely outnumbered by the hardships, and he taught those around him to do the same.

One of Henry’s doctors described him as a 30 year-old trapped in a child’s body. He was so mature that he was asked to present to a group of medical students about how to care for pediatric patients. Henry often diagnosed his own ailments, flushed his own IV lines and told us when he needed to be checked into the hospital and when he was well enough to leave and head for the beach. He was honest and open and wise beyond his years, but possessed the innocence and playfulness of a child.

As you know, Henry was fascinated with Batman. Like Batman, Henry’s special powers were his strength and intelligence which he developed through hard work and training. While Batman faced numerous adversaries including the Joker, Ra’s al Ghul, Riddler, Two-Face, and Poison Ivy; Henry faced only one, Fanconi anemia. Batman had Robin; Henry had Jack, Joe, Allen, me and thousands of friends and admirers willing to join his troupe of superheroes and fight for his life.

Perhaps even more than Batman, Henry was a master of illusion. He made everyone believe that anything was possible. The only thing that seemed impossible was that inside his beautiful body, every single cell possessed a genetic defect so deadly that one day he could die.

On December 11, 2002, nearly one year ago, the impossible happened. Fanconi anemia took our son, Jack and Joe’s brother, and your friend away. The fact that every picture has been taken, every word has been spoken and that I will never again be able to hold my son’s hand or read him a bedtime story and kiss him goodnight is close to unbearable. But my broken heart is restored by the feeling of incredible good fortune that I got to be Henry’s mother.

The impact of Henry’s life astounds me. I think he did more in his short life than most do in eight or nine decades. One of Henry’s doctors, Dr. John Wagner, recently told me that Henry taught him things that will unequivocally help other children with FA facing transplant today and tomorrow. He said, “Every survivor at some point must thank their lucky stars that one of them happened to be Henry.”

The day Henry died, I got the following note from my dear friend Sharon Harari in Tel Aviv. Her son Amitai has Fanconi anemia. Allen and I met them in New York and introduced them to the doctors working with us on preimplantation genetic diagnosis.

She wrote:

The night Henry died, I had this feeling just like I did on the millenium night. In my head I knew that after midnight our lives would continue just as they did, but my gut felt like the world might be coming to an end.

If it wasn't for Henry we would have never met you. If it wasn't for you we would have never made it through preimplantation genetic diagnosis. If it wasn't for PGD we would have never had Alma. If it wasn't for Alma Amitai would probably be dead today.

We believe Henry saved our son's life.

And, just a couple of months ago, Allen and I received this letter:

Dear Allen and Laurie,

I don't think you know me but boy I sure know you and Henry. I have been struggling with the right time to write this letter. I am the father of Hunter Kelley. Hunter too has Fanconi anemia.

For a year and a half we searched for answers as to how to help Hunter. In 2001 we learned that PGD was now available to FA (A) patients. It was about this time my wife (Christie) read your New York Times Magazine article. We immediately decided we had to give PGD a try. After 4 cycles and many ups and downs we got pregnant.

Eggs were implanted on Easter Sunday of 2002, and on Dec. 9th, Cooper Kelley was born. A perfect match for Hunter. On January 21 Hunter underwent a Sibling Matched Cord Blood Transplant at University of Minnesota. Today we are back in Birmingham and Hunter is outside shooting basketball.

The reason for writing this letter is to thank you and especially thank Henry. You see if we had never read that NY Times article we would have never tried PGD. Hunter was to the point he needed a transplant and we didn't have long. Your determination to succeed at PGD gave us inspiration.

Henry did not die in vain. Henry is a pioneer who has and is saving lives everyday. I can only imagine what it is like to lose a son. Hopefully you can find some comfort in knowing without a doubt you and your son helped save our son's life.

Thanks Henry Goldberg, your sacrifice has saved many.

Randy Kelley


Henry, you always said you wanted to be a superhero when you grew up. Your wish came true.