I haven't done a photo of the day for a long, long time.

Aunt Abby is all ready to have her baby. I hope that she can hang in until Mom's birthday because she'll have a great time. Here are some photos that she gave Mom of you and Rachel. It was great that Aunt Abby and Mommy had you guys only 3 days apart.

This is a picture that was taken when we were up in Boston for your hand surgery. It is you and Eli. Eli's mommy and daddy are coming to Mommy's birthday next weekend. A bunch of Mommy's friends are coming to celebrate her 40th birthday.



Here is a picture of Eli now with Jack. This was taken when we went up to Connecticut a few months ago for Ali and Jeremy's wedding. We stayed with Eli's parents.



And here are Eli's sisters and Joe.

Here is a picture from school this week. Jack dressed up as Mario for Purim.



When we were going to school this morning Jack said to me,

"Do you remember when Henry and I first got our Gameboys."

"I had Yoshi's Island and Henry had Super Mario Advanced and we traded."

That made me feel really good. What worries me almost more than anything else is that you will be forgotten. I don't want that to ever happen.

Here is a page out of the program for the Purim Ball, which Mom and I went to on Sunday night. Thank god for Linda, Sid, Helaine, Richard and Susan.



Check out what Nana and Papa Sy put in for Jack. They're awesome, too.

Anyone here look familiar? Check out your Mom and your brother. They are going to sell a lot of newspapers.

Motivated by Love,
Hope for Henry Foundation Spreads Joy

With a kindness obviously motivated by the experience of knowing and loving their son Henry Strongin Goldberg, Allen Goldberg and Laurie Strongin walked through the doors of Georgetown University Hospital’s Lombardi Comprehensive Cancer Center in December with great numbers of the latest must-have electronic gadgets in tow to distribute to Lombardi’s youngest and most ill patients.

Funding for the gifts came from the Hope for Henry Foundation (HFHF), a 501(c)(3) organization established by Goldberg, Strongin and friends to honor the life of Henry, who died in 2002 at the age of seven from Fanconi anemia. The rare, fatal genetic disease affects children and adults from all ethnic backgrounds. Lombardi’s Pediatric Hematology-Oncology division was among the many hospital settings where Henry received treatment during his short life.

For the Strongin-Goldberg family, creating the Foundation and now ensuring that monies raised through the Foundation go to better the lives of children who find themselves in a health crisis similar to Henry’s is one way to honor their son.

“The Foundation reaches out to children and families spending far too much time in hospitals to improve their day-today life by providing carefully chosen gifts designed to bring comfort and entertainment,” said Strongin. “Our goal is to bring smiles and laughter, hope and magic into the lives of these children and families who need it most.”

Henry was a delightfully charming child. “[Henry] taught his family, friends, doctors and all who came in contact with him how to live well and laugh hard - even as he battled a terrible disease. Henry embraced each opportunity for living completely and reminded the rest of us to do so.”

Aziza Shad, MD, chief of Pediatric Hematology/Oncology, was among those who treated Henry, and she echoed that description of Henry. “The sparkle in Henry’s eyes and his cheerfulness could always brighten my day,” said Dr. Shad with a smile.

In a formal presentation made prior to the gift distribution, Goldberg said, “One thing I remember about being here [at Lombardi] is that everyone who passed by Henry said what a lucky guy he was for always having a DVD player with him.” While candidly admitting that his son actually “was the luckiest unlucky guy,” Goldberg added that “Henry lives on through this Foundation.”

Henry’s determination to find fun in any situation was, in part, what motivated the Strongin-Goldberg family to make HFHF’s first charitable gifts ones that would make sick children’s daily lives more endurable and – maybe – even enjoyable.

During a presentation to Lombardi, Strongin, Goldberg, family members and friends distributed gifts to some of Lombardi’s most ill children, giving each child the opportunity to choose their preference of a portable DVD or MP3 players, digital cameras and Gameboy® players. The Foundation also donated four computers, fully equipped with a selection of software, that now sit in the common area of the Pediatric Hematology/Oncology outpatient clinic.

“We’re pleased to be able to share some of Henry’s magic [with Lombardi’s Pediatric Hematology/Oncology division],” said Strongin. Added Goldberg, “As many smiles as we can produce is what is important to us.”

Undoubtedly the Foundation’s efforts will give many ill children the opportunity to better enjoy their days in the future – keeping in line with and celebrating the way Henry Strongin Goldberg chose to live his life.

—R. Christoferson

Cousin Catherine and Tim had a baby! Her name is Sarah.



She is beautiful. I cannot wait to meet her.



Aunt Abby is next. With all of these babies I wonder if one of them some day will get Henry as a middle name or something. I don't know if the Jewish tradition is to name babies after old relatives who died or just relatives who died.

Last weekend I went flying to St. Michaels with a friend from work who has a new airplane. Of course I couldn't help but think about the last time I flew there. It was you, your bear, me, Papa Sy and Uncle Dan.



This time, Uncle Bill and Isabel came with us. Isabel was really good and enjoyed herself. Papa Sy met us at the Easton airport. It was really cold out.





The next day we went to this new part of the Air & Space Musum that is out in Virginia. It was a big flying weekend. At the museum we watched a very cool IMAX movie called, Fighter Pilot. Joe was so excited that he fell asleep.

The other night I went to see one of my favorite musicians, John Prine, perform and speak at the Library of Congress. You remember him as the guy who sings "Space Monkey" and "Dear Abby."



He was with a guy who is the head poet of the United States.

I thought it would be a really cool evening and it was. They talked about this quote from another songwriter.

Maybe I'll never believe in forever again.
Kris Kristofferson

It has stuck in my head.

This morning when Joe and I were playing catch waiting for school to start a bunch of kids next to us were calling their friend Henry. Joe became all excited and looked at the boy and then up at me. I knew what he was thinking.

I said, "No, that isn't our Henry. Did you think it was your brother?"

"Yes."

Today would have been a better day to visit. It is a pre-spring, spring day. The thermometer in the minivan said it was 72 degrees out.

I read Dr. Livingston's book last night. The grief part feels like I am reading what I write here - except he is a really good writer. It is good to read because I think of you. I like anything that does that. It is almost like I am reading while listening to music. Part of me is concentrating on the words and at the same time part of me is remembering stuff about you like background music playing in my head.

In the book, Dr. Livingston can ride his bike to his son Lucas' grave. It is only 3 miles away. That would be great. I have only ridden my bike out as far as Olney once before. It was a 60 mile ride for a charity I no longer remember, and before you were on the scene. I did ride HSG, Mom's Vespa, out to you once and that was nice.

The stone bench next to your grave isn't great. It would be better to have a comfy couch. Maybe they don't want you to stick around too long.

I am thinking about you.

Today is grandma's birthday. We met Pop Pop Teddy at the cemetery. I cleaned up your headstone. There was a lot of stuff on it.

We left flowers for grandma and for you.

Joe was miserable and made the rest of us so. It wasn't a great visit. Sorry. Mom suggested that we just come out by ourselves.

Look what I found at the grocery store. I bought all the boxes they had.



We'll keep one and bring the rest to Georgetown. I don't know why I couldn't find these for you. They are perfect.

When Joe woke up this morning and saw Mommy, he said "Jack broke the gumball machine." Great.

I started reading Dr. Livingston's book after the guys went to sleep tonight. Mom was at her book group. It was hard but good to read. It reminded me of the blog that I kept when we got to Minnesota and you died. I reread that by accident the other night as I was getting ready to leave work. It still makes me cry just looking at the pictures.

Dr. Livingston didn't know his son Lucas was going to die when he started keeping his journal. But there was the possibility. There were a lot of similarities in your experience and his son's. Both of you died post bone marrow transplant from complications caused by GVHD. Lucas was a patient on the eighth floor at Hopkins. You were only an outpatient on that floor. When you were admitted I am pretty sure you were on 5.

As I read the book I kept crossing my legs together tightly. I do that when I am at the dentist. I felt physically uncomfortable as I read about Lucas getting sicker and sicker, and his dad not being able to do anything about it. I stopped reading when I got to the part where Lucas died. Mom came home right about then. The second half is about his grief. I will finish it tomorrow.

When I closed the book I put on the TV and there was a guy I used to know being interviewed about a book he just wrote. It was "jarring." I don't know where that word comes from, but it described how unsettled it felt. Even though it is supposed to be serious, this person's book seemed really silly compared to what I just read.

When we started doing the PGD Mom asked me if I would keep a journal of how I felt about what we were doing. I know she wanted to write a book about it back then because it was so new, important and hopeful. For some reason I didn't want to and she went on and kept journals on her own. I am glad she did. I should reread those sometime, too.

I think my reason for not wanting to write was that I was just so incredibly confident that you would live and that there would always be time to write about how your life was saved. I do regret that now. I wonder if it would have been different if they had blogging back then.

Just like wishing I had taken more photos of you, I wish I could have written about more everyday stuff with you. I wish I had written about the little things that happen that tell what kind of guy you were and what our relationship was like.

Now during the course of any day I'll have a very vivid memory of a certain moment in time with you. Last week I was remembering sitting in the parking lot at Target in Minneapolis listening to the Arthur and Friends CD in the car while Mom shopped for Pokemon and other fun things for you and Jack.

You couldn't go inside because you were immune compromised. Your favorite song on the CD was "Jekyll/Hyde," which I think was sung by The Brain. We probably played it loud and over and over. I seem to recall Jack not liking it. But what did we say to each other, what jokes did you tell, what did you and Jack say to each other. Were you eating anything. Did we call Mom on her cell phone inside and ask her not to forget something or another. I want that stuff.

What I really wish I had was a journal that captured Henry moments like the Joe moment I had tonight.

I was with Jack and Joe upstairs in our room. Emptying change from my pocket, I saw Joe perk up at the sound. He wanted the coins. I told him he could have them and he should take them into his room and put them in his piggy bank. I turned to talk to Jack and I heard the gumball machine handle being turned. I realized that instead of the piggy bank, Joe was making a deposit in Calvert Street Branch of the First National Bank of Tooth Decay. He is a rascal, plain and simple. I hope "rascal" isn't what you call a criminal at 3 years of age.

Joe used a dime, not a quarter, and the handle wouldn't turn. It was stuck. I tried putting a quarter in and it wouldn't go all the way in. I was very bummed. I tried to get the dime out with a tweezer and then I turned the whole thing upside down and shook it. Nothing worked.

I told Joe that I was upset with him because I had told him he could have the money for his bank and he used it for gum instead. And then I pushed things a little further and said he broke the gumball machine that I had bought especially for Mom and that we had for less than a month. I wish I hadn't been so harsh but I was really mad at him. Interestingly, he didn't cry. He also didn't apologize, which just made me madder.

I decided to cool off downstairs and just get over it. It is only a stupid gumball machine.

Later on when we were getting ready for bed, I read him a few books and then I turned off his light and we snuggled. What was nice was we started having a talk in a whisper about his day. There was something just nice and special about that - I can't explain why. Then out of nowhere in our conversation he whispered, "I am sorry that I broke the gumall machine." Wow. I gave him the biggest hug and told him that he was a really big boy for saying that.

That is what I want to remember about you and me. Pictures just don't do it.

When I was finally going to sleep tonight I had a clear picture in my head of cardiac PICU at Boston Childrens. Instead of you I was thinking about the crib right next to yours where there was a little baby boy at the start of one evening who totally vanished without a trace by morning. I remembered that there had been something significant about his name. Even though Mom was drifting off I asked her if she remembered. That baby was the first -- and I was hoping the only -- Henry who I would know to die much too young.

Good night sweet boy.



p.s. Mom fixed the gumball machine. She's a champ.