What could be better than buying your holiday cards and knowing that 100% of your purchase was donated to Eddie's Fund?
Pictured to the right, the holiday cards are beautifully desgined by a local mural artist...incidentally, the same mural artist who designed the murals for Orilus and Eddie's hematology floor at Mass General Hospital. Thank you, Jon Winchell of Winchell Arts! The donation of this print to our fundraiser, and the donation of the printing service (thank you, 1-Stop Design Shop, at www.1stopdesign.com!) has resulted in a ONE HUNDRED PERCENT overhead-free fundraiser for Eddie's Fund!
We couldn't be more excited about the sale of these cards! Beginning now, place your order via PayPal (see the "Donate" button to the right). PayPal will notify me via email when your order has been placed, and I will email you within 24 hours to confirm your order and ask for your mailing address. Beginning Thanksgiving week, your order will be shipped to you...you will have helped an amazing family AND finished your holiday card shopping!
For every $20 donation, you will receive 20 holiday cards with envelopes. The inside of the card reads, "Happy Holidays," and the back names the artist and lets the recipient know that the card represents a donation to Eddie's Fund.
We hope that you'll join us this holiday season as we continue to bring "peace on earth" to a family whose peace of mind, heart, and body really matters to us. Thank you for continuing to love Eddie and his family with us.
Happy holidays!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Celtics ticket thank you
Dear Friends,
Thank you so much for the donations we collected for our Celtics ticket giveaway October fundraiser! Our winner was drawn today (thanks to Moriah, who knows now how to take things "out" of a box) and has been notified. Mostly, though, we're grateful for these donations, which will help to keep Eddie's family afloat through holiday-time.
Blessings to you,
Melissa
Thank you so much for the donations we collected for our Celtics ticket giveaway October fundraiser! Our winner was drawn today (thanks to Moriah, who knows now how to take things "out" of a box) and has been notified. Mostly, though, we're grateful for these donations, which will help to keep Eddie's family afloat through holiday-time.
Blessings to you,
Melissa
Sunday, October 3, 2010
a Celtics thank you!
OCTOBER IS GIVING MONTH FOR EDDIE'S FUND!
And here's why: anyone who donates $50 or more to Eddie's Fund during the month of October will be entered in a drawing for 2 "thank you" tickets to the Celtics vs. Houston game at 7:30 pm on January 10th!
Tickets are Section 311, row 3, seats 6 and 7.
Help us reach our holiday goal of $5,000 for Eddie's Fund. Just 100 donations of $50 this month will meet our goal! Maybe YOU can receive the added fun of a Celtics ticket thank you.
As always, Eddie's family--and ours--is so grateful for your love for Eddie.
And here's why: anyone who donates $50 or more to Eddie's Fund during the month of October will be entered in a drawing for 2 "thank you" tickets to the Celtics vs. Houston game at 7:30 pm on January 10th!
Tickets are Section 311, row 3, seats 6 and 7.
Help us reach our holiday goal of $5,000 for Eddie's Fund. Just 100 donations of $50 this month will meet our goal! Maybe YOU can receive the added fun of a Celtics ticket thank you.
As always, Eddie's family--and ours--is so grateful for your love for Eddie.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
how Eddie's Fund began
April 2007. Orilus was nearing the end of his nearly year-long post-bone marrow transplant recovery. We were "doing school" (as he liked to say) at the dining room table again. And he got talking about Eddie, and about how maybe he could sell cookies (he'd taken up cookie baking as a hobby that year, isolated as he was at home for so many months) to give money to Eddie. Orilus knew I had been out of work all that year, and was putting it all together...that the longer Eddie stayed sick, the longer his mom, Kori, wouldn't be able to work, either, given the frequent trips in and out of Boston for Eddie and the isolation requirements of his immuno-suppressed state. Orilus knew I was going back to work the next month and that Kori wasn't. He also knew that the non-profit that had helped both of our families with bills that year was unable to help Eddie's family any longer. "Mum," he said, "what's Eddie's family going to DO?" I didn't really have an answer for him. "Well, Mum," he said, "we have to do something. If all the people we know gave a little bit of money, maybe Eddie would be okay."
And that's how it started. Orilus decided then and there he wanted to write a letter (some of you may remember it, color-copied and in his own handwriting and mailed to your home) and I was suddenly scrambling to figure out how do you DO this thing, start a bank fund for someone else? I figured it out, gave Orilus some address labels and some envelopes, and he folded, sealed and labeled over 100 requests for donations to the newly-created "Eddie's Fund."
The Fund began by paying the family's monthly car payment, a payment for which the Fund is still entirely responsible each month, and pays directly to the lender. Over the years, the Fund has also helped with other bills on an as-needed basis. Each year, we hope that the Fund will be in its last year--probably no one hopes this as much as Eddie's mom, Kori, who longs to get back to a typical life with a good-paying job--and each year, Eddie continues to struggle in his recovery. Sometimes, the Fund has struggled, too, but always, it's kept on, and kept up with the family's needs. Through fundraisers--a yard sale, an Eat for Eddie night out, an auction, a birthday drive--and through donations (some monthly, others one-time), Eddie's Fund continues to love on Eddie and his family, and to share the hope that this season of their life will pass, and healing will come.
And that's how it started. Orilus decided then and there he wanted to write a letter (some of you may remember it, color-copied and in his own handwriting and mailed to your home) and I was suddenly scrambling to figure out how do you DO this thing, start a bank fund for someone else? I figured it out, gave Orilus some address labels and some envelopes, and he folded, sealed and labeled over 100 requests for donations to the newly-created "Eddie's Fund."
The Fund began by paying the family's monthly car payment, a payment for which the Fund is still entirely responsible each month, and pays directly to the lender. Over the years, the Fund has also helped with other bills on an as-needed basis. Each year, we hope that the Fund will be in its last year--probably no one hopes this as much as Eddie's mom, Kori, who longs to get back to a typical life with a good-paying job--and each year, Eddie continues to struggle in his recovery. Sometimes, the Fund has struggled, too, but always, it's kept on, and kept up with the family's needs. Through fundraisers--a yard sale, an Eat for Eddie night out, an auction, a birthday drive--and through donations (some monthly, others one-time), Eddie's Fund continues to love on Eddie and his family, and to share the hope that this season of their life will pass, and healing will come.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
how we met
May 2006. I get on a fairly full elevator in the Main Building of Children's Hospital. Get on at the 6th floor and press the "down" button. Behind me, another woman squeezes inside, and those of us in the elevator silently make room. Silently. Because that's what you do in elevators, right? Keep quiet. Stare straight ahead.
But I caught this woman's eye (at this point, I'd been living in Orilus' isolated room on the isolated bone marrow transplant floor for a few days already and was starved for conversation), and we exchanged smiles. I think she began talking first. "Do you know where I can get my ID badge?" she asked me, pointing at the card I was wearing around my neck. Not only did I know, but I was on my way to that very floor to buy a cup of soup, and would show her myself, and talk with her the entire way. By the time we reached our floor, we had exchanged pleasantries (mostly, comments about how awful it was to stay at a hospital, and vague sympathies for being mothers of the sort who had to stay) and I had decided, instantly, that I liked this woman. Really liked her. But not wanting to pry, I left her at the ID booth with a vague "hope to see you around again," when really what I wanted to say was, "on which floor are you because I could really use someone to talk to right now." Moment passed. Soup was calling, and my son was in the middle of a week and a half of chemotherapy, and I had just a few minutes to grab my food and return to his room and the increase of his side effects.
Later that day, our transplant doctor told me of a new family arriving from Mass General Hospital to the transplant floor. Because Orilus was also a former MGH hematology patient, she thought I might know the family. I didn't. "Well," she said, "I really think you and this boy's mom would benefit from knowing each other." She told me the last name of the family, and asked that I keep an eye out for them, and help the mother and her son to feel welcome.
Later in the afternoon, I was walking through the corridor when I saw the family's name appear on the nameplate next to a patient room. Aha! I thought. They're here! I scrambled back to my room, frantic for friendship, and scribbled what I was sure was a half-neurotic note to a mom I didn't know. One of those "I know you don't know me, but..." letters. I tucked it under the patient's door, since there were all sorts of rules regarding contact between patients and their families in the immuno-suppressed ward that was the bone marrow transplant floor. Satisfied that this mother knew my name and my room number, I hoped I would one day get to meet her.
An hour or so later, there was a knock at the door. When it wasn't followed by a nurse walking on through, I realized I had an unannounced visitor and my heart leapt. Could it be the mom from down the hall, already?! I walked around Orilus' bed and to the door, opened it quietly, and nearly cried...at the sight of the woman from the elevator standing there! She and I both gasped in surprise. "It's you!" we said, as if we were meeting a long-lost friend.
And really, it seemed we were. The transplant doctor had said that she thought we'd both benefit from knowing each other. Kori, Eddie's mom, will tell you that she has been the greatest beneficiary, given that our family began Eddie's Fund three years ago to provide financial support for hers. But I don't agree. Over these years, Kori has provided me with friendship, and more than any other friendship in my life, hers has taught me what it means to "rejoice with those who rejoice, and mourn with those who mourn." Orilus has gone on to great post-transplant recovery success. Eddie continues to struggle. But Kori has unabashedly celebrated with us every milestone, every achievement, every good bit of health news, even as her own son has suffered so much. Why am I motivated to continue to raise money for Eddie's family? Because Kori is actually the greater example of love in our relationship. It's easy for our family to make financial sacrifice for hers, given that we have been able to "move on" from our transplant experience. But for her to have true joy for our family--this is the greater sacrifice, and the more beautiful gift. Jesus said that "greater love has no person than the one who gives his life for his friend." Kori gives her life for me every day, gives it when she calls to hear how Orilus' basketball game went, how his school year is about to begin, how he can't come to the phone because he's over a friend's house. Hers is by far, by far, the greater love. And like I tell her, Eddie's Fund is the only way I know to do something tangible for so loving, and lovely, a friend.
But I caught this woman's eye (at this point, I'd been living in Orilus' isolated room on the isolated bone marrow transplant floor for a few days already and was starved for conversation), and we exchanged smiles. I think she began talking first. "Do you know where I can get my ID badge?" she asked me, pointing at the card I was wearing around my neck. Not only did I know, but I was on my way to that very floor to buy a cup of soup, and would show her myself, and talk with her the entire way. By the time we reached our floor, we had exchanged pleasantries (mostly, comments about how awful it was to stay at a hospital, and vague sympathies for being mothers of the sort who had to stay) and I had decided, instantly, that I liked this woman. Really liked her. But not wanting to pry, I left her at the ID booth with a vague "hope to see you around again," when really what I wanted to say was, "on which floor are you because I could really use someone to talk to right now." Moment passed. Soup was calling, and my son was in the middle of a week and a half of chemotherapy, and I had just a few minutes to grab my food and return to his room and the increase of his side effects.
Later that day, our transplant doctor told me of a new family arriving from Mass General Hospital to the transplant floor. Because Orilus was also a former MGH hematology patient, she thought I might know the family. I didn't. "Well," she said, "I really think you and this boy's mom would benefit from knowing each other." She told me the last name of the family, and asked that I keep an eye out for them, and help the mother and her son to feel welcome.
Later in the afternoon, I was walking through the corridor when I saw the family's name appear on the nameplate next to a patient room. Aha! I thought. They're here! I scrambled back to my room, frantic for friendship, and scribbled what I was sure was a half-neurotic note to a mom I didn't know. One of those "I know you don't know me, but..." letters. I tucked it under the patient's door, since there were all sorts of rules regarding contact between patients and their families in the immuno-suppressed ward that was the bone marrow transplant floor. Satisfied that this mother knew my name and my room number, I hoped I would one day get to meet her.
An hour or so later, there was a knock at the door. When it wasn't followed by a nurse walking on through, I realized I had an unannounced visitor and my heart leapt. Could it be the mom from down the hall, already?! I walked around Orilus' bed and to the door, opened it quietly, and nearly cried...at the sight of the woman from the elevator standing there! She and I both gasped in surprise. "It's you!" we said, as if we were meeting a long-lost friend.
And really, it seemed we were. The transplant doctor had said that she thought we'd both benefit from knowing each other. Kori, Eddie's mom, will tell you that she has been the greatest beneficiary, given that our family began Eddie's Fund three years ago to provide financial support for hers. But I don't agree. Over these years, Kori has provided me with friendship, and more than any other friendship in my life, hers has taught me what it means to "rejoice with those who rejoice, and mourn with those who mourn." Orilus has gone on to great post-transplant recovery success. Eddie continues to struggle. But Kori has unabashedly celebrated with us every milestone, every achievement, every good bit of health news, even as her own son has suffered so much. Why am I motivated to continue to raise money for Eddie's family? Because Kori is actually the greater example of love in our relationship. It's easy for our family to make financial sacrifice for hers, given that we have been able to "move on" from our transplant experience. But for her to have true joy for our family--this is the greater sacrifice, and the more beautiful gift. Jesus said that "greater love has no person than the one who gives his life for his friend." Kori gives her life for me every day, gives it when she calls to hear how Orilus' basketball game went, how his school year is about to begin, how he can't come to the phone because he's over a friend's house. Hers is by far, by far, the greater love. And like I tell her, Eddie's Fund is the only way I know to do something tangible for so loving, and lovely, a friend.
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