Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul Read Online Free PDF Page A

team members that his doctor joked, “You ought to go for the Guinness Book of World Records.”
    Shortly before transferring to The Royal Marsden Hospital, where he would undergo chemotherapy and radiation treatments, Craig received a taped get-well message from his favorite TV personality. Hearing this, a national newspaper published an article on this plucky boy fighting for his life. Soon other newspapers, along with radio and television, picked up the story. Craig became “Our Kid Courage” to the British press.
    Craig’s medical condition worsened, however. His legs and left arm were weaker, his speech slow and deliberate, his vision blurred. For all his pain, though, Craig never lost his sense of humor. He even joked about the baldness caused by the chemotherapy. “Knock, knock,” he would say. “Who’s there?” a visitor would respond. “Ad-air,” Craig answered. “Ad-air who?” “Ad-air once, but now I’m bald!” came the punch line.
    The fact that so many people cared gave Craig hope. One night in the hospital, his strength sapped by chemotherapy, Craig fought against the sadness he felt. “Mum,” he said, “I’ll think about the cards. Every time I do, it makes me feel better.” In September, in an attempt to build Craig’s morale, the Shergolds told the press he would try to establish a Guinness record for most cards received.
    Days later, a small truck pulled up outside the Shergold home, carrying several large sacks of cards. The outpouring led to more publicity—which generated thousands more cards. He received cards from Margaret Thatcher, Prince Charles, George Bush, Ronald Reagan, Mikhail Gorbachev and two of Craig’s idols: Michael Jackson and Sylvester Stallone.
    Craig started having real hope of beating the record for most cards collected (1,000,265) held by another English boy. This gave him a sense of purpose, made his condition something more than a cruel twist of fate. In fact, so many cards poured in that Craig received his own “selection box” at the central post office in London, making him the first person in British history designated like a city for mail processing.
    On November 17, 1989, the big night arrived. Craig, although shaky, was allowed to go to the local soccer club for the ceremony. As 300 people gathered around, the local post office manager presented Craig with card number 1,000,266—the record breaker. As Craig said thank you, everyone sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”
    Some 3,800 miles away, in Charlottesville, Virginia, John Kluge received letters from friends. A soft-spoken man of 77, Kluge is a billionaire who made his fortune in the communications business. Kluge’s friends wrote him about Craig and all his get-well cards. They urged Kluge to send a card, too.
    As Kluge considered mailing a card, an inexplicable feeling came over him. Amid all the attention focused on the card campaign, he couldn’t help wondering: Had every medical possibility been explored? Was there some treatment he could arrange for the boy?
    While Kluge had donated millions to worthy causes, he had never given money to an individual. He didn’t want to start a precedent. And he didn’t want to raise false hopes for Craig’s family. Still, he couldn’t shake the idea that there might be some hope for Craig.
    Kluge phoned a close friend, Dr. Neal Kassell, professor of neurosurgery at the University of Virginia Health Sciences Center. “Neal,” he asked, “could you contact the Shergold family? I have the feeling something important might have been overlooked. I’ll pay any expenses.”
    Unable to reach the Shergolds by phone, Kassell air-expressed a letter on August 7. Days passed, and the Shergolds did not answer. His letter, of course, had disappeared into millions of others. Since breaking the record, the number of cards skyrocketed to over 26 million.
    Craig was in and out of the hospital regularly. On September 20, Craig’s physician, Dr. Diana Tait,