from: Georgia Health News

Recently the Georgia pediatric community was shocked by the sudden death of Dr. Paul Fernhoff. He was a fixture in genetics at Emory, in metro Atlanta and throughout the state. For more than 30 years, he was the geneticist upon whom so many relied. He was unfailingly kind, courteous and in good spirits. Paul was a true mensch, a role model for all in the way he lived both professionally and personally.

After training in Philadelphia, Paul came to Atlanta to work in Public Health at CDC. (His collaboration with the Center on Birth Defects and Developmental Disabilities at the CDC continued for the remainder of his career.) After he completed his fellowship in Medical Genetics at Emory, he joined the faculty and quickly became an invaluable resource for countless patients, parents and fellow physicians.

He shepherded the development of Georgia’s newborn screening program, which now monitors every baby born in the state for more than 50 genetic disorders. He was medical director for Emory’s Lysosomal Storage Disease (LSD) Center, serving as principal investigator on more than 20 studies examining the effectiveness of enzyme replacement therapy, and other enzyme enhancement therapies, for children and adults with LSDs.

More recently, Paul added the role of medical director of the Atlanta Jewish Gene Screen program, an effort to encourage young Jewish individuals to have carrier screening for 19 serious genetic disorders that are more prevalent in the Ashkenazi Jewish population.
Paul’s own father died at age 47, before Paul was out of his teens. Knowing that he himself had a genetic predisposition to early death, Paul was an enthusiastic practitioner of a healthy lifestyle, eating well, exercising regularly and always striving to maintain his sense of joy and wonder.

At his funeral, Paul’s daughter thanked her father for earning an extra 18 years of life, which allowed him to see his children grown and married and to get to know his granddaughter and share with her his love of nature and enthusiasm for living.

Paul Fernhoff was known for many things: his colorful neckties (designed to help him connect with his young patients and put them at ease); his work ethic (80-hour weeks were common); his availability to parents and fellow physicians; and his passion in caring for children with special health care needs.

He had a keen interest in the ethics of his chosen field due to the potential abuse of genetic technologies and information. Many of his patients had fatal conditions, so Paul also served as medical director of the Pediatric Program at Hospice Atlanta, one of the largest children’s hospice programs in the country.

His true impact can begin to be measured by these quotes from patients, parents and colleagues:

“He was always available when needed. He has been not only a great physician but a good friend.”

“I will miss his pleasantness, respect and kindness in the years to come.”

“Paul was an unfailingly kind man, a superb scholar and a wonderful friend and colleague.”

“He was such a gentle soul, always listening and showing compassion.”

Paul Fernhoff’s legacy will persist for a long time in the countless lives he has touched through his medical practice, and in the example he set by using his time on earth to constantly find meaning, connections, compassion, wonder and joy.

By: Dr. Bob Wiskind 

Oct 17, 2011

"In Memory of a Friend"

In Memory of a Friend
 
A Tribute to Dr. Paul Fernhoff by Mike McConnell

I had the pleasure of knowing Dr. Fernhoff for nearly 15 years.  During that time period, he helped my family through numerous personal challenges and, in the process, served as a source of encouragement for me to help others.  Whether viewed as our doctor, health policy expert or inspirational mentor, Dr. Paul Fernhoff had a distinct and profound impact on my life and the lives of many throughout this State.

 I had my 50th birthday earlier this year.  That is one of those occasions where I believe you have a “stop, look and listen moment.”  You take stock of where you have been and consider some of the milestones and individuals who have impacted your life.  You take stock of those individuals that you have met during those five decades that really stand out.  I consider them my personal heroes.  Needless to say, Paul is at the top of that list. 

We frequently see people throw around words like ”selfless” and “charitable” and “giving.”  But as you can tell from all of the insightful comments by the speakers today, those words hardly capture the essence and impact of Dr. Fernhoff.  He coupled an infectious spirit with a pure heart to sustain the lives of thousands of patients and support the lives of countless newborns throughout the country and particularly Georgia.  He completed this great work with a natural ease and soft touch.  I first experienced the benefit of his gentle guidance during one of the most challenging times in my life.
 
None of my life experiences prepared me for a call I received from my wife, Nancy, in December 1996.  I had left the home that day much like any other day.  Nancy and I had two little girls at the time.  Meredith was 3 and our newborn, Morgan, was a little over nine months old.  As I sat at my desk that morning, Nancy called.  Although that was not unusual, I knew immediately that something was drastically wrong.  Nancy was in tears and hysterical.  My three year old was crying in the background.  And then my wife uttered the words that no parent ever wants to hear—she thought that our precious nine-month old daughter was dead.   

As we met at Scottish Rite later that morning, we were gratified that our child was still alive, but she was far from safe.  We learned she had some type of severe seizure, and her glucose levels were astonishingly low.  We remained in an emotional free fall as we spent the next two weeks in intensive care with Morgan, not knowing whether she would ever come home.  Even though we saw many great doctors, all of them scratched their heads.  Morgan’s condition did not fall into any neat area of diagnosis.  As we left the hospital, we still had no idea what was wrong with Morgan.  That type of uncertainty is a punishing form of psychological torture that I do not wish on any parent. 
 
But we then received an unexpected call from Emory Genetics.  We really did not know how Emory was even aware of our situation.  All we knew was that their doctors believed they may know why Morgan nearly died.  It was following that call that Nancy and I first met Dr. Fernhoff.  He was accompanied by Dr. Rani Singh.  I will never forget that first meeting.  Up to this point, none of the numerous medical professionals we had met could provide even a glimmer of light.  One or two were even less than helpful, and in fact were dismissive and resentful of questions.  Given this experience, we were somewhat apprehensive that these two new doctors would be any different.  But they were.  

Any anxiety was magically erased within minutes by Dr. Fernhoff.  He calmly explained that they were pretty sure that Morgan had a rare disorder which had recently been discovered a mere seven years earlier in 1989.  Although it was very rare, he believed that Morgan had some form of fatty acid oxidation disorder.  Those four words—fatty acid oxidation disorder—are a mouthful and sounded like a foreign language at the time.  But Dr. Fernhoff quickly made this complex genetic disorder seem simple.  Within a matter of minutes, he was able to communicate the essence of this disorder with the use of simple words.  Medical jargon was not needed.
 
He used a simple analogy that any Atlantan can appreciate.   He told us to think of the Downtown Connector.  It has eight lanes.  At three in the morning, you may only need one lane to handle all of the traffic on that road.  At other times, you need all of the lanes.  Our bodies also have the equivalent of an eight-lane highway to break down fat.  Sometimes we do not need all of those lanes, but when the body is stressed and needs energy, it needs all of those lanes.  For children with Morgan’s disorder, they do not have all eight lanes.  Depending upon the severity, they may only have one.  When their body demands more energy, they simply cannot break down enough fat to meet the demands of their body.  Imagine the Downtown Connector during rush hour with only one lane of traffic open.  Not a pretty picture.  He told us that is essentially what Morgan experienced a month earlier and the traffic jam in her system essentially caused a power outage.  He then proceeded to tell us how we would avoid that traffic jam going forward.
 
There were no fancy words.  No pretentious presentation.  Just easy terms that quickly made us begin to understand a complex genetic disorder.  More importantly, his calm manner and straightforward explanation provided clarity as to what we were up against.  It also provided hope on how we would confront this new hurdle in our lives. 
 
Now the reason that I share this experience with you is not to draw attention to our personal situation.  But instead, I wanted to use this as a mere, isolated example of the types of unique issues that Dr. Fernhoff faced on a daily basis.  Indeed, there is no doubt in my mind that you could have a line of parents from here to I-85 with very similar stories.  A common thread for all of these families with a child who has a rare disorder is the complete feeling of isolation.  These families wander on a very lonely journey through an uncertain and unpredictable path.  There are few folks who have any understanding of what your family is experiencing or the challenges you face.  In our case, there are only a handful of children in the country that have Morgan’s precise disorder, which is called LCHADD.
 
That’s one of the reasons why Dr. Fernhoff was such a rare breed.  He devoted his life to treating children with rare disorders.  There is very limited research funding focused on those disorders, and very few voices to support the needs of the afflicted children or the medical professionals who seek to help them.  There’s a reason they are called orphan disorders, and as a parent you feel acutely isolated and alone.   You feel like you are on an island even though you live in a very populated town.  That’s why I cannot communicate to you enough what Dr. Fernhoff meant to our family.  He was the bridge from our island.  He was there when Morgan faced what seemed an endless gauntlet of metabolic crises during her first five years of life.  He was there to get us to back away from the ledge.  He was there to shield us from looking into an abyss, and helped us to celebrate every time Morgan pulled through one of her episodes.  After every one of his visits, we felt better prepared to withstand the next round of punches from Morgan’s disorder.
 
His attention to Morgan continued unabated throughout the last 15 years.  He was so much more than a doctor.  He would periodically email me just to know how Morgan was doing.  As recently as this past year, as Morgan suffered another episode, he quickly responded to my urgent email to guide us yet again through another crisis. 
 
Again, I want to emphasize that we represent only one example of the countless families that Dr. Fernhoff nurtured through excruciating challenges.  Each of these families is as puzzled and confused as we were.  Each feels as isolated as we did.  Each is experiencing an emotional roller coaster.   I cannot adequately describe Dr. Fernhoff’s limitless empathy, humanity and energy devoted to serving this very rare collection of patients.
 
But that devotion to others was not limited to simply those families who found their way to the Emory Genetics Clinic.  That’s what brings me to my second chapter with Dr. Fernhoff.  About eleven years ago, he asked me if I would be interested in attending a meeting of Georgia’s Newborn Screening Advisory Committee.  I really did not know what that committee was or what it sought to achieve.  But if Dr. Fernhoff thought that I could be of some help, I certainly wanted to pitch in.  After attending several meetings, I started to grasp the importance of its work and the void it was filling in our State.  Prior to 1999, Dr. Fernhoff and several other medical professionals in Georgia sought to improve the ways we detected newborns that had rare disorders.  At that time, Georgia screened for nine disorders.  Due to the development of new technology, however, it was now feasible to screen for many more, including the disorder that Morgan has--LCHADD. 

 If parents know their child has one of these rare disorders shortly after birth, they can frequently take steps to avoid death or severe disabilities.  For example, merely giving an infant with LCHADD a few ounces of Coca-Cola in the middle of the night can be the difference between life and death.  With this expanded screening range, however, also came many difficult and thorny decisions which cut across a number of ethical, economic, political and public policy issues.  Whether the citizens of this State realize it or not, Dr. Fernhoff was the shepherd who guided us through this maze of issues.  In the process, we not only benefitted from his extensive expertise and invaluable knowledge regarding these very complex issues, but also his fortitude in working numerous back channels to help this State take the necessary steps towards vast improvements in the scope and effectiveness of our Newborn Screening Program.   
 
The Newborn Screening Advisory Committee formally started in 1999, and Dr. Fernhoff was a critical member since its inception and served as its first Chairman.  Through his vision and leadership, the Newborn Screening Program in this State has taken tremendous strides.  We now screen for 28 disorders, a threefold increase from the original nine.  Since the expansion of the newborn screening program in 2007, our program has detected and confirmed 19,102 infants who either have a significant disorder or are a carrier of a disorder.   Whether the families of these 19,000 infants realize it or not, many of these disorders would not have been detected without expanded newborn screening.  Whether those families realize it or not, expanded newborn screening in the State of Georgia would not have occurred in 2007 without the unyielding and tireless persistence of Dr. Paul Fernhoff.  Many obstacles were raised along the way, and at many points it appeared that the darker side of our political process would prevail.  In the end, expanded screening prevailed, but that goal would not have been achieved if Dr. Fernhoff had not reached, time and again, for what appeared to be an unattainable goal.
 
But Dr. Fernhoff never did any of this work for praise or recognition.  In my opinion, this prodigious and beneficial work was merely a natural extension of his desire to help as many people that he could.  He had an innate desire to help those who effectively had no one to turn to.  He wanted to help those children who had no one to champion their cause.  In so doing, he not only benefitted the lives of thousands of children over the last several decades, but established the platform that will help infants with rare disorders for years to come.  Dr. Fernhoff blessed our society with his selfless acts and leaves a legacy that will enrich the lives of innumerable beneficiaries.

In closing, Dr. Fernhoff’s passing hit me on a number of levels.  He was our doctor, our counselor, our advisor, a public policy ally, and a friend.  He was a rock that we leaned on during very turbulent times.  His untimely passing has left a tremendous void in our life, and I cannot adequately convey how much my family and I will miss him.   But I suppose it is only natural to miss our heroes.  Dr. Fernhoff is and will always remain one of mine.

"...Keep a place in your memory for me."

Words to describe Paul Fernhoff
                                                          

Funny, compassionate, generous, dedicated.

 

It has been only a couple of weeks since I learned about Paul's sudden death.  Until this moment, I haven't been able to finds the words to express my sense of loss.

 

We met in 5th grade and were close friends all through school and beyond. Our families became even more connected because Paul's mother, Roz, was almost a member of my family.

 

Paul wrote in my yearbook in our senior year:
"No Matter what you do, keep a little place in your memory for me". Life has taken us in many many directions and miles apart. Although, we have not seen each other in years, I have tried to keep up with what he has accomplished.

 

Paul's success is extraordinary but his approach to life has always been the same: let's just do it and have fun at the same time.

 

Now, that quote from my yearbook is even more meaningful. Paul, you will always have a place in my memory and my heart.

 

Bonnie Boren

"Enough Left to Bring Home"

On that Monday morning last month when I received the email from Brian Burns that Paul had died, I just sat there stunned. I’m retired and living in Virginia, so I couldn’t rush into work to talk with others who had known him. Instead, I found myself reaching into my file drawer for a folder that I had kept since the mid-80s when I first came to work in genetics at Emory. When I retired, it was one of files I made sure to pack.

I opened the folder labeled simply “humor” and there I found Paul.  Hilarious photos of Paul and the genetics crew. Genetics-related cartoons Paul regularly distributed. Notes with his slightly twisted takes on journal articles. 

In preparing for today,  I looked up “sense of humor”  and found several quotes that have Paul written all over them:

" A sense of humor is part of the art of leadership, of getting along with people, of getting things done."  Dwight D. Eisenhower

" Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritations and resentments slip away….  ". Mark Twain

 " A sense of humor... is needed armor. Joy in one's heart and some laughter on one's lips is a sign that the person down deep has a pretty good grasp of life." Hugh Sidey

And finally,

"Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing."  William James

Always generous with his knowledge and time, Paul moved at high speed but with a grace and a sense of humor that added a real joy to the lives of those around him. His outsized energy was rare. It acted as a sharpening stone for the wit and wits of the rest of us. Can any of us who worked with him over the years imagine those years without him?

Recently I was shown how far his influence reached into my life as I’m sure it did for the lives of others. Shortly after learning of Paul’s death, I told both of my daughters. Lauren, now grown with children of her own, knew Paul when she was a Candy Striper at Egleston and when she worked in the genetics lab as a teenager. Yesterday, when I told her I was coming to Atlanta for this service, we talked about Paul. She said she had thought about him all day that day. She fondly remembered Paul including her in the hilarious lunch-time gatherings a group of us in genetics regularly had at Egleston. My younger daughter Erin said “Mom, Paul meant a lot to you all in genetics, didn’t he?” In that simple statement spoken years later, I could see how Paul created such a bright atmosphere at work that, at the end of the day, there was enough left to bring home to our families.

Look closely at the slide show during the reception and you’ll see how lucky we all were to have Paul as a colleague. He was a marvelously good sport which just egged some of us on even further. Several of the slides are from a roast of Paul in 1993 sponsored by FOCUS. Kris May and I were fortunate to be hosts at that event. Here was our toast to Paul from that night:

Here’s to the man who’s compassionate and wise,
Who cares for his patients and friends.
Here’s to the man who unfailingly serves,
And here’s where the nice stuff ends!

Here’s to the man who goes for the pun,
No matter how silly or dumb.
Here’s to the man who bears all the signs
That New Jersey is where he is from.

Here’s to the man who’s stayed in control
In the face of this fun run amok.
We hope you’ll be able to forgive and forget
Or at least tell us when we should duck!


Debbie, Shana, Nathaniel, in the coming years ,  those of us who were fortunate to have Paul as a mentor, colleague, and friend will remember his intelligence and his enormous generosity, energy, and humor.

Paul Fernhoff, I will truly miss you.


Sallie Freeman, PhD
Professor Emeritus
Department of Human Genetics
Emory University

Paul's Wedding Toast for Shana and David, June 21, 1998

Welcome: Debbie and I join with Mike and Fran in welcoming all our
family and friends tonight for this wonderful celebration. Of course a
special tribute to those of you who traveled quite a distance to be with
us. We hope that you have enjoyed yourselves and have a chance to see
this wonderful city. For those of the local folks who came in from
outside 285 we also appreciate your efforts and promise to get you out
before the morning rush hour, which starts in about six hours.

Unfamiliar as I am with public speaking, and since hopefully this will be
my only opportunity to speak at my daughter's wedding, especially on a
Father’s' day, I thought I would share with you my deepest feeling about
tonight’s event...” its for the birds.” Probably better said, “it’s about the
birds.”

Professionally I am often asked about my philosophy for raising
children. This is the story that I tell new parents. When Shana was about
three years old, we put out on our deck the first of our many bird
feeders. In a short time business was booming, mostly beautiful birds
and their babies, along with the unwelcomed squirrels who have been
responsible for destroying most of our bird feeders.

Within a few months, Shana was identifying all the species of birds, and
had begun to recognize their distinctive calls. (By the way all squirrels
look basically the same and cannot be distinguished by their calls.) This
experience with birds obviously imprinted Shana with her love of wild
life and the environment. However I also' gained something very
valuable from Watching the birds who are excellent role models as parents;

No, I am not suggesting that we parents chew their chi1d’s foods
first before feeding them. Simply watch the bird parents’ behavior
when the young are trying to fly. They nurture, encourage and support
the baby God-given gift of flight. When the baby bird tries its first few
flights, it usually leads to a quick, painful meeting With the ground. The
parents are there to watch, hover, and yes to nag, until the young one 
gets it right. Eventually the young bird takes off, and you can sense
parents’ pride in their child’s accomplishment. But the most important
observation is that the parents seem to know that they no longer need to
control their chi1d’s destination.

Shana, since you were a baby bird, I mean a young child, after a few
attempts, you always got it right. From the time that I watched you walk
into Beth Jacob preschool, from the time you took your first plane trip
without us, from the time you went to study for a year in Jerusalem,
from the time I moved you into your dorm at U of PA, and tonight under
the chupa, I always knew that you would get it right.

David actually joined our family several years ago. Today’s ceremony
only formalized that relationship. He has been a wonderful addition and
other than his passion for video games, an outstanding role model for
Nate. And Shana, despite the fact that David missed one of my lectures
during his first year at Emory, I understand why you chose him as your
life partner. I am confident that both of you will grow personally and
professionally contributing to your family and your community.

So yes this Wedding is for the birds...two heautiful young and splendid
birds about to fly off together. Shana and David, remember you have
proud parents and family watching you.  We will observe and listen, and
when you fly back to your old nest, We will be there to counsel, but never to control.
God bless and have a wonderful flight.

From a Grade School Friend

I was a grammar school and high school friend of Paul’s. I just received the news about his passing from Bonnie Boren. I can only say how sorry I am for his family and friends. While I haven’t seen Paul since he was a freshman at Rutgers, I feel a personal loss. He was a good friend and person then, and I am sure that never changed.

I hope that those who knew him find solace in the high esteem that he was held.  Please find some joy in the photograph I have included of our 5^th grade class. 

Alan Yood

Paul is at far right in the checkered shirt.

A Mensch And a Half

Thank you for sharing this wonderful blog site with all of us who worked with and cared so much for your Dad.  Here is my contribution to add, please:

I had the privilege of being Paul's colleague at Emory for 20 years. We taught together, brainstormed about galactosemia together, complained about politics together, and shared family stories together. Whenever I was really worried about something — anything — I talked to Paul.  Paul 's gentle manner and sharp wit always brightened my day, no matter what.  I miss him so much; he was a mensch and a half.  

Judy

Judith L. Fridovich-Keil, PhD

Professor
Department of Human Genetics
Emory University School of Medicine

My Cousin Paul

Paul was my older cousin, but growing up I regarded him as my big brother. Among the cousins in our close New Jersey family, he was always the leader, the straw who stirred the drink. His exuberance, sweetness, ever-present smile, and enormous physical energy endeared him to all of us.

I have two clear memories of Paul when we were kids, both involving money. After his Bar Mitzvah he called his cousins and friends to the stairwell of the synagogue. He then proceeded to gleefully count the money he’d received as gifts as we all watched with awe and envy. (It was at this moment that I decided to begin preparing for my own Bar Mitzvah.)

Paul, my sister Anita and I all went to the same summer camp in New Hampshire. Paul was a counselor, and soon after camp started he was looking for a way to make a few extra bucks. When some campers complained that they could only get their laundry done a few times a month, he concocted a plan to collect their dirty clothes weekly, take them to a laundromat in town, and wash them . . . for a nice profit.

With his innate entrepreneurial abilities Paul could almost certainly have become very successful in business or finance. That he instead chose a career in medicine is, I believe, a testament to his deep aspiration to be of service to others.
During the past six years Paul and I both helped care for mothers with dementia. He told me of his frustration, helplessness and anxiety as his mother Roz became increasingly impaired but refused to move out of her New Jersey home. When he finally got her to move to a care facility in Atlanta he devoted untold hours to her care.

Paul also called me regularly to see how my mom was doing and to offer support. He was always genuinely concerned and caring, and never offered unsolicited advice. Last year he and Debbie made a special trip to Portland to see my mom for what we all assumed would be the last time. It was a sweet visit, and I deeply appreciated it.

Paul, my wife Paula and I got together for dinner a few times in recent years when he came to Portland to speak. He talked about his work with obvious passion, but in a way that didn’t call attention to his achievements – he clearly wasn’t driven by ego needs. After one get-together I Googled him and was floored to learn of his accomplishments and honors. I had no idea how prominent he was in his field. Of all his remarkable qualities, Paul’s modesty and humility made the deepest impression on me.
I can still hear his soft voice and distinctive laugh, and I can’t believe he’s gone. I loved Paul and I will always cherish my memories of him.

Love,
Mitch


Mitchell Lang
Portland, OR

Georgia Health News tribute

http://www.georgiahealthnews.com/2011/10/remembering-brilliant-devoted-doctor/

A Cousin's Reminiscence (excerpt)

I have two small Paul anecdotes.  When Paul was a small child, he was the first of all of the cousins, and was completed spoiled and doted upon by all of his aunts and uncles.  My dad was always great with kids, and used to always say, "Paul, would you like some "s..t", spelling out the word very slowly and carefully.  Every time, Paul would yell out, "Ice Cream!!!"  My father seemed to think this was a hoot as he told the story for years.  Another family story was the time Paul volunteered to pick up Aunt Rhoda at the airport when he was in college.  Rhoda arrived in Newark and there was no Paul.  She called the house in Ridgefield and Paul answered the phone.  He didn't seem to understand why she was perturbed that he had anwswered the phone.

Paul was the patriarch of the cousins.  While the other boys would exclude me from their games, Paul always spent time with me and I always loved when he was around.  As I got older, his charisma was palpable, and he always lit up the room when we had a family gathering.  He was very much like his father Stanley, who I absolutely adored.

When I was in my twenties, my mother was clearly concerned about the caliber of guys I was dating (and rightfully so may I add).  So one day we had a serious conversation and she asked me to describe the kind of man I would like to marry some day.  I thought for a moment and quickly replied, someone just like cousin Paul.  My mother beamed.  Apparently this was precisely the correct answer.

Alas I did continue on my path of inappropriate boyfriends for many more years until I was ready to settle down in my late 30's.  Was it a coincidence that the man I fell for was a physician and had a strong resemblance to Paul?  I can't answer that, but I can tell you that there are other more important similarities.  My husband is a real mensch and the most loving man I know.  He is a loving father to my two step-children Seth and Serena, and the most wonderful husband I could have ever imagined.  He is kind to everyone who crosses his path, funny, and energetic beyond belief.  He has accomplished much as physician, administrator, manager and now as a consultant and educator.  It sometimes exhausts me just hearing about everything he has done in a single day.  It certainly sounds like I am describing my cousin Paul, and I know that my mom was so thrilled that I had the good sense to follow my instincts and settle down with Jonathan. 

I think about your dad a lot, and although we were not in close contact, I really miss him.  It makes you kick yourself when its too late for not helping to ensure more regular communication.  I am so grateful that four of Paul's cousins were able to come to Atlanta to be with you all, and that day has made me want to connect more regularly with everyone in the family. 

I will think of more memories and will get you any more photos of Paul that come my way.

Much love,

Anita

Anita Lang Burroughs
Glen, New Hampshire

National Gaucher Foundation "In Memorium"

Today I read a beautiful "In Memoriam" printed in the National Gaucher Foundation Fall 2011 Newsletter and cried.  Here it is:

"Dr. Fernhoff was an outstanding pediatrician, clinical geneticist, and respected and beloved member of both the Emory and Atlanta communities for over 30 years. In thinking about how one could ever fully acknowledge his life and achievements, it is difficult to separate the doctor from the man himself. There was no shortage of information available about his many achievements.
Dr. Fernhoff’s entire career was devoted to improving infant and child health. His work helped to realize widespread screening of infants in the state for a myriad of genetic diseases with therapeutic interventions. As a result, countless children survived without the consequence of severe intellectual disability. As medical director of the Lysosomal Storage Disease Center, he directed clinical trials to explore the roles of enzyme replacement and enhancement therapies for lysosomal storage diseases, a group of over 40 genetic diseases. These trials led to effective control of several of these disorders.
Dr. Fernhoff was also active in local and national activities in assessing the ethical implications of introducing genetic technologies such as newborn screening into public health programs.
In writing about the man himself, he was loved, respected and appreciated. One need only read the lovely tributes to Dr. Paul Fernhoff from the online guestbook at Dressler’s Jewish Funeral Care. People from all walks of life left messages, including friends, coworkers, associates, patients, families of patients and those who are grateful their loved ones are alive because of him.
One need not doubt the gravity of Paul’s effect on thousands of lives and the impact of his presence on this earth."
National Gaucher Foundation

We really miss him...we talk and think of him often...

I can honestly say that he was the greatest person I have ever known. 

Jennifer Propst, MS, CGC
Emory Lysosomal Storage Disease Center

A Short Tribute to Paul

This was put together to present to his close colleagues at the clinic.  It is a little rough, but heart felt.  Mostly for you to watch and hopefully enjoy then to use however you see fit.

I miss your Dad.

Doug Rice, RN

 

Harley Hijinks

  I worked with Paul for several decades as mentor, colleague and friend. His empathy, humor and infectious laugh kept all around him in good spirits, even in the darkest of times. He learned and led in the power of genetics to predict, intervene and prevent heritable illness and translated this into implementing the development of our Medical Genetics and public health programs aimed at accomplishing this overall objective. He was able to market concrete requests in very interesting ways. When our biochemical genetics lab had a need for new technology, specifically a new gas chromatography/mass spectrometer, he identified a descendent of Mr. Woodruff who obtained funds for this equipment and had it airlifted to Atlanta. The donors were members of the Harley-Davidson Motorcycle Club and wanted to pick this delicate equipment up and carry it in a motorcade to demonstrate the club's contribution. Paul adroitly prevented this disaster to the sensitive equipment by picking up the machine, but leaving the box with some artificial weight for the Club's successful motorcade. All were happy and the GC/MS works to date. I have a photo of Paul and me on one of the motorcycles with full grins and could snail mail it if you have an address.

Know that Nancy and I share in the grief of the premature loss of a great humanitarian, educator and friend.

Love,
Skip

Louis J. Elsas, MD
Professor, University of Miami

Paul's Celestial "To Do" List

Thank you so much for setting up this page as a way for people to share our experiences with your dad and celebrate his life.  Your dad was colleague as well as a great friend of mine for over 10 years.  He was the most genuine person I’ve ever met – he made everyone feel like they were his best friend.  I’ve been thinking about what he might be doing up in heaven, because we know he won’t sit still, especially now that he doesn’t have to sleep anymore!


This is what I’ve thought of so far:


Paul's Celestial To Do List:
1. Attend huge "Welcome to Heaven" party and catch up with loved ones.
2. Support us gently through our grief.
3. Join the committee that welcomes babies and children into heaven.  He'll probably be in charge of the committee soon.
4. Meet with God to discuss ways to improve the human body.  He had many ideas on this.  The two that I remember are: (1) the respiratory and digestive systems should each have their own tubes.  The shared esophagus is a poor design that leads to choking. (2) separate sex from procreation.  Procreation should be very painful so that only people who really want to be parents will do it.
5. Find the reigning racquet ball champion and challenge him/her to a match.
6. Sing karaoke, much to the chagrin of the other angels.
7. Meet with Victor McKusick to discuss interesting genetic cases.
8. Watch the baseball legends at work.  He is just in time for the heavenly play-offs.

I would love it if you would share it on the memorial website – I would love to hear what others would add based on their experiences with him.

His death happened so suddenly that I was not able to attend his funeral (I live in Syracuse NY now), but I will be there for his memorial event.

Aileen

Aileen Kenneson-Adams, PhD

Research Health Science Specialist

Center for Integrated Health Care

Syracuse VAMC

From Katie West

We are extremely saddened by the passing of Dr. Fernhoff. During my daughters first inpatient stay at Egleston, Dr. Fernhoff was able to walk in to the room and immediately diagnose her with Rubinstein-Taybi Syndrome, a very rare syndrome, not usually diagnosed until the children are between the ages of 5 and 10 years old...she was only 5 weeks old. He was such a kind, generous and brilliant man. As a shocked and scared mother with a newly diagnosed differently-abled baby, Dr. Fernhoff definitely eased the shock by educating me and giving me very high hopes for Brooklynn's future. So far, he has been right on with his expectations of her.  He never hesitated to take as much time as I needed, to sit and talk with me and to educate me.  He was a shining star in the medical field for sure.  He made a difference. We will never ever forget him. Hugs to the Fernhoff family and all the others who have felt this devastating loss.

Sincerely,
Katie West
Mother to Brooklynn West, patient of Dr. Fernhoff's.

Eulogy for Dr. Paul Fernhoff

Eulogy for Dr. Paul Fernhoff

Given by Karen Grinzaid

Debbie asked me to talk about Paul on behalf of Emory Genetics.  Thank you, Debbie, for this great honor.  Paul was not only my colleague and mentor, but also a special friend for past 25 years.     
Many of us are aware of Paul’s great accomplishments.  After graduating from Jefferson Medical College, he did his residency at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, spent 2 years at the CDC in Public Health, and then did his post doc fellowship in Medical Genetics at Emory.  He joined the Emory faculty in 1978 and worked tirelessly over the next 32 years providing care for children, adults and families with genetic diseases.  He was an excellent diagnostician but never lost sight of the need for effective treatments and disease prevention programs.  He was intimately involved with Georgia’s Newborn Screening Program.  He was medical director of our Lysosomal Storage Disease Center and was principal investigator for over 20 clinical trials to advance therapies for these conditions.  He also served as Medical Director of the Atlanta Jewish Gene Screen, a program aimed at carrier screening and prevention of genetic diseases in the Ashkenazi Jewish community. In his spare time, he served as Medical Director of the Pediatric Program of Hospice Atlanta and worked closely with the March of Dimes.  
I started working at Emory as a genetic counselor in 1986, before some of our newer counselors were even born!  I think the first words Paul ever said to me were, “Wait, just a second, I have to get coffee and then we can talk.”
It was right after he had his coffee that I knew that he was the go-to geneticist for practical answers and that, no matter how busy he was, he would be patient and thoughtful with his answers.  His patients loved him for his expertise and knowledge, but most importantly for his compassion and understanding of their situations.  He knew how to bring complicated information to the family’s level and, at the same time, help them cope with what was often painful news.  
Paul was our biggest advocate and our wisest teacher.  He lead us full steam ahead, but then helped us to slow down and ask the important questions.
Paul was also a great friend to me and many others in the Division.  With his warm nature and a laugh like no other, he made work feel like home and our group feel like family.   He was the one to sit next to at LONG genetics meetings.   If I had to pick one word to describe Paul, it would have to be a mensch.  For those of you who are not familiar with this Yiddish word, a mensch is a person of great integrity and honor.  Paul was a mensch in every sense of the word and that is how we will always remember him.
I believe that as geneticists, we are all fairly good at math.  If we add up the 80+ hours a week that Paul was at work or on call, his time traveling to research and other meetings, his time volunteering at various  events, and his time with family, our calculations show that he had very little time to sleep.  While losing him is painful for all of us, we know that he is now in good hands and that he will surely rest in peace.  
To Debbie, Shana, David, Nathaniel and the rest of the family, we know how much Paul loved you.  He bragged about all of you at work.  Over the years, we watched the transition of family photos in his office go from Nathaniel in his baseball uniform, to Shana at graduation, to what is now the Talia shrine!  Thank you for sharing your husband and dad with us.  He helped and inspired us in so many ways.  May you be comforted among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.
Paul, we will always feel your presence, your tireless spirit and your boundless energy.  You are not with us physically any more but your legacy will live on with us forever.  As Shel Silverstein says in his poem Years From Now, “I cannot see your face but in some far-off place, I hear you laughing — and I smile”.

Eulogy for Paul

Eulogy for Paul

given by Henry Falk

I speak as a friend and colleague.  Paul and I arrived in Atlanta at roughly the same time—mid ‘70s—and it was inevitable that we would meet: we both came for 2 year fellowships at CDC (me in epidemiology and he in the laboratory), we had both trained in pediatrics, we actually had both trained in Philadelphia at the Children’s Hospital, we lived near each other, attended the same synagogue, our wives had somewhat similar backgrounds eg as children of Holocaust survivors, our kids were roughly the same age; we both never got to stand in the back row when they took class pictures.  Lots of similarities, and we spent a lot of time together over the years
I’m not skilled at this.  Unlike the Rabbis, I don’t do this very often.  As a rule, I think it’s really hard to summarize or encapsulate someone’s life in a few minutes.    Paul is different.  Ask a thousand people and the details would differ but the essential outline of his life would be recognizable to all; to me it’s crystal clear in its key aspects.
First, as a physician, Paul’s was a life of remarkable achievement and success, and it didn’t happen casually or by accident; he worked very hard at it and he was very good at it.   We all have our internal standards for how we evaluate a good doctor; I suspect that at the top of most lists is competence and caring.  Ask any colleague who worked with him professionally about his abilities and skills, as a pediatrician, clinician, geneticist, and the responses would invariably be the same; he was very special.  Ask anyone who dealt with him about what he was like to work with and how he treated everyone—patients, families, co-workers, colleagues—and the same words repeat over and over: dedicated, committed, devoted, caring, thoughtful, kind.  There are no discordant notes.  This is as much unanimity or consensus as you will ever see.
Paul knew all the quietest places in my house.  What do I mean?  We all spent much time in each other’s houses: Passover seders, Thanksgiving dinners, Shabbat meals, festive occasions, meetings of various kinds, perhaps hundreds of times.  Paul often came late—he was always in the hospital, had a patient to see, etc—it really didn’t make a difference whether it was morning, noon or evening, there was always someone to take care of. Equally often, he left early, because he had to do a consult, review a case, see a patient, whatever.  But when he came he often would take me aside and he would alert me that he would be called and would need a quiet place to talk; he would size up the action in the house, see where it was quiet; he logged lots of time in our utility room where he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed.  His calls were often not short, not 30 seconds to call in a prescription or check on results of a test, his were often long talks with families or patients.  So, very committed, dedicated, related well, very caring, thoughtful; in this technological age of sound bites, he took the time to talk and listen and relate.  
Our professional paths diverged early on in Atlanta.  I stayed at CDC, He did pediatric genetics at Emory.   You have already heard about Paul’s accomplishments at Emory; I want to speak briefly about his ongoing relationship to CDC, and I am speaking for the CDC colleagues who are here this morning. Although Paul had moved to Emory, he never quite left CDC, and continued to work with colleagues there under both formal and informal arrangements.
Most of the people who initially come to CDC either go back into clinical medicine or stay in public health.  The people who manage to do both skillfully are very special.  Paul continued to work at CDC, on sabbatical, part-time, and in various ways over the years.  He contributed to the birth defects monitoring programs—CDC supports programs in many states in the US as well as overseas to track trends in birth defects, highlight emerging problems, learn about causes of birth defects; Paul was a valuable colleague to them, both in working on specific problems like lysosomal storage diseases and phenylketonuria, but also generally as a great resource for the birth defects program.  He also contributed greatly to the Newborn Screening Program.  CDC provides the laboratory quality control for all the newborn heel stick testing done in the US and worldwide.  It supports hundreds of labs.  I was just in India 2 weeks ago and they are starting a program to test for congenital thyroid and adrenal diseases and they are working with the CDC lab on this.  Paul advised on many aspects: which diseases to test for, how to go about the testing, how to work with physicians and hospitals to assure the testing would go smoothly, how to follow up on positive results of testing.  He was really a great resource, because he had a foot in each world.  He had the technical skills to be a great clinician, pediatrician, and he had the breadth of vision and insight to look broadly at how to implement state-wide, national and international programs for the betterment of all.  That’s a very rare and prized combination.
CDC and Emory are full of world-class travelers.  Paul as well.  He was really valued as a teacher; an expert who could convey his points clearly, forthrightly, very directly.  He ran training programs. He gave dozens of lectures a year, published widely, gave many presentations at major meetings.  Personally, It was easy to learn from Paul, because the lesson was clear.  And if I was wrong about something, he would smile, shake his head, tell me I was wrong so pleasantly that I actually enjoyed it.  All of us who referred patients and people to him had the same experience: very competent, very appropriate, very appreciated by whoever we sent his way.
On a personal level, as a friend, the essential outline is equally clear: he was open, straightforward, transparent, humble, no pretensions, friendly, easy to be with; he had good judgment, common sense, a sound view of people; everyone would have been happy to claim him as a friend and take great pride in it.  Our children had uncles, but they were a thousand miles away.  So they had surrogates in Atlanta who watched them grow, filled in the parenting gaps for us.  Paul was one such. It was fun to watch Paul with kids over the years.  He enjoyed them, and they equally enjoyed him.  They all remember his Thanksgiving turkeys and his barbecuing; my 2 year old granddaughter describes him as the man who grows hot dogs in his garden.  He was easy to talk to, fun to be around, all good things.   He could even chuckle at what to me were hair-raising events, he could take the long view when I was frustrated by the here and now, and he was invariably right.  He had really good judgment about kids and they sensed that.      
Paul also had a very charitable and generous nature.  When Rabbi Ilan Feldman and a number of us started Torah Day School, that was very challenging, especially for me; fund-raising was tough and I wasn’t well suited for it. I could look at a large group like this and instantly recognize all of the many people who were so forthcoming in those early and difficult days.  Paul was easy to remember.  He would readily volunteer Debbie’s time for Boards and committee meetings, because he never had any to spare, but he was always supportive, generous, appreciative, willing to help a good cause, and he made some thankless tasks much easier to bear.
In this week’s issue of the Lancet, one of the major medical journals with a worldwide distribution, there is a book review of The Oxford Handbook of the History of Medicine.  The title of the book review is “The Past is Never Dead”.  Knowledge is built on what came before.   Really great scientists often lay the basis for future discoveries, which couldn’t happen otherwise.  With what happened yesterday, we can have better insights and vision and promise a better tomorrow.  On a professional basis, this is very true for all that Paul accomplished.  Programs will grow and expand and improve at Emory, at CDC, and elsewhere because of Paul’s work; patients and families will benefit for many years; what he has done will never die.  On a personal level, that is also true, but I would phrase it differently.  Paul’s legacy not only doesn’t die, but rather it still lives, within me and within many of us who knew him; it will continue to encourage us and motivate us and challenge us. His life of accomplishment will carry on within us.  We will continue to learn and benefit from his life.

Eulogy for Dad

Eulogy for dad

given by Nathaniel Fernhoff

Thank you for coming and sharing our loss.

When my sister and I were kids, Dad loved to play a game with us.  He’d call us over and say that he had something to tell us.  Now, we had played this game many times before, but he’d persist and say that this time was different and this time he really wanted to tell us an important secret.  We’d come in close and with a totally straight face, he’d lower his voice and say, “A wet bird never flies at night.” It was nonsense for a laugh.

He was a funny man, and his sense of humor was disarming.  There he was, an accomplished doctor, an expert physician of high professional stature, but he was far from stuffy or unapproachable.  When he got braces a few years back, he did not get the invisible kind meant for adults.  He would smile wide to reveal a mouth full of metal braces that were highlighted with bright pink and green rubber bands. He insisted that the kids like it, but I’m pretty sure he liked it too.  Everything about him just put people at ease. He would beam in a fluorescent tie embroidered with giraffes wearing holiday sweaters.  If you asked him, he’d tell you that he just liked them. How could you not love the guy who wears that tie?

As witty and funny he was in conversation, the man could not tell a proper joke, but that never stopped him from trying.  If he was sitting on a particularly good one, he’d start dragging it out, adding totally unnecessary details, and then he’d finally butcher the punch-line.  I was teasing him about it once, I told him “Dad, you know you don’t have to spend so much time setting-up a joke.” He said, “Nathaniel, it’s called building suspense.”

My dad’s parents had a toy store when my dad was a kid.  He actually grew up surrounded by all the toys and candy he could ever want, but you would never know it because as an adult, he was obsessed with work and health food.  His father died when dad was only 19, and that stuck with him and really drove him.  From then on, he buckled down and focused on pursuing a career in medicine.  When I was figuring out my own career, he was adamant that the most important thing is that I find something I truly love to do.  No one has lived those words better than him.  He was committed to helping others and incredibly passionate about it.  He had an unparalleled work ethic, but it wasn’t just a job for him. He would say that his problem was that he couldn’t say no to a new project, but we all knew that it wasn’t a problem and he actually loved being busy with medicine and with helping people.  He worked tirelessly and happily and he accomplished so much.

After his father died, dad grew up in a hurry.  He looked after his mother for the rest of her life and in a lot of ways he had to become a parent as soon as he lost one.  In her last few years, she developed severe dementia.  I know it hurt him deeply to see her degenerate but he never flinched in his commitment.  He could’ve found some excuse to let his visits taper off, and no one would’ve blamed him, but I don’t think he ever entertained the option.  Every single weekend he’d go and see her and sit with her and talk to her no matter how it made him feel to see her fall apart.  He was a good son and he had enormous strength.

My father treated people with kindness and compassion, and that warmth extended to his pets and animals in general, but I’d like to share a story about his nemesis: the squirrel.  You see, he’d always loved birds.  He’d save breadcrumbs for them, and he set up bird feeders for them, and he’d watch them come and eat.  But squirrels would always seem to come and snatch up all the bread, break into the feeder, and scare off all the birds.  So he got clever, he went to the store and bought some garden-variety squirrel-proof bird feeder.  But squirrels are formidable adversaries and of course they found a way to get the birdseed.  This ignited an arms-race where my dad would buy some ridiculous bird-feeder that promised to catapult off any invading squirrels, and the squirrels would find a way to make a more daring leap from a distant tree branch to land on and exploit the one weak spot of his contraption.  This went on for years through countless iterations of different bird feeders and the squirrels always won. They were the hilarious bane of his existence.  One day, he was so excited to bring home a new feeder that was going to solve his squirrel problem once and for all.  He called it the death star.  The machine delivered a powerful but non-lethal shock to squirrels, but it left birds alone. He quickly set it up, powered it on, and waited.  Before long, the squirrels made their first offensive and the shock proved a potent repellent and they stayed away for months leaving the heavily fortressed birdseed intact.  Amazingly, he had finally beaten them.  He was so proud of the death star.  A couple of months later, my sister found a dead squirrel not far from the death star.  She was upset about it and so was my dad. Even though he diagnosed this particular casualty with old age and a pre-existing heart condition, he still had enough respect for his nemeses that he felt they deserved better.  He decided that he wouldn’t abide by the lethal risk to even his sworn enemy.  He was gracious in victory and he took down the death star.

My father was a good man.  He raised us right, he took care of us, he made the world a better place, and I feel so sad without him.

A Message from Dean Thomas J. Lawley, MD


It is with great sadness that I write to inform you of the death of Dr. Paul M. Fernhoff, Associate Professor of Human Genetics and Pediatrics, on September 19, 2011. Dr. Fernhoff  was an outstanding pediatrician, clinical geneticist, and respected and beloved member of both the Emory and Atlanta communities for over 30 years.

Dr. Fernhoff began his illustrious medical career at Jefferson Medical College where he was elected to Alpha Omega Alpha. He completed a pediatric residency at Children's Hospital of Philadelphia and then moved to Atlanta where he spent two years with the Public Health Service at the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) and also completed a postdoctoral fellowship in Medical Genetics at Emory.  At the completion of this fellowship Dr. Fernhoff joined the Emory faculty in 1978.  

Dr. Fernhoff's entire career was devoted to improving infant and child health. His work helped to realize widespread screening of infants in the state for a myriad of genetic diseases with therapeutic interventions. As a result, countless children survived without the consequence of severe intellectual disability.  As medical director of the Lysosomal Storage Disease Center, he directed clinical trials to explore the roles of enzyme replacement and enhancement therapies for lysosomal storage diseases, a group of over 40 genetic diseases. These trials led to effective control of several of these disorders. Dr. Fernhoff was also extremely active in the greater Atlanta community. He served as Medical Director of the Atlanta Jewish Gene Screen program, an initiative which provides carrier screening and reproductive options for young Jewish adults, and Medical Director of the Pediatric Program of Hospice Atlanta, one of the largest children's hospice programs in the country.

Throughout his career Dr. Fernhoff remained focused not only on preventing and treating illness, but also on the ethical issues posed by genetic testing. He worked closely with local and national organizations to assess the ethical implications of introducing genetic technologies into public health programs. In 2006 he was given the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Georgia Chapter of the March of Dimes.  Dr. Fernhoff's attention to the ethical, social, and medical ramifications of his work underscores what an exemplary physician-scientist and reflective human being he truly was. His professional impact is overshadowed only by the extraordinary personal impact he had on patients, colleagues, students, and friends. His presence among us will be sorely missed.

Dr. Fernhoff is survived by his wife, Dr. Deborah Finkelstein Fernhoff; his daughter and son-in-law, Drs. Shana and David Cohen; his son, Dr. Nathaniel Fernoff; and his granddaughter, Talia Cohen.

Eulogy for Dr. Paul Fernhoff, September 21, 2011

Eulogy for Dr. Paul Fernhoff
given by Shana Cohen 
September 21, 2011

Thank you so much for being here with us today on this most difficult of days.

My father was a modest and often self-effacing person. He never wanted a fuss to be made over him. As his family, we do not even know the extent of the accolades his many achievements have earned him because he often simply didn't feel the need to mention them. At the same time, my dad was a sociable and collegial person through and through, and he genuinely delighted in the company of others, as is evidenced by the sea of faces here. I am positive that he would give one of his trademark ear-to-ear grins to see so many people gathered here from all walks of his rich and varied life. He was driven to help others and he did so with a sense of focus and compassion that was completely out of proportion to his small physical stature. For such a short man, he has left some awfully big shoes to fill, and some enormous gaps in the fabric of our existence that will surely never be filled.

I came to the task of eulogizing my dad with great unease. In part, because he died so suddenly, which makes the thought of recalling his memory seem surreal, almost ludicrous. After all, he was just with us last weekend, seamlessly woven into the mundane details of his and our lives. His day had already begun: his clothes neatly stacked on the dresser, his keys and wallet neatly lined up next to his gym bag, his cell phone already beeping. The speed and force with which he was taken from us took our own breaths away, stopped our own hearts momentarily upon hearing the news. A great void just materialized out of nowhere; the infinite, unknowable, and incomprehensible  reached into our mortal frame of reference and turned ordinary life into a bizarre waking dream.

It takes time and space to absorb such an experience of  life turned upside down, much less to memorialize somebody whose presence we still feel so immediately, whose flesh and blood existence, with all of its shades and nuances, remains too real, too sprawling and complex, to be fixed into memories and anecdotes just yet.

My dad's life was indeed rich in deeds, and his indefatigable personality and tireless sense of mission helped him walk in a multitude of worlds, both privately and professionally. My dad's public role as a physician, expert, and advocate, have left a deep mark on us, and we could not be more proud of him. There could have been no better role model than my dad, a humble, irreverent, lovable, and loyal man who also happened to be at the center of some of the most important medical and ethical issues of our time. 

So many people have already left their thoughts and impressions about my dad as a physician, a colleague,  and community leader.  What has emerged is far from surprising: a picture of a human being, a mensch, who used his considerable expertise and status to improve the lives of countless families.  I can only begin to paint, with very broad stokes, who my dad was in private, in his own family, as a husband, father, grandfather, and son. Very unsurprisingly, the same ethic of responsibility, compassion, and humor animated him in these roles too.

As many of you know, my dad lost his own father at the age of 19. His mother, my grandmother, once told me that the last time my father saw his dad, there had been an argument over something trivial, the car, I believe, one of a series of arguments on this topic. My dad had left for his second year of college before the dispute could be resolved.  It was this immeasurable loss, which I am only now beginning to comprehend, that propelled him through his life with such drive.

Whether the regret he may have carried over this argument influenced his disposition, I can't say for sure. What I do know is that my dad and mom both are the kind of sweet, civil, "no drama" people you'd want at family reunions, board meetings, and as your parents. They didn't fight, they didn't hold grudges, and they didn't sweat the small stuff. They focused on the big picture, whether it was my dad learning the intricacies of investment so that he could provide for our futures, or my mom reminding me to "do what you love and the money will follow."  They handled our childhood quirks and phases with good humor and a light touch.

Beyond the usual turbulence of childhood and adolescence, I can't think of a single moment of being angry with my father. He was always so unassuming, so open to hearing other viewpoints, opinionated but never dogmatic, not a pushover, but so gentle in his disagreements. He told me that he came from a family of great debaters, arguers, lawyers, and others with a flair for the dramatic. And yet, despite his keen intelligence and wit, my dad was really not an arguer. While never being afraid to make a point, he simply did not "do" drama and conflict for their own sake.

My dad was uncommonly polite, and he was ever careful of other people's feelings. Years ago, we were in the parking lot of a restaurant when a domestic argument broke out between the occupants of a neighboring car. The language began to turn extremely colorful, and my dad stuck his head out the window and asked these worked-up, belligerent strangers---who were substantially bigger than he was--- to clean up their language because children were present. "Please." More typically, my dad was gentle with the people he knew. Work called often, and we were used to the sound of his pager or phone ringing at all hours of the night. I never once heard him answer it with irritation in his voice, only concern and a sense of readiness to address whatever problem or situation awaited.

As for us, even though at times I yearned for more time with my parents, my dad and my mom always answered the phone when we called, smack in the middle of their busy workdays, no matter how unimportant the issue we were calling about or how many times we did it. Neither my dad nor mom tried to dictate an agenda to us for how we ought to live our own lives. They educated us, nurtured us, placed their trust in us, and gave us the most lasting, often most difficult gift a loved one can give: the freedom to grow into the people we needed to be, at our own pace.  And while they clearly had hopes and aspirations for my brother and myself, they never imposed on us a rigid vision for how we should live our lives.  

It's hard to talk about my dad without also talking about my mom. After 42 years of sharing life with someone, it doesn't make sense to reference them separately.  On the surface, they maintained some longstanding differences. My mom sleeps like a stone, my dad was up on a dime, frequently insomniac. When we were teenagers, he was the one waiting up for us to come home--and occasionally grounding us when we failed to--, while she went to bed, knowing that the only variable under her control was getting a good night's sleep. He was forever supplying my mom with perfectly reasonable requests to get rid of things…and she was forever providing perfectly reasonable answers for why she would do no such thing. Yet for all their banter and exasperation, I never once heard them raise their voices to each other in anger. For all their differences, they functioned as a seamless team and they made their commitment to one another, and to creating a life together, apparent in so many understated ways. Living very independent as well as interdependent lives, they supported each other in fulfilling their life's work, helping people navigate through difficult transitions, be it in a hospital clinic or in a therapists' office. 

My dad loved animals, as anyone who has visited the house over the years can attest. From his beloved childhood cocker spaniel, Flippy, to his latest trio of "boys";  Watson, Crick, and Franklin (naturally); many a pet over the years has had the joy of discovering free room and board at the Fernhoffs.  My dad endured miserable allergies for years simply for the pleasure of dwelling with a succession of animal companions.  For 15 straight years, he loved and cared for a dog that growled at him every time he passed her (it wasn't personal, she growled at every human male except for my brother!) One of his few retirement fantasies involved getting a boxer. Yes, he actually said the R word, although I don't think really meant it.

My dad found so much simple companionship with his pets, and he remained fascinated with wild creatures too, the backyard birds, the animals on the cover of National Geographic, with the important exception of those creatures he called his "arch-nemesis", the squirrels. I can never recall a time when we didn't have a bird feeder, and as he enjoyed reminding me, I could name all of the backyard birds as a toddler, no doubt having learned under his tutelage.  Most recently, he had gotten my daughter a subscription to National Geographic Kids, and loved trying to get her interested in the pictures of wildlife inside…sometimes with success.

My dad was an incredibly organized and deliberate person. He did not make big decisions quickly or lightly, whether investing in a stock or buying a new dishwasher. The field of genetic counseling and medical ethics doubtless benefited from his capacity for deep reflection and deliberation. In his private life, he was no different. He not only began saving and investing early for our future, but made a point of educating me, beginning in adolescence and continuing into adulthood about personal finance and long term saving.  To me, these conversations about dividends and diversification seemed rather spontaneous but in retrospect they were planned.  Even back then I sensed my father's concern that he wouldn't be around forever, and his desire to prepare us for whatever the future might bring.  And they were some of the most enjoyable times I remember spending with my dad. I could ask him any question, however naive, ask for explanation of a concept again and again, and he always had a kind and thoughtful response. I am so grateful for the discipline with which he and my mom saved to provide my brother and I with an education, with a downpayment on our first home, with seed money for our own retirement and even for his granddaughter's education. His thoughtful planning forms the most basic material underpinning of our lives to this day.

In one exceptional area of his life, my dad did take on significant risks to life and limb: in the blood and guts sport that is racquetball. Playing racquetball at Athletic Club Northeast was a positive outlet for my dad's competitive drive, not to mention one more venue in which to kibbutz, and it gave him the chance to befriend a group of people whose lives were a little or perhaps a lot wilder than his own. I know some of you are here today and I want to honor the central ongoing role you played in my dad's life and all the joy it brought him. Despite giving him black eyes, enormous bruises, sprains, and a couple of knocked-out teeth. Not to mention putting ideas into his head about flying in a plane that one of you built yourself!  My dad clearly relished being part of this elite cadre of daredevils. While we never got to know you, my dad always came home with a font of stories about you, and they all started with "So, you know my crazy friend Larry...?"  

My dad was always the guy acting slightly ridiculous at family functions, putting a birthday hat over his nose like a beak, doing a "papa Paul dance" for my daughter whenever we came over (I won't attempt to replicate it.) His zany, silly sense of humor was perhaps best expressed by the humor columnist Dave Barry, and rivaled only by his unusual fashion sense.  A striped pastel shirt, camouflage khaki shorts, and shiny bowling-style shoes with no socks was just regular Sunday attire for my dad. I never much thought about the origin of his unique sensibilities, but I think it must have put people at ease and made him even more accessible. For all his accomplishments, my dad was by no means opposed to self-mockery and good-natured ribbing, and he could give as good as he got.

You might think silliness unbecoming to a grown man, especially to someone of my dad's expertise and stature. But far from being just a bit of a clown, my dad's playfulness touched everything he did and made him a warm and nurturing person to be around. It was one of the dominant traits I sought, and found, in my own spouse. He and my mom, by virtue of their personalities, created an atmosphere of humor and informality that touched everyone who entered the home, made holidays into huge, much-looked-forward to celebrations, and helped our daily relationships with our parents remain lighthearted and fun.

My dad's work ethic is legendary, as was his health-conscious attitude and commitment to fitness. The biggest lesson we took away is that the best and most lasting kind of self-discipline and achievement arise when you take on something that you love doing. My dad's passion was for helping children with genetic disorders and their families to live as full and informed a life as possible, but the same moral applied to whatever task we decided to pursue.  Work and play could be synonymous for them because they both truly love and enjoy what they do.

As for fitness, many of you know that my dad always remained highly conscious of having lost his own father to a heart attack when his dad was just 44 years old. He always aimed to live to see his children grow up and so much of his commitment to healthy lifestyle was grounded in that awareness. And as much as I wish he had not been ripped away from us so soon, I am so grateful that those extra 18 years of life--his own, hard-won "chai"--- were granted to him so that he could live to see milestones his dad never did; to watch both of his children graduate college and graduate school, to see me get married and to get to know my husband David and his parents as true extended family, to witness the birth of his granddaughter Talia and to spend the past year really getting to know her on a day to day basis. They had a real camaraderie and because of this extra 20 years, she may well remember him. She will be one more person whose life he touched and who can hold onto a direct piece of his memory and his legacy.

When David and I got married, my dad gave a beautiful toast. Reflecting back on my childhood love of birds, he compared David and me to two young birds getting ready to leave our parents' nest and make our own. But he took pains to leave the door open, so we would know that the first nest would always be there to welcome us back home. Last year we took him up on the offer and moved back to Atlanta, primarily so that Talia could live within a short drive of all four of her grandparents.

Of course, how we wish that my dad could have lived to watch her grow and flourish, perhaps even leave the nest herself one day.  But the short time he did have with her was so meaningful, and he remained healthy and agile enough to keep up with her throughout. He taught her the names of trees at Calloway gardens. He drove us down to Jacksonville Beach and let her bury him in the sand. He came up to Chattanooga and played with her at the aquarium. He sat across from her almost every Friday night and asked about her week in preschool.

His last weekend alive was, in my mother's words, "so normal, it was perfect." One of my final memories of him will be of watching him from the window as he sat with my daughter in the backyard. He was engaged in something so simple and yet so profound: helping her dislodge some play dough from a toy, while diligently trying to keep the mosquitoes off her young skin.  As always, I felt an immense sense of confidence and safety, knowing that he was there looking out for her; and joy too, as we looked ahead to all the simchahs I imagined we would be sharing together.

While the regret feels futile, I wish we could have been with my dad in his final moments. I wish we could have somehow given him that same sense of reassurance that he gave to so many families as he made his own transition. As it was, he departed from this life before we could reach him. In the end, all I could do was sit with him in silence, my hand in his, and remind his spirit of all the people who would soon be holding him in their hearts and prayers.

My dad always wanted to trace his own genealogy, and for a while we collaborated in an online search for long-lost relatives and the long-forgotten names of the ships that brought his ancestors to America. We have missed our chance to resume that work, to piece together all the many lives to whom he owed his birth and which have in uncounted ways helped to shape his choices and his destiny. Genetics is the study of the legacy that parents bestow upon their children, about the mysterious and wondrous ways that one person can live on through many. But, as my dad was keenly aware, there are so many ways to shape the future. He spent his life helping others make complex personal and ethical choices on behalf of their children, surely a calling that speaks to the transcendence of the human spirit over mere biology. And at the same time, he chose to live the years given to him in a deeply humane way, imparting his core values to his own children, showing us by daily example the importance of making a difference, pursuing a passion, living with discipline and integrity, planning for the future, and never taking yourself too seriously. He leaves us all with a tremendous legacy that goes well beyond our genes.