To friends and family and people we haven’t talked to in far too long,

We can’t believe we’re writing this. Feels fake. Like we’re in some sad Debra Winger movie or Christmas special, except we’re Jewish and it’s real and—although he is trying to downplay it—rather urgent: Our father is facing kidney failure. Stage 5. Which, we’ve learned, is the last stage. There’s no downplaying that.

Danny! Always the youngest, cutest, chill-est dad in the room! Who enters it with ease, chats effortlessly with whoever chats with him, and leaves saying: “That guy was a really nice guy.”  Which is what everyone always says after chatting with Danny. Because he is a really nice guy. The nicest.

• The kind of guy who is genuinely kind and inherently generous, fiercely loyal and quietly loving, who laughs at himself, and loves his teams (Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics) but won’t bother staying up past his comically early bedtime even for the biggest games.  (“I’ll find out who wins in the morning.”)

• The kind of kid who left college to go work with his uncles, then worked his ass off to help build a family business that supported his whole family. While also being really good at Pinball.

• The kind of landlord who never raised below-market rents on the educational nonprofits his Boston buildings housed.

• The kind of boss who has kept longtime employees employed— not because he needs employees anymore, but because they still need jobs.

• The kind of guy who has spent his life giving to others: Early morning rides to inconvenient airports. Loans to old friends without expecting to be repaid. Thirty percent tips. Wise advice.

• The kind of friend who’s still best friends with his Brookline high school friends.

• The kind of reader who does his part to keep independent bookstores in business--- literally can’t pass one without entering; can’t leave one without buying. Hardcovers only. Devouring them with the same gusto as he did hot dogs. (Pre-kidney failure.) 

• The kind of human who doesn’t hold a grudge, even when he probably should. (“I wish him the best.”)

• The kind of father with the right priorities: when his 20something daughter held a party at his house, consuming all the wine in his fridge, his sole complaint was that someone ate his last chocolate pudding cup.

• The kind of thinker who somehow knows something about everything, but doesn’t talk to impress. Instead, sits quietly at any crowded table eating, engaged, and when he has something to say, everyone turns. Not out of deference, just because everyone knows: When Danny talks, it’s usually worth listening. 

• The kind of parent who, when our beloved nanny was divorcing a not-nice guy and risking potential deportation, said pragmatically: “I’ll adopt her.”

He is the kind of person who has never taken anything from anyone, come to think of it. (Unless, he won it fair-and-square, say, on the golf course or at the card table.)  He is not the kind of person who asks for favors. But a kidney isn’t a favor. It’s a life-or-death necessity. And the grandest, most outrageous, Hail Mary ask there is. At 75, Danny is not at the top of any national kidney donation list. Never will be. Nor, objectively, should be. There are lots of people, younger people, with promising lives ahead, who also need a kidney. We do not know these people, but we hope each and every one of them gets a kidney, too. But doesn’t a man who has lived up to the values of his life’s promise — also— deserve a kidney? 

Our dad can’t wait five to ten years on a national waitlist for a kidney that may never come. His doctors told him he should seek a private donation. So that’s what we are suddenly, surreally, looking for: a private donation of a kidney from a living donor, which would allow him to continue to live a long, full life.

Apparently, neither my sister nor I are matches. We wish we were. We were ready to rock-paper-scissors for who’d get the laparoscopic surgery and, obviously, title of  Number #1 Daughter. And now we’re penning the strangest of pleas. Hoping we might know an altruist who might be a match. Who might be willing to get screened to see if you are. Who might understand what it means to want your father to live if not forever,  at least a lot, lot longer. Especially when he can. Could.

For some reason, we all have two kidneys—and yet: we only need one. As does, Danny. WE REALIZE THIS SOUNDS INSANE. Why would anyone want to give up a kidney when you could go out for dumplings or watch "White Lotus" or walk your dog or work or travel or run a marathon or be a mom. (Please note: You can still do all these things  after donating a kidney, with just one.) Maybe after donating a kidney, going about daily life would feel a little different? Why do we donate blood? Why do firefighters run into burning buildings?  

We asked our dad: What should we say— why should someone give you a kidney?  “Because…” he paused, and laughed at how absurd and futile and universally honest it sounds: “Because I have a good life, and I’d like it to continue.”  We would, too.  

That’s the thing: Giving a kidney to a 75-year-old-man isn’t just giving a kidney to a 75-year-old man — it’s giving a grandfather to four grandchildren who love reading his letters and that he’ll never say no to boba and who each feel wholly valued and unconditionally loved for being exactly who they are. It’s giving a father to two daughters who love that he still rocks turtlenecks like it’s 1987, and will affectionately call you a “moron,” and let you make  your own mistakes and then support the hell out of you as you pick yourself up; and a father-in-law to two sons-in-law who totally lucked-out; and a husband to wife of 52 years, who is the chronically ill one who he’s supposed  to take care of! 

We also realize: We’re maybe going on too long. Maybe saying too much. Not saying enough. Saying the wrong thing. We’ve never asked for a kidney before.  

Thank you for reading, and caring, and brainstorming, and maybe remotely considering. And maybe even be willing to get screened to see if you are a potential match. And maybe even ultimately doing something as selfless as donating. Your extra kidney. (What else is it doing?) To Danny. The Dad of All Dads.  And knowing: He—and we—will want to adopt you, too.

With love & hope,

Rachel & Julie

To find out if you might be a match for Danny, please click here.