Calcif Tissue Int (1997) 61:261–262

© 1997 Springer-Verlag New York Inc.

In Memoriam ‘‘YOUR PAL, JOHN’’* John G. Haddad, Jr., M.D. November 18, 1937–May 22, 1997 John Haddad was more than a friend, he was ‘‘a pal.’’ In fact, that’s how he signed his correspondence with me for the past 16 years: ‘‘Your Pal, John.’’ For me, the story began in 1981. I was a senior resident in Orthopaedic Surgery and had just been offered a faculty position at Penn by Dr. Carl Brighton. I knew little about bone and mineral metabolism, a field that would later become my specialty. I was assured by Dr. Brighton that I had nothing to worry about, because he was going to introduce me to John Haddad, a full Professor of Medicine and Chief of the Division of Endocrinology. Carl said that John would help me—an understatement if there ever was one. But, I was a little skeptical. I thought I was about to meet another stuffy, east coast professor. Dr. Brighton walked me over to Dr. Haddad’s office—a small cluttered warren with neat piles of papers, penguin-decorated coffee cups, and tons of books. Somewhere in this eclectic den was the famous professor I was about to meet. We entered. ‘‘Fred,’’ said Carl, ‘‘I would like you to meet Dr. John Haddad, Chief of Endocrinology.’’ John quickly extinguished his cigarette, rose slowly from his reclining desk chair, stretched out his hand, and with a broad smile and gregarious greeting, issued a most uncharacteristic professional salutation: ‘‘Haddad’s the name; hormones the game.’’ ‘‘Care for some coffee?’’ ‘‘A smoke?’’ he added. I took the coffee; the first of what was to be many such meetings in the decades ahead. John and I often saw patients together. For years, we had a clinic together. We were lunch buddies several times a week, and drank coffee nearly every day. On good days, his densely layered thought-provoking wit was highly reminis-

cent of Dennis Potter’s Singing Detective. On bad days, he’d pay homage to Eugene O’Neill and refer to the ‘‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams.’’ On most days, he would talk of the human drama and comedy as ‘‘The Slice of Life.’’ And that slice often revolved around the coffee pot. We became such good friends that we would often kid each other in public. And, when others would stand by horrified at our indiscretions, we would laugh uproariously at ourselves. John was indeed a funny man with many gifts. And many of those gifts were serious ones. He was a world-class scientist and physician who reached the pinnacle of his field in bone and mineral metabolism. He was Chairman of The Division of Endocrinology at The University of Pennsylvania for 16 years, and a past President of The American Society for Bone and Mineral Research. He served diligently on the Board of Directors of The Paget Foundation and The National Osteoporosis Foundation, and lobbied effectively in Congress for increased federal funding for bone and mineral research. He helped make osteoporosis a household name, and brought Pagets Disease into the living room. He developed the assay that is used throughout the world for measuring Vitamin D in the blood, and most recently was probing the complexities of Vitamin D-binding proteins and their relationship to the immune system. He contributed vitally to the understanding and treatment of a legion of bone diseases:

* From a Memorial Service held at the University of Pennsylvania, Friday, May 30, 1997.

John Haddad was a man of probing honesty and integrity—a sense of fairness in the courtroom of common sense.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

osteoporosis osteomalacia rickets Pagets disease osteopetrosis primary, secondary and tertiary hyperparathyroidism renal osteodystrophy hypercortisolism, and others

Yet, no matter how scholarly he got, there was always the ephemeral side of John. How I remember the fanciful turn of phrase that he used and admired in an essay on vitamin D metabolism that appeared in The New England Journal of Medicine: ‘‘Vitamin D: Solar rays, the Milky Way, or both?’’ ‘‘Isn’t that delicious?’’ He would ask me with a smile.

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He had probity, candor, wit, and avuncular wisdom. He was the most unpretentious man I have ever met. He loved the richness of existence, the fabric of life, the evolving drama, the deeply held feelings, the textures of the day. He loved ‘‘to swap a few yarns,’’ as he would say. Words like ‘‘tweed, corduroy and gaberdine,’’ were not just clothes to John; they were shibboleths in his lexicon of meaning, and he used them with gusto to describe the textures and weaves he was feeling in life. For the son of Lebanese-French parents, John could sport the best Yiddish accent this side of the Catskills, a favorite place of his. Henny Youngman one-liners would roll off his tongue like butter, and the revisited punchline of an old joke would send friends rolling with laughter. When John entered the room, you got ready for laughter and wit, and a little jazz. He was his own Henny Youngman, Charlie Parker, and Edward R. Murrow in one. He was a one-liner, beebopper, physician-scientist, and always on the mark. His sense of schmooze infiltrated right to the core of his brilliant scientific work. One day, after explaining to me the molecular genetics of Vitamin D-binding proteins, he did a little riff, and went into a 20-minute schpiel that would have been the highlight of any delicatessen, on why a turkey club sandwich was the perfect creation for the tastebuds and the palate. Our conversations ranged far and wide. He spoke often and lovingly of his wife, Julie; his daughter, Margaret; and his son, John George. He spoke at length about his own mother, father, and sister, who so shaped his life and his sense of caring. Family was important to John. At the time of his death, he was in Paris to visit a niece and her child. For John, life was not an opera, a short story, or a novel. It was a song in the middle of a drama; even better if accompanied by a tenor-sax or the catchy melody of a favorite Broadway show. The George M. Cohan song, ‘‘Always Leave Them Laughing When You Say Goodbye,’’ could have been his theme song. I can hear him whistling the tune as he sauntered down the back streets of New Orleans to listen to some late-night jazz. It is difficult to estimate the true contributions of a man who was so enmeshed in the fabric of our lives.

In Memoriam

During lunch several years ago at the Faculty Club, while reflecting on the sad loss of another dear colleague, Dr. Maurice Attie, John told me that he would like to be remembered as ‘‘A nice man.’’ He paused and smiled, looked at me right in the eyes, and said, ‘‘Nice counts.’’ I will never forget that. John Haddad was a man for all seasons, and for all occasions. What a famous poet said at the funeral of Andre Sakarov, could be said of John. ‘‘He changed our world; not many do.’’ The poet, John Updike, said, ‘‘And another regrettable thing about death is the ceasing of your own brand of magic, which took a whole life to develop and market—the quips, the witticisms, the slant adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest the lip of the stage, their faces blanched in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears. The jokes over the phone. The memories packed in the rapid-access file. The whole act. Who will do it again? That’s it: No one!’’ I will leave you this afternoon with—‘‘a slice of life,’’ as John would have described it. It is a postcard he sent to me during his last trip to Paris several years ago. He had visited the home of Honore´ de Balzac, and he admired the coffee pot that Balzac had used to brew coffee and keep him awake all night. John was, of course, reflecting about our own frequent coffee conversations. He sent me a picture of Balzac’s famous coffee pot, and wrote: ‘‘Dear Fred: Here it is! The container that led to Honore´’s caffeine riots. It’s innocent appearance gives not a clue to the potent brew therein, nor its powerful effects on the revelation of the human comedy. I will fill you in en face at our next caffeine encounter. Au revoir. Your Pal, John.’’

Frederick S. Kaplan, M.D. Isaac and Rose Nassau Professor of Orthopaedic Molecular Medicine Department of Orthopaedic Surgery The University of Pennsylvania Silverstein Two 3400 Spruce St. Philadelphia, PA 19104, USA