The implications of this were clear with the loss of my friend Bill Caldwell, who died over the holidays of a heart attack after golfing. Bill was CEO of Advanced Cell Technology (where I work), and one of the most decent human beings I've known. He struggled against the last day to cure human disease. When the company almost folded, Bill was the only other officer who didn't jump ship. He refused to give up and believed we could make the world a better place for millions suffering from horrific diseases. Indeed, a few weeks ago we received FDA approval to carry out the world's first clinical trial to use embryonic stem cells to try to prevent blindness. Accepting responsibility for the hopes of patients, Bill said "We do not intend to let them down." My regret is that someday patients will benefit from stem cell therapies, but will never know the sacrifices that Bill and his wife, Nancy, made for their well-being.
At the viewing, Nancy leaned over the casket, tears streaming down her face. She was with Bill at every step. When the company couldn't make payroll, she used her own money to pay the employees. It seems like yesterday I was at their wedding dancing with Nancy under the stars in her flowing gown. As Nancy guarded over Bill's body, surrounded by majestic floral arrangements, I recalled the words of Loren Eiseley: "There remained in his garden only the dried husk of an old plant among flowers reaching for the sun." But I knew that God or no God, that somewhere outside of our primitive thinking - of any particular spatio-temporal possibility - that Bill missed yet another golf game, and that he, Nancy, and I were sitting on the beach with a bottle of Champagne celebrating our recent success.
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