Saving a life changes a life.

Byline: Susan Palmer The Register-Guard

Gerry Kamp's voice goes a little ragged when he talks about the letter. It came in February, the telltale blue international envelope, the stamps from Germany.

He knew who it was from and what it was about. Still, he had to collect himself and settle down in a quiet spot in his north Springfield home before he opened it.

It was from Johanna Wecking, a 62-year-old woman who lives in Germany. Kamp has never met her, but three years ago, he saved her life.

It started with a small decision made 16 years ago. Back then Kamp and his wife, Debra, along with hundreds of others in Lane County, registered with the National Marrow Donor Program.

Marrow, the inner tissue of bones, produces stem cells that in turn generate the red and white cells and platelets that make up blood.

Marrow transplanted from a healthy person can help cure those suffering from a range of diseases, such as leukemia, lymphoma, anemia and immune system deficiencies.

Donor registries cropped up worldwide once researchers discovered that strangers as well as family members can donate if they share similar antigens - the part of the immune system that helps protect the body from bacteria, viruses, tumors and other foreign invaders.

The Kamps registered as potential donors even though they didn't know anyone who needed a transplant, which is what prompts many to sign up.

"We just thought it sounded like a good idea and that we should put ourselves in the registration bank of people," Kamp said.

It also helped that Weyerhaeuser Foundation had agreed to foot the bill for the blood testing for 275 donors - $55 per person - which is part of the registration process.

The U.S. registry, established in 1986, lists 6 million Americans as potential donors, said National Marrow Donor Program spokeswoman Helen Ng. The nonprofit registry facilitated 2,600 transplants in 2005. The program has helped with more than 22,000 transplants since its inception, she said.

About 40 percent of the agency-facilitated transplants cross international borders, with Americans either donating or receiving bone marrow or stem cells.

After registering, the Kamps heard nothing until about six years ago, when they learned that Gerry was a potential donor. Additional testing ruled him out, but then three years ago, they got another call. Once again, it was for Gerry, and tests confirmed that he was a match.

Donating marrow isn't as simple as donating blood. There are two procedures. In one, which requires anesthesia, doctors extract marrow through a needle inserted into a donor's hips.

The other process - peripheral blood stem cell donation or PBSC - requires several injections of a synthetic hormone that tells the marrow to produce more stem cells that are released into the blood. Following the injections, the extra stem cells are taken in a process similar to donating plasma.

Kamp went through the PBSC procedure, which required him to spend two days at a Portland hospital having the stem cells extracted. All told, it took him away from his secondhand book-and-video store for about four days and included a couple of days of aching bones and a pounding headache.

Kamp did it even though he understood he might never know the outcome. The donation process is an anonymous one. Donor and recipient can choose to remain anonymous forever, but a year after the procedure, they can choose to share their identities with each other.

Kamp chose to disclose his information, but he didn't hear back. At annual checkups required by the program to monitor the health of donors after the procedure, Kamp always asked about how his recipient was doing. "She's alive," was all they ever said.

Then early this year, the Kamps learned that she wanted to get in touch and that the donor registry had forwarded his contact information to her.

The first letter came in February, in neat handwriting and the careful English of a nonnative speaker.

Johanna Wecking, a woman from the small German town of Dorsten not far from the Netherlands border, was alive and well. She, her husband and two daughters wanted Kamp to know how grateful they were.

"We say thank you with all our hearts," Wecking wrote. She didn't say much about her illness, simply describing it as the darkest time of her life.

"I was just knocked off my feet," Kamp said. `I just sat there for a long time. I sat there thinking over and over again: `It worked. It worked. It worked.' '

It doesn't always. Kamp had read the research. Depending on the illness and age, the success rate ranges from 80 percent to 90 percent for children with inherited abnormalities to 10 percent for older patients with more aggressive diseases, according to the Federal Drug Administration Web site.

Kamp, who is not the family correspondent, asked his wife, Debra, to write back. She responded, answering Wecking's questions about Gerry and the family.

And then in April, just two days before the third anniversary of his donation date, the mailman delivered again, a package this time. It included some Mozart CDs and two novels - thrillers, just the sort that Kamp enjoys.

Best of all there was a picture - Wecking and her husband sitting next to each other and smiling. Now the Kamps had a face to put with the name.

"That's when I really got nailed," Kamp said. `The picture, the letter. It was extraordinarily powerful. That's when the whole real shock of the thing hit. I walked around the house in a daze, going, `Wow, this is real.' '

In the second letter, Wecking said that her birthday was May 24, but she regarded April 23 as a day of rebirth, the day she received the stem cells that began a new chapter in her life.

That letter prompted Kamp to write his own response.

"It was important to me to compose a letter that didn't come from the intellect but from the heart," he said.

"When I consider all that's wrong in the world today, this positive success makes the world seem a much better place," he wrote.

He gave more details about his own life, and asked more questions about hers. There's lots to learn. He doesn't know what illness Wecking suffered from or what kind of work she does. But he knows that she's fond of classical music, too.

The families would like to meet, but it's a long way from Oregon to Germany. For now, the exchange of gifts continues with the Kamps sending a Bartok CD and a photography book of Oregon scenery while waiting for another letter.

Gerry Kamp wants people to know about this happy outcome because he hopes more people will consider becoming stem cell donors. Getting on the list is no guarantee that a donation will be required. Debra Kamp has never been called. But the more donors on the list, the more potential matches can be made.

Friends have asked him why he chose to do it, not knowing whether it would help, and not knowing what the long-term health risks to him might be.

`They ask, `How can you do a crap shoot like that?' ' he said. "I wonder, how can you not?"

DONORS NEEDED More information on bone marrow donation can be found online at: www.marrow.org.