The Immortal Life Of Henrietta Lacks Part 7

CARREL'S NEW MIRACLE POINTS WAY TO AVERT OLD AGE! ...

SCIENTISTS GROW IMMORTAL CHICKEN HEART ...

DEATH PERHAPS NOT INEVITABLE

Scientists said Carrel's chicken-heart cells were one of the most important advances of the century, and that cell culture would uncover the secrets behind everything from eating and s.e.x to "the music of Bach, the poems of Milton, [and] the genius of Michelangelo." Carrel was a scientific messiah. Magazines called his culture medium "an elixir of youth" and claimed that bathing in it might make a person live forever.

But Carrel wasn't interested in immortality for the ma.s.ses. He was a eugenicist: organ transplantation and life extension were ways to preserve what he saw as the superior white race, which he believed was being polluted by less intelligent and inferior stock, namely the poor, uneducated, and nonwhite. He dreamed of never-ending life for those he deemed worthy, and death or forced sterilization for everyone else. He'd later praise Hitler for the "energetic measures" he took in that direction.

Carrel's eccentricities fed into the media frenzy about his work. He was a stout, fast-talking Frenchman with mismatched eyes-one brown, the other blue-who rarely went out without his surgeon's cap. He wrongly believed that light could kill cell cultures, so his laboratory looked like the photo negative of a Ku Klux Klan rally, where technicians worked in long black robes, heads covered in black hoods with small slits cut for their eyes. They sat on black stools at black tables in a shadowless room with floors, ceilings, and walls painted black. The only illumination came from a small, dust-covered skylight.

Carrel was a mystic who believed in telepathy and clairvoyance, and thought it was possible for humans to live several centuries through the use of suspended animation. Eventually he turned his apartment into a chapel, began giving lectures on medical miracles, and told reporters he dreamed of moving to South America and becoming a dictator. Other researchers distanced themselves, criticizing him for being unscientific, but much of white America embraced his ideas and saw him as a spiritual adviser and a genius.

Reader's Digest ran articles by Carrel advising women that a "husband should not be induced by an overs.e.xed wife to perform a s.e.xual act," since s.e.x drained the mind. In his best-selling book, Man, the Unknown, he proposed fixing what he believed was "an error" in the U.S. Const.i.tution that promised equality for all people. "The feebleminded and the man of genius should not be equal before the law," he wrote. "The stupid, the unintelligent, those who are dispersed, incapable of attention, of effort, have no right to a higher education."

His book sold more than two million copies and was translated into twenty languages. Thousands showed up for Carrel's talks, sometimes requiring police in riot gear to keep order as buildings filled to capacity and fans had to be turned away.

Through all of this, the press and public remained obsessed with Carrel's immortal chicken heart. Each year on New Year's Day, the New York World Telegram called Carrel to check on the cells; and every January 17 for decades, when Carrel and his a.s.sistants lined up in their black suits to sing "Happy Birthday" to the cells, some newspaper or magazine retold the same story again and again:

CHICKEN HEART CELLS ALIVE TEN YEARS ... FOURTEEN YEARS ... TWENTY ...

Each time, the stories promised the cells would change the face of medicine, but they never did. Meanwhile, Carrel's claims about the cells grew more fantastical.

At one point he said the cells "would reach a volume greater than that of the solar system." The Literary Digest reported that the cells could have already "covered the earth," and a British tabloid said they could "form a rooster ... big enough today to cross the Atlantic in a single stride, [a bird] so monstrous that when perched on this mundane sphere, the world, it would look like a weatherc.o.c.k." A string of best-selling books warned of the dangers of tissue culture: one predicted that 70 percent of babies would soon be grown in culture; another imagined tissue culture producing giant "Negroes" and two-headed toads.

But the fear of tissue culture truly found its way into American living rooms in an episode of Lights Out, a 1930s radio horror show that told the story of a fictional Dr. Alberts who'd created an immortal chicken heart in his lab. It grew out of control, filling the city streets like The Blob, consuming everyone and everything in its path. In only two weeks it destroyed the entire country.

The real chicken-heart cells didn't fare so well. In fact, it turned out that the original cells had probably never survived long at all. Years after Carrel died awaiting trial for collaborating with the n.a.z.is, scientist Leonard Hayflick grew suspicious of the chicken heart. No one had ever been able to replicate Carrel's work, and the cells seemed to defy a basic rule of biology: that normal cells can only divide a finite number of times before dying. Hayflick investigated them and concluded that the original chicken-heart cells had actually died soon after Carrel put them in culture, and that, intentionally or not, Carrel had been putting new cells in the culture dishes each time he "fed" them using an "embryo juice" he made from ground tissues. At least one of Carrel's former lab a.s.sistants verified Hayflick's suspicion. But no one could test the theory, because two years after Carrel's death, his a.s.sistant unceremoniously threw the famous chicken-heart cells in the trash.

Either way, by 1951, when Henrietta Lacks's cells began growing in the Gey lab-just five years after the widely publicized "death" of Carrel's chicken heart-the public image of immortal cells was tarnished. Tissue culture was the stuff of racism, creepy science fiction, n.a.z.is, and snake oil. It wasn't something to be celebrated. In fact, no one paid much attention to it at all.

CHAPTER 8

"A Miserable Specimen"

In early June, Henrietta told her doctors several times that she thought the cancer was spreading, that she could feel it moving through her, but they found nothing wrong with her. "The patient states that she feels fairly well," one doctor wrote in her chart, "however she continues to complain of some vague lower abdominal discomfort. ... No evidence of recurrence. Return in one month."

There's no indication that Henrietta questioned him; like most patients in the 1950s, she deferred to anything her doctors said. This was a time when "benevolent deception" was a common practice-doctors often withheld even the most fundamental information from their patients, sometimes not giving them any diagnosis at all. They believed it was best not to confuse or upset patients with frightening terms they might not understand, like cancer. Doctors knew best, and most patients didn't question that.

Especially black patients in public wards. This was 1951 in Baltimore, segregation was law, and it was understood that black people didn't question white people's professional judgment. Many black patients were just glad to be getting treatment, since discrimination in hospitals was widespread.

There's no way of knowing whether or how Henrietta's treatment would have differed if she'd been white. According to Howard Jones, Henrietta got the same care any white patient would have; the biopsy, the radium treatment, and radiation were all standard for the day. But several studies have shown that black patients were treated and hospitalized at later stages of their illnesses than white patients. And once hospitalized, they got fewer pain medications, and had higher mortality rates.

All we can know for sure are the facts of Henrietta's medical records: a few weeks after the doctor told her she was fine, she went back to Hopkins saying that the "discomfort" she'd complained about last time was now an "ache" in both sides. But the doctor's entry was identical to the one weeks earlier: "No evidence of recurrence. Return in one month."

Two and a half weeks later, Henrietta's abdomen hurt, and she could barely urinate. The pain made it hard to walk. She went back to Hopkins, where a doctor pa.s.sed a catheter to empty her bladder, then sent her home. Three days later, when she returned complaining once again of pain, a doctor pressed on her abdomen and felt a "stony hard" ma.s.s. An X-ray showed that it was attached to her pelvic wall, nearly blocking her urethra. The doctor on duty called for Jones and several others who'd treated Henrietta; they all examined her and looked at the X-ray. "Inoperable," they said. Only weeks after a previous entry declared her healthy, one of the doctors wrote, "The patient looks chronically ill. She is obviously in pain." He sent her home to bed.

Sadie would later describe Henrietta's decline like this: "Hennie didn't fade away, you know, her looks, her body, it didn't just fade. Like some peoples be sick in the bed with cancer and they look so bad. But she didn't. The only thing you could tell was in her eyes. Her eyes were tellin you that she wasn't gonna be alive no more."

Until that point, no one except Sadie, Margaret, and Day knew Henrietta was sick. Then, suddenly, everyone knew. When Day and the cousins walked home from Sparrows Point after each shift, they could hear Henrietta from a block away, wailing for the Lord to help her. When Day drove her back to Hopkins for X-rays the following week, stone-hard tumors filled the inside of her abdomen: one on her uterus, one on each kidney and on her urethra. Just a month after a note in her medical record said she was fine, another doctor wrote, "In view of the rapid extension of the disease process the outlook is quite poor." The only option, he said, was "further irradiation in the hopes that we may at least relieve her pain."

Henrietta couldn't walk from the house to the car, but either Day or one of the cousins managed to get her to Hopkins every day for radiation. They didn't realize she was dying. They thought the doctors were still trying to cure her.

Each day, Henrietta's doctors increased her dose of radiation, hoping it would shrink the tumors and ease the pain until her death. Each day the skin on her abdomen burned blacker and blacker, and the pain grew worse.

On August 8, just one week after her thirty-first birthday, Henrietta arrived at Hopkins for her treatment, but this time she said she wanted to stay. Her doctor wrote, "Patient has been complaining bitterly of pain and she seems genuinely miserable. She has to come in from a considerable distance and it is felt that she deserves to be in the hospital where she can be better cared for."

After Henrietta checked into the hospital, a nurse drew blood and labeled the vial COLORED, then stored it in case Henrietta needed transfusions later. A doctor put Henrietta's feet in stirrups once again, to take a few more cells from her cervix at the request of George Gey, who wanted to see if a second batch would grow like the first. But Henrietta's body had become so contaminated with toxins normally flushed from the system in urine, her cells died immediately in culture.

During Henrietta's first few days in the hospital, the children came with Day to visit her, but when they left, she cried and moaned for hours. Soon the nurses told Day he couldn't bring the children anymore, because it upset Henrietta too much. After that, Day would park the Buick behind Hopkins at the same time each day and sit on a little patch of gra.s.s on Wolfe Street with the children, right under Henrietta's window. She'd pull herself out of bed, press her hands and face to the gla.s.s, and watch her children play on the lawn. But within days, Henrietta couldn't get herself to the window anymore.

Her doctors tried in vain to ease her suffering. "Demerol does not seem to touch the pain," one wrote, so he tried morphine. "This doesn't help too much either." He gave her Dromoran. "This stuff works," he wrote. But not for long. Eventually one of her doctors tried injecting pure alcohol straight into her spine. "Alcohol injections ended in failure," he wrote.

New tumors seemed to appear daily-on her lymph nodes, hip bones, l.a.b.i.a-and she spent most days with a fever up to 105. Her doctors stopped the radiation treatment and seemed as defeated by the cancer as she was. "Henrietta is still a miserable specimen," they wrote. "She groans." "She is constantly nauseated and claims she vomits everything she eats." "Patient acutely upset... very anxious." "As far as I can see we are doing all that can be done."

There is no record that George Gey ever visited Henrietta in the hospital, or said anything to her about her cells. And everyone I talked to who might know said that Gey and Henrietta never met. Everyone, that is, except Laure Aurelian, a microbiologist who was Gey's colleague at Hopkins.

"I'll never forget it," Aurelian said. "George told me he leaned over Henrietta's bed and said, 'Your cells will make you immortal.' He told Henrietta her cells would help save the lives of countless people, and she smiled. She told him she was glad her pain would come to some good for someone."

CHAPTER 9

Turner Station

A few days after my first conversation with Day, I drove from Pittsburgh to Baltimore to meet his son, David "Sonny" Lacks Jr. He'd finally called me back and agreed to meet, saying he'd gotten worn out from my number showing up on his pager. I didn't know it then, but he'd made five panicked phone calls to Pattillo, asking questions about me before calling.

The plan was that I'd page Sonny when I got to Baltimore, then he'd pick me up and take me to his brother Lawrence's house to meet their father and-if I was lucky-Deborah. So I checked in to the downtown Holiday Inn, sat on the bed, phone in my lap, and dialed Sonny's pager. No reply.

I stared through my hotel room window at a tall, Gothic-looking brick tower across the street with a huge clock at the top. It was a weatherbeaten silver, with big letters spelling B-R-O-M-O-S-E-L-T-Z-E-R in a circle around its face. I watched the hands move slowly past the letters, paged Sonny every few minutes, and waited for the phone to ring.

Eventually I grabbed the fat Baltimore phone book, opened to the Ls, and ran my finger down a long line of names: Annette Lacks ... Charles Lacks ... I figured I'd call every Lacks in the book asking if they knew Henrietta. But I didn't have a cell phone and didn't want to tie up the line, so I paged Sonny again, then lay back on the bed, phone and White Pages still in my lap. I started rereading a yellowed copy of a 1976 Rolling Stone article about the Lackses by a writer named Michael Rogers-the first reporter ever to contact Henrietta's family. I'd read it many times, but wanted every word fresh in my mind.

Halfway through the article, Rogers wrote, "I am sitting on the seventh floor of the downtown Baltimore Holiday Inn. Through the thermopane picture window is a huge public clock in which the numerals have been replaced by the characters B-R-O-M-O-S-E-L-T-Z-E-R; in my lap is a telephone, and the Baltimore White Pages."

I bolted upright, suddenly feeling like I'd been sucked into a Twilight Zone episode. More than two decades earlier-when I was just three years old-Rogers had gone through those same White Pages. "Half way through the 'Lacks' listings it becomes clear that just about everybody had known Henrietta," he wrote. So I opened the phone book again and started dialing, hoping I'd find one of those people who knew her. But they didn't answer their phones, they hung up on me, or they said they'd never heard of Henrietta. I dug out an old newspaper article where I'd seen Henrietta's Turner Station address: 713 New Pittsburgh Avenue. I looked at four maps before finding one where Turner Station wasn't covered by ads or blow-up grids of other neighborhoods.