Read Online The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot - Free Book Online Page A

communities: doctors were doing research on black people, lying to them, and watching them die. Rumors started circulating that the doctors had actually injected the men with syphilis in order to study them.
    “What else?” Pattillo grumbled.
    I told him I’d heard about so-called Mississippi Appendectomies, unnecessary hysterectomies performed on poor black women to stop them from reproducing, and to give young doctors a chance to practice the procedure. I’d also read about the lack of funding for research into sickle-cell anemia, a disease that affected blacks almost exclusively.
    “It’s interesting that you called when you did,” he said. “I’m or ganizing the next HeLa conference, and when the phone rang, I’d justsat down at my desk and typed the words
Henrietta Lacks
on my screen.” We both laughed. It must be a sign, we said; perhaps Henrietta wanted us to talk.
    “Deborah is Henrietta’s baby girl,” he said, very matter-of-fact. “The family calls her Dale. She’s almost fifty now, still living in Baltimore, with grandchildren of her own. Henrietta’s husband is still alive. He’s around eighty-four—still goes to the clinics at Johns Hopkins.” He dropped this like a tease.
    “Did you know Henrietta had an epileptic daughter?” Pattillo asked.
    “No.”
    “She died at fifteen, soon after Henrietta’s death. Deborah is the only daughter left,” he said. “She came near a stroke recently because of the agony she’s gone through regarding inquiries into her mother’s death and those cells. I won’t be a part of anyone doing that to her again.”
    I started to speak, but he interrupted me.
    “I need to go see patients now,” he said abruptly. “I’m not ready to put you in touch with the family yet. But I think you’re honest about your intentions. We will talk again after I think. Call back tomorrow.”
    After three straight days of grilling, Pattillo finally decided to give me Deborah’s phone number. But first, he said, there were a few things I needed to know. He lowered his voice and rattled off a list of dos and don’ts for dealing with Deborah Lacks: Don’t be aggressive. Do be honest. Don’t be clinical, don’t try to force her into anything, don’t talk down to her, she hates that. Do be compassionate, don’t forget that she’s been through a lot with these cells, do have patience. “You’ll need that more than anything,” he told me.
          M oments after hanging up the phone with Pattillo, his list of dos and don’ts in my hand, I dialed Deborah’s number, then paced as her phone rang. When she whispered hello, Iblurted out, “I’m so excited you answered because I’ve been wanting to talk to you for years! I’m writing a book about your mother!”
    “Huh?” she said.
    I didn’t know that Deborah was nearly deaf—she relied heavily on lip reading and couldn’t follow anyone who talked fast.
    I took a deep breath and tried again, forcing myself to sound out every syllable.
    “Hi, my name is Rebecca.”
    “How ya doin?” she said, weary but warm.
    “I’m very excited to talk to you.”
    “Mmmhmm,” she said, like she’d heard that line many times before.
    I told her again that I wanted to write a book about her mother and said I was surprised no one seemed to know anything about her, even though her cells were so important for science.
    Deborah sat silent for a long moment, then screamed, “That’s right!” She giggled and started talking like we’d known each other for years. “Everything always just about the cells and don’t even worry about her name and was HeLa even a person. So hallelujah! I think a book would be great!”
    This was not what I’d expected.
    I was afraid to say anything that might make her stop talking, so I simply said, “Great.” And that was the last word I spoke until the end of our call. I didn’t ask a single question, just took notes as fast as I could.
    Deborah crammed a lifetime of information into a