It’s been a while since I have pre-ordered a book and waited expectantly for its arrival. Ever since reading the first reviews of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot on several Science Blogs sites, I have been itching to read this book for myself.
So, when I drove home Tuesday night and saw the boot prints in the snow leading to the front porch, I knew the awaited tome had finally arrived. This morning I began my journey, guided by the able pen of Skloot, through the life of Henrietta Lacks and the incredible story of her tumor cells, first introduced to me as HeLa cells when I was a college student. At that time there was virtually no acknowledgment of the fact that these cells, a staple of cell biology research and teaching, originally came from a person, a mother, a wife, a daughter.
These blog entries will not attempt to be a review of Skloot’s book; more experienced book critics have done that and done it well. Instead, here is my reaction to the book “journaled” as I read—my thoughts and questions as a scientist, a writer, a woman, a mother, a daughter, and a member of the human race.
Entry 1 February 3, 2010
Several things captured my attention this morning as I read the opening pages of this book, but one stood out in particular. Chapter 1 is preceded by words from Henerietta Lacks’ daughter, Deborah, in which she talks about being the daughter of “HeLa”. She acknowledges the good that has come from the research done on HeLa cells, expresses righteous and understandable anger at all of this being done without any knowledge of her mother or the immediate family, anger that money was made on technologies developed from research with HeLa cells, when HeLa’s children couldn’t even afford to go to the doctor, and just plain exhaustion at the fight of it all. Deborah concludes, and you can almost hear her sigh as you read the end of the passage, “I just want to know who my mother was.”
Almost without thinking, I wrote in the margin of the page: “Don’t we all?” I lost my mother a few years ago, and I, along with my siblings, have struggled with much the same question, trying to remember who our mother was, to etch indelibly in our minds the image of her that seems to be fading daily: squinting at out-of-focus 8mm films, searching for any saved letters or messages, coveting every rare photo. I have talked with friends who have also lost their moms, and they say the same thing. One even said that there really wasn’t much physical evidence left of her mother’s life, that the evidence of her mother was really in the memory and habits of the people she interacted with. While Deborah Lacks’ situation is unique: learning that cells from your deceased mother’s body have been propagated over and over until they would weigh nearly 50 million metric tons if collected in one place is unimaginable, her reaction to having lost her mother is universal. She wants to know who her mother was, to know more about her, to know what she would think, to know what her voice would sound like. Even 50 million metric tons of cells can’t answer those questions.
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