Henrietta Lacks

Hello. My name is Henrietta Lacks, but when I was born on August 1st, 1920, in Roanoke, Virginia, my parents named me Loretta Pleasant. My life changed when I was only four years old. In 1924, my dear mother passed away, and I had to move. I went to a small town called Clover to live with my grandfather on a big tobacco farm. It was a busy place, full of chores and family. That farm is also where I grew up alongside my cousin, David 'Day' Lacks. We spent our childhoods together, and I had no idea back then that one day, he would become my husband.

On April 10th, 1941, Day and I got married and began our new life together. We eventually moved to a place called Turner Station in Maryland. Day found a good job working at a steel mill, and I took care of our growing family. Our home was always a busy, happy place. It was filled with the sounds of music, the smells of my delicious cooking, and the laughter of our five wonderful children: Lawrence, Elsie, Sonny, Deborah, and Joseph. I loved being a mother more than anything. Taking care of my children, my husband, and even our neighbors brought me so much joy. Our house was a welcoming spot for everyone in the community, a place where people always felt at home.

Everything seemed to be going well until early in 1951, when I started to feel very sick. I knew something was wrong, so I went to Johns Hopkins Hospital. In those days, it was one of the only hospitals in our area that would provide care for African American patients. After some tests, the doctors gave me serious news: I had a very bad type of cancer. As they treated me, something happened that I did not know about. A doctor took a small sample of my cells to be used for research. This was a common practice back then, but nobody asked me if it was okay, and no one ever told me it was happening. It was just something that was done.

While I was getting sicker, something amazing was happening inside a laboratory. Scientists discovered that my cells were unlike any they had ever seen before. They named them 'HeLa' cells, using the first two letters of my first and last names. My cells did not die like other cells did; instead, they kept growing and growing, making more of themselves. I lived to be 31 years old, and my life ended on October 4th, 1951. For many, many years, my own family had no idea that a part of me was still alive and helping the world. My HeLa cells have helped scientists invent vaccines, study diseases, and save millions of lives. My story shows how important scientific discoveries are, but it also reminds everyone that patients must always be treated with respect.