María was taking care of us at home: “Today the kids started a three-week winter vacation. María has all kinds of plans for them. The zoo and the circus, riding and movies.” She also went to the hospital every day to see Mom, leaving Cristina to mind Julie, so she was happy to let Doug and me visit playmates.
I had grown more independent. My Spanish had become pretty fluent. I taught some English to the fifteen-year-old gardener’s helper at the enormous estate across the street. He in turn shared his racy stories about chasing girls in Buenos Aires. Doug, too young to have a bicycle yet, couldn’t come with me on excursions around the neighbourhood, but he did come along when I went to visit our American friends Michael and Danny McKenney down the street. We played baseball in their front yard.
Sometimes, we went to Freddy Brander’s house, only a block away. Freddy’s dad was Swedish and worked for Caterpillar; his mom was from California. They had a big tiled in-ground pool, but during the time Mom was in the clinic it was too chilly to swim, so we played in the yard instead. We were just happy to get out of the house—it wasn’t fun being at home when Mom wasn’t there because she was so sick.
On July 9, Carol added several paragraphs to her July 8 letter, beginning with the fact that it was Argentina’s national holiday: “George is taking everyone downtown to see the big parade and then they are going to come and visit me afterwards.”
It strikes me as strange that while she was sick, this was one of the very few times Carol mentioned George in her letters—apart from his taking me to the opera and bringing her a parcel at the hospital. She never described him helping to look after her during her illness while she was in the clinic.
After nearly two single-spaced pages, she responded to her parents’ concerns about her health. Even here, she sounded upbeat, to the point of having an eye for the young consulting doctors who examined her.
You wanted to know if this lung trouble was caused by my kidneys…. Four consulting doctors have been called in (three quite young and handsome) and they have all agreed on what I have. I had a fungi grow on the lung which has now been cleared up. My blood count is up to normal and all that is needed now is time. Time to get my strength back. The muscles of my legs and hands are very weak. I am very thin. BUT, I am better and there is not the slightest doubt in anyone’s mind that I will not be back to normal in a few weeks time. There is not a thing to worry about.
She was heartened that the young doctors all agreed on her diagnosis—even if it was the wrong one.
We can assume that Carol’s use of the double negative in her second-last sentence above was unintentional. The truth was, however, her condition was getting worse. Reading this letter must have left my grandparents with many more questions, but they would remain unanswered. The lively chatter of correspondence between daughter and parents fell abruptly silent.
* * *
—
AT LAST, AROUND July 12, 1959, as closely as I can tell (the clinical record provides no date), Dr. Mercer decided Carol had recovered enough to be discharged from the clinic: “As the patient was left with the weakness as the only symptom and all other conditions had cleared it was decided to send her to continue rehabilitation at home.”
So Carol went home again.
But the disturbingly familiar conditions of her sickness quickly reappeared. In Dr. Mercer’s final observation in the clinical record, which he signed on July 17, he notes that “at home,” less than a week after she left the clinic, “Mrs. Blackstock has shown slight progression of the polyneuritis.”
“Polyneuritis” was the doctor’s last diagnostic word before he went on to summarize Carol’s physical condition in terms of her medical test results. Polyneuritis is synonymous with polyneuropathy, a condition characterized by damage to multiple peripheral nerves that run throughout the body. Symptoms of polyneuropathy include tingling or burning feelings on the skin and ascending weakness, numbness, and paralysis, starting in the feet, legs, and hands, causing difficulty walking. Causes can include, among other things, autoimmune disorders, cancer, certain pharmaceuticals, and toxins.
My mother was a slim woman to begin with. I reckon (the clinical record doesn’t say) that her normal weight was 110 to 115 pounds. By the time she went home, as Dr. Mercer noted near the end of his report, she’d lost twenty-five pounds. This would have put her at about ninety pounds. No wonder she looked like just skin and bones. Then Mercer added an ominous detail: “Today she has again started vomiting.”
Years later, Julie and I learned—from Dad himself—that Dwight Fulford, his closest embassy colleague, had implored him to call in another physician on Mom’s case. “For God’s sake, George,” he’d said, “it’s your wife’s life we’re talking about!” But Dad resisted the idea, saying that Mercer had threatened to drop the case if he consulted another doctor. This raises an unavoidable question: Since it was clear to anyone, even outside the family, that Mercer had been completely unsuccessful treating Mom, why didn’t Dad seek an independent second opinion, perhaps at the British Hospital?
Dr. Mercer’s diagnosis survives to this day. I recently had a search done of the records of La Pequeña Compañía de María. The local consultant conducting the search was turned away many times, but after persisting with the plea that, since the Eichmann records had been found, there must be documents for Carol, she was finally allowed to see a handwritten registry book kept by the nuns who had worked at the clinic. There was the name “Carol Blackstock,” inscribed as having been admitted on June 18, 1959. (I cannot reconcile the one-day discrepancy between this date and Carol’s account that she was admitted on June 17.) Her parents’ names were recorded, but not her husband’s. The stated reason for admission was “neurosis histerica” (hysterical neurosis).
With Carol’s relapse, Dr. Mercer himself finally admitted failure. He decided to hand off the case. In his clinical record, he made his final recommendation: “Under these conditions it is considered advisable to refer her to Canada and particularly to a neurological or medical service in a university hospital for rehabilitation and/or further diagnostic work-up.”
No more psychological theories. There was little choice but to return her to Canada.
I realize now that, for my mother, the house where we lived in Buenos Aires was a death trap.
6
THE LAST GOODBYE
I REMEMBER THE morning we saw Mom in her bedroom. It was July 21, 1959. By then, seeing her at all had become a rare event. For weeks, she’d either been in hospital, away on trips with Dad, or sick in her bed at home. When she was in her bedroom, the door was closed nearly all the time. She only came out to go to the bathroom, where we would hear her vomiting.
Occasionally, we’d catch a glimpse of her as doctors, nurses, and maids scurried in and out of the bedroom. It was winter in Argentina, so we were at school for most of the day. On weekends, María and Martín would take us to their house, still under construction, in Boulogne, or on excursions elsewhere.
Mom was sleeping a lot, and when she wasn’t I imagine she didn’t want us to see her looking so sick. Beyond that, we really didn’t know what was happening. Dad never took us aside to explain what Mom was going through. And probably that was her intention: to minimize disruption and worry for us. María was obviously part of the plan, helping out by keeping us occupied away from the house. So when she took Doug and me to see Mom in her bedroom that day, it felt like a visit to the queen.
It was a Tuesday, and María had wakened us a little earlier than normal. Doug and I got ready for school as usual. We put on our uniforms, then went downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast, toast with dulce de leche, a popular sweet spread we liked. María, who was keeping her eye on the clock, told us to hurry up, so we could see Mom before we went to school. I thought this was odd. Lately, we’d been leaving in the morning without seeing her.
María motioned to us to go upstairs, leaving Jul
ie in the kitchen with Cristina, who was preparing her breakfast. María would take Julie up later to give Mom a kiss before putting her on the bus for school.
Upstairs, María had us wait in the hall while she entered Mom’s bedroom, knocking first. Doug and I looked at each other. We wondered what was going on but said nothing. Maybe Mom was upset with us; she could be quite strict. She didn’t put up with a lot of nonsense, and if we misbehaved seriously, she sometimes gave us a spanking. Maybe we’d done something wrong. Or maybe Mrs. Toppie had told Mom that I’d said “Ya viene la vieja” (“Here comes the old lady”) to Doug when I saw her approaching the house. Doug, the little troublemaker, had repeated it to her, eliciting a scolding for me from our tutor.
María came out to usher us into the room. We entered timidly. There was Mom, sitting up in the enormous bed, propped up on pillows. I was shocked by how wretched she looked. She’d become severely emaciated with all the vomiting. She was so skinny in her nightgown, it was scary to look at her. Mom had always been a beautiful woman, with rich, wavy, shoulder-length black hair and perfect features; now her skin was sallow and her eyes bloodshot, with dark, deep-set rings under them. Her twenty-four-year-old face was lined from all the pain and exhaustion she’d suffered. There was something else in her expression too—a look of shell shock.
I noticed the pill bottles that had sat on her dressing table for weeks had been replaced by the mysterious coloured cut-glass vials of perfume we always used to see. Mom wanted to put the best possible face on this.
“Hi, boys,” she said, in as cheerful a voice as she could muster. “Come sit here with Mummy.”
She beckoned to us with one hand. Doug and I stood silently, as though nailed to the floor. We looked at each other, then moved haltingly toward the bedside, guided by María, who helped us up onto the high bed beside Mom.
“I’ve been looking at some of the homework you’ve been doing with Mrs. Toppie,” she said, flipping through our copybooks.
I began to think my fears about Mrs. Toppie were coming true. As a topic of conversation, she was a strange choice for Mom to open a cheerful chat with us. She knew we didn’t like Mrs. Toppie.
“Did you do this, Douglas?” Mom asked, in a surprised but pleased tone, pointing at some sums he’d done in his copybook.
“Yes, Mummy,” Doug replied with a dumbfounded expression.
“And did you do this, Jeffrey? That’s wonderful.”
“Yes, Mummy. Thank you.” I wondered why the rote conjugation of some Spanish irregular verbs was so wonderful.
It was all very strange. We’d seen so little of Mom in the last while, and now all this fuss over our homework with Mrs. Toppie.
Mom coughed a little, clearing her throat. “Mummy and Daddy have to go on a trip to Canada for a little while. We want you boys to look after your sister and do what María says while we’re away.”
So this was the reason for the fuss about homework, I thought: to get us onside with an appeal for good behaviour in our parents’ absence.
“Why are you going away, Mummy?” I asked. “When will you be back?”
We’d already been through some big upheavals during and after the move to Buenos Aires. We needed and wanted our parents to be around, and this trip back to Canada sounded worrisome.
“Daddy is taking Mummy to Canada to get her sickness looked after by the doctors. We’ll be back soon.”
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you sick?”
“Well, we don’t know exactly. That’s why we have to go to Canada.”
“When are you leaving and when are you coming back?” Doug said.
“We have to leave tonight.”
“Tonight!”
“We’ll be back as soon as we can. Come on, now—you need to leave for school. Give me a big hug before you go.”
I imagine Mom, after we left her, looking up at María and sobbing quietly.
It was the last time I saw my mother.
7
DEATH IN MONTREAL
NINE DAYS HAD elapsed between Carol’s release from the clinic and our sad goodbye at her bedside.
During that time, a frenzy of activity had taken place over what to do next. Dr. Mercer had recommended sending Carol home to Canada for treatment; George at last began keeping Ambassador Richard Bower informed about her condition; and Ambassador Bower, clearly seized by the urgency of the crisis, exchanged a flurry of anxious cables with Assistant Deputy Minister Leslie Brown in Ottawa.
At the time, I knew nothing of this, but the events can be reconstructed from George’s notes and from correspondence, official documents, and medical reports, even though our father never told us his version of what happened.
In addition, I knew many of the principal actors well—my parents, grandparents, and other family members—and later became acquainted with others involved in Carol’s story. I lived through some of the relevant circumstances during that time, particularly my mother’s illness. I’m also familiar with the travel involved, the locations where my mother and father found themselves, and the government and foreign service culture in which George operated.
We know that a consensus had been reached that Carol’s illness was extremely serious and it was imperative to return her to Canada. It isn’t clear exactly who made the final decision. Embassy cables show that Carol’s doctors, Ambassador Bower, and George all agreed that the long journey home was necessary. Meanwhile, in Ottawa, the Department of Trade and Commerce was feeling the pressure from Carol’s parents to take action. Whether Carol herself was a part of the decision, the record doesn’t show.
The trail of official correspondence begins with Ambassador Bower sending this cable to Ottawa on July 16, 1959.
MRS. BLACKSTOCK WHO IS SUFFERING FROM POLYRIDICULO NEURITIS OF UNDETERMINED CAUSE AND INVOLVING SEMI PARALYSIS OF HER EXTREMITIES IS MAKING NO APPARENT PROGRESS. LOCAL DOCTORS AFTER EXHAUSTING TREATMENT AND TESTS CAN THINK OF NOTHING FURTHER TO DO. I FEEL THAT THE DANGER OF PERMANENT IMPAIRMENT IS SUFFICIENTLY GREAT THAT SHE SHOULD BE SENT TO CANADA IMMEDIATELY FOR TREATMENT. AS SHE CANNOT POSSIBLY TRAVEL UNATTENDED I HOPE DEPARTMENT WILL PAY AIR FARES FOR BLACKSTOCK AND WIFE TO MONTREAL AND RETURN. BLACKSTOCK ANXIOUS TO SEE HIS TERM OUT IN BA AND WOULD RETURN AFTER MAKING NECESSARY ARRANGEMENTS FOR HIS WIFE IN CANADA. PLEASE ADVISE BY SOONEST CABLE.
BOWER DOMCAN
The cable called Mom’s affliction “polyridiculo neuritis” instead of polyneuritis, the term used by Dr. Mercer. At first it appeared that somebody simply hadn’t proofread the text properly—perhaps an indication of a frantic state of affairs at the embassy. The inclusion of “ridiculo” would not have been helpful in obtaining departmental approval for financial assistance, which was the cable’s objective. Closer examination, however, reveals more than a spelling issue.
“Polyridiculo neuritis” is a misspelling of polyradiculoneuritis, a recognized disease commonly associated with Guillain-Barré syndrome. Apparently, someone had come up with this new diagnosis, although Carol’s medical records never mention it. It’s unlikely that someone was the ambassador, who signed off on the cable. Polyradiculoneuritis is defined in the Miller-Keane Encyclopedia & Dictionary of Medicine, Nursing, & Allied Health, Seventh Edition (2003), as “acute infectious polyneuritis that involves the peripheral nerves, the spinal nerve roots and the spinal cord.” Such a diagnosis would have served the purposes of someone who wanted a serious, recognized diseased on the record, in case Carol never made it to Canada alive, a disease above suspicion, which could explain why she’d died. Moreover, if she really had an infectious disease, such as polyradiculoneuritis, Carol would not have been permitted to board the plane home.
There was also the peculiar assurance that “Blackstock anxious to see his term out in BA and would return after making necessary arrangements for his wife in Canada.” This was evidently intended to support the appeal to the dep
artment to cover travel expenses. But if Carol was in great “danger of permanent impairment,” why was it so important to George to see his term out? The reference to his returning to Buenos Aires after making arrangements for Carol suggested that he might simply leave her in Canada. This seems highly inappropriate, albeit with the benefit of hindsight.
Of course, we don’t know who actually drafted the cable. It was authorized and signed by Ambassador Bower, but heads-of-post rarely drafted their own cables. It might have been written by George himself. Among his papers, we found his drafting notes for another cable that the ambassador sent a few days later.
Ambassador Bower received a reply from Brown the same day.
FOR RP BAUER [SIC] FROM LESLIE BROWN DISTURBED HERE MRS BLACKSTOCK’S CONTINUED ILLNESS. WE CANNOT AUTHORIZE PAYMENT OF TRAVELING EXPENSES IN ADVANCE BUT MUST SUBSEQUENTLY PROVE HARDSHIP AND NEED FOR FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE BY DEPARTMENT. BLACKSTOCK SHOULD THEREFORE USE HIS BEST JUDGEMENT AND IF HE DECIDES [TO] UNDERTAKE JOURNEY WE WILL DO BEST IN SUPPORT OF APPLICATION FOR FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE
COMCO
Ambassador Bower replied to Brown the next day in a personal letter, undoubtedly sent by diplomatic pouch.
Bartolomé Mitre 478,
Buenos Aires, Argentina,
July 17th, 1959.
Personal
Dear Les,
Your prompt reply to my telegram about George Blackstock almost brought tears to my eyes as a reminder of Trade and Commerce efficiency. I am grateful to you and Johnny for the sympathy which I took from your reply.
It’s unclear why the reply should have almost brought tears to Bower’s eyes when Brown’s message was that the department wouldn’t authorize the travel expenses in advance. Brown had expressed his sympathy, but mere sympathy wasn’t much practical help right then. Canadian foreign service alumni will know that “Johnny” was John English, then deputy minister of the Department of Trade and Commerce, and Brown’s immediate superior.
Murder in the Family Page 9
