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  ICE BOUND

  A Doctor’s Incredible Battle

  for Survival at the South Pole

  Dr. Jerri Nielsen with Maryanne Vollers

  Jerri Nielsen was a forty-six-year-old doctor working in Ohio when she made the decision to take a year’s sabbatical at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station on Antarctica, the most remote and perilous place on Earth. The “Polies,” as the inhabitants are known, live in almost total darkness for six months of the year, in winter temperatures as low as 100 degrees below zero—with no way in or out before the spring.

  During the long winter of 1999, Dr. Nielsen, solely responsible for the mental and physical fitness of a team of researchers, construction workers, and support staff, discovered a lump in her breast. Consulting via E-mail with doctors in the United States, she performed a biopsy on herself, and in July began chemotherapy treatments to ensure her survival until conditions permitted her rescue in October. A daring rescue by the Air National Guard ensued, who landed, dropped off a replacement physician, and minutes later took off with Dr. Nielsen.

  This is Dr. Nielsen’s own account of her experience at the Pole, the sea change as she becomes “of the Ice,” and her realization that she would rather be on Antarctica than anywhere else on earth. It is also a thrilling adventure of researchers and scientists embattled by a hostile environment; a penetrating exploration of the dynamics of an isolated, intensely connected community faced with adversity; and, at its core, a powerfully moving drama of love and loss, of one woman’s voyage of self-discovery through an extraordinary struggle for survival.

  Jacket design: Andrea Ho

  Jacket photograph of Dr. Nielsen

  at the South Pole : John Penney

  Whyperion I

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  ICE BOUND

  A Doctor’s Incredible

  Battle for Survival

  at the South Pole

  Dr. Jerri Nielsen

  with Maryanne Vollers

  The author and publisher wish to thank the following for permission to reprint copyright material:

  Scribner, a Division of Simon & Schuster, for permission to reprint the poems “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death” and “For Anne Gregory” by W.B. Yeats from The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats, Revised Second Edition edited by Richard J. Finneran (New York: Scribner, 1996); Veronica A. Shoffstall for permission to reprint “After a While” by Veronica A. Shoffstall :1971; Wallflower Music (Admin, by Copyright Management) for permission to reprint material from “Flowers on the Wall” by the Statler Brothers: 1965 Wallflower Music; Universal-Northern Music Co., a division of Universal Studios, Inc. (ASCAP) for permission to reprint “Wild Women Don’t Have the Blues”, by Ida Cox : 1924

  Copyright renewed International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved.

  Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders, and the publishers will be happy to correct mistakes or omissions in future editions.

  Copyright : 2001 Dr. Jerri Nielsen

  Map by Mike Reagan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. Printed in the United States of America. For information address: Hyperion, 77 W. 66th Street, New York, New York 10023-6298.

  ISBN: 0-7868-6684-5

  To the brave men and women who risked

  their lives to save me.

  And for the many, behind the scenes,

  who worked and prayed and supported.

  To those who stayed with me during the dark days.

  Here is my heart.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Maryanne Vollers who helped me to tell my story. It is a vulnerable thing to open one’s journals, personal letters and soul to a stranger; and an honor that the result would be to gain such a remarkable friend.

  I would also like to thank Big John Penney who shared personal correspondence and diaries to provide a special prospective, and who worked as my assistant and sounding board to help me to remember.

  Thanks are due to the following: to Lisa Beal, torn Carlson, Charlie Kaminski, Floyd Washington, Tim Briggs and Dar Gibson for providing technical details; to Polie friends who gave me permission to speak of their medical problems—I consider that permission to be a great personal gift to me—because to describe a physician’s life without detailing how these concerns impacted me would be hollow; to Kathy Miller, M.D. for everything; to Lance Armstrong for sharing his struggle; to Joe Armstrong, Hilary Bass, Melanie Bowden, Tina Brown, Jonathan Burnham, Farley Chase, Susan Mercandetti, Kristin Powers, Carol Shookhoff, Kathy Schneider, and Margaret Wolf at Talk Miramax Books for excellent editorial and publication assistance; to Robert Barnett, Kathleen Ryan, Devereux Chatillon, and Jim King for expert legal advice; to Joel Michalski, Chris Rock, and John Penney for photos; to my friends and family in the world who shared their hearts and private letters for the book; to the United States government, National Science Foundation, Antarctic Support Associates for deciding to save me, and to the Air National Guard and US Air Force for rescuing me.

  My deepest gratitude belongs to my family: To my brother, Eric Cahill and his wife Dee Dee, who acting as my business managers, made this project easier for me to accomplish while ill; to Phil and Lorine Cahill, my parents, for unwavering support; and to my brother, Scott Cahill. for his dreams when I had lost My own.

  Every one of the events described in this book actually took place, and in almost all cases I have rendered them exactly as they happened. In a few instances I have altered names and descriptions of people and places to protect the privacy of my patients, and those who preferred not to be identified in this book. Some of the emails reprinted here have been lightly edited and shortened for the sake of clarity. I have done my best to recount this extraordinary adventure as openly and honestly as possible. To my continuing sense of wonder and awe, all of it is true.

  I cannot rest from travel; I will drink

  Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed

  Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those

  That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

  Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

  Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;

  For always roaming with a hungry heart…

  —From “Ulysses”

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  Who’s Who of the Amundsen-Scott

  WINTEROVER CREW, 1999

  There were forty-one people, including Dr. Jerri Nielsen, who wintered at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station in 1999-What follows is an abridged list of the crew, as some participants do not appear in the book, and others prefer not to be named.

  Donna Aldrich: Cook

  Bob Allard (“Boston Bob”): Electrician Foreman

  Dennis Aukerman (“Dennis the Plumber”): Plumber

  Bai Xinhua: Nuclear Physicist (AMANDA project)

  Lisa Beal: Senior Computer Technician

  Wendy Beeler: Cook

  Yubecca Bragg: Materials Person

  Tim Briggs (“Tool Man Tim”): Construction Coordinator

  Thomas Carlson (“Comms Thom”): Communications Technician/Electrical Engineer

  Andy Clarke: Science Technician for National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA)

  John Davis (“Middle John”): Maintenance Technician for Center for Astrophysical Research in Antarctica (CARA)

  James Evans (“Pic”): Heavy Equipment Operator/Hazardous Materials

  Walter Fischel (“Welder Walt”): Ironworker

  Larry Fordyce: Carpenter

  Loree Galpin: Meteorologist

  Dar Gibson (“Weatherboy”): Meteorologist

  G
reg Griffin (“Giant Greg”): Astronomer, CARA (VIPER telescope)

  Roger Hooker: Electrician

  William Johnson: Carpenter

  Charles Kaminski (“Choo Choo Charlie”): Astronomer, CARA (Spirex telescope)

  Paul Kindl (“Pakman”): Electrician

  Ken Lobe: Maintenance Specialist

  Liza Lobe: Inventory Control Specialist

  Mike Masterman (“Master Mike”): Winter Site Manager; Radio Electronics Engineer

  Joel Michalski: NOAA officer (physicist)

  George (Thom) Miller (“Power Plant Thom”): Power Plant Mechanic

  Reza Mosaddeque: Science Technician

  Roopesh Ojha (“Roo”): Astronomer, CARA (AST/RO radio telescope)

  John Penney (“Big”): Heavy Equipment Mechanic

  Heidi Schernthanner: Heavy Equipment Operator

  Kirk Spelman (“Captain Kirk”): Senior Materials Person

  Nick Starinski (“Nuclear Nick”): Nuclear Physicist (AMANDA project)

  Floyd Washington: Maintenance Specialist

  CONTENTS

  PRELUDE

  I : The Geographic Cure

  II : Through the Looking Glass

  III : Great God, This Is an Awful Place

  IV : The Hard Truth Medical Centre

  V : Going Polar

  VI : An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

  VII : Three Shades of Twilight

  VIII : Darkness, Darkness

  IX : The Sea Change

  X : The Other Side of Winter

  XI : From Hell on Earth

  XII : ClubMed

  XIII : The Longest Month

  XIV : Endurance

  XV : Deliverance

  EPILOGUE

  PRELUDE

  AMUNDSEN-SCOTT SOUTH POLE STATION,

  OCTOBER 16, 1999.

  Today I take my last snowmobile ride in Antarctica—from the icecrusted dome where I have lived for eleven months, to the edge of an airfield plowed out of the drifting snow. Normally I could walk the distance in a few minutes, but I am too weak. My best friend, Big John Penney, drives me up the mountain of snow we call Heart Attack Hill to the edge of the flight line. We are bundled in our red parkas and polar boots, extreme-cold-weather gear that weighs nearly twenty pounds. I’m wrapped in so many layers of fleece and down that I can barely move. My hair was long and blond when I arrived at the Pole, but now my head is completely bald, and coddled like an egg in a soft wool hat beneath my hood. I wear goggles and a neck gaiter up to my eyes to keep my skin from freezing. It is nearly sixty degrees below zero.

  Big John helps me off the machine and we stand together for a moment, staring into a solid wall of blowing snow. The winds are steady at twenty knots, causing a total whiteout over the station.

  Incredibly, we can hear the droning engines of a Hercules cargo plane, muffled by the weather but getting louder by the second. It is the first plane to attempt a landing at the South Pole in eight months.

  “He’ll never make it,” says Big John. “He’ll have to circle and turn back.”

  I can’t decide if I am frightened or relieved. I am sick and quite possibly dying. There is no doubt that I have to leave here to get treatment for the cancer growing in my breast. I am the only doctor among fortyone scientists and support staff at this U.S. research station, and I’ve been worrying about what would happen if I became too frail to care for my patients. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people have worked for weeks to organize this extraordinary rescue flight. I feel grateful, and humbled and, at the same time, overwhelmed with grief.

  In reporting my predicament, some journalists have described the South Pole as “hell on earth.” Others refer to my time here as “an ordeal.” They would be surprised to know how beautiful Antarctica has seemed to me, with its waves of ice in a hundred shades of blue and white, its black winter sky, its ecstatic wheel of stars. They would never understand how the lights of the Dome welcomed me from a distance, or how often I danced and sang and laughed here with my friends.

  And how I was not afraid.

  Here, in this lonely outpost surrounded by the staggering emptiness of the polar plateau, in a world stripped of useless noise and cornforts, I found the most perfect home I have ever known. I do not want to leave.

  But now as the sound of the engines grows to a roar and shifts in pitch, I strain to take a last look around. I am hoping for an opening in the storm, as much for me as for the pilot. I want to see the ice plain one more time, and lose myself in its empty horizon. But the notion passes, like waking from a dream, and within moments begins to seem unreal.

  CHAPTER I:

  The Geographic Cure

  If this story is to begin anywhere, it should begin in the night. I have always been a night person. When the sun goes down, my spirits rise. I’m more alert, quicker, more in tune with the rhythms of the world. There are many nights to choose from, but one comes to mind now, in the emergency room at a hospital in Cleveland, Ohio, two months before I went to the Ice:

  For me, each shift started before I reached the hospital gates. I drove into the city like a soldier preparing for battle, chugging coffee and listening to rock tapes to shake my brain awake and get my blood pumping. Dangerous Minds. Queen. “We will, we will rock you!” As I passed the ambulances and police cruisers parked at the back entrance, I felt an enormous energy and dread. The automatic doors slid open with a sucking sound, and I was pulled into the ER like a swimmer in a riptide.

  Oh dear God, let everything go right tonight. I navigated my way through anxious families huddled in the hallway, past the rows of injured people immobilized on backboards, the sick on stretchers, some crying out for help. By now, I was on. It’s show time! I had to be composed, acutely aware, and ready to think on my feet, no matter how little sleep I’d had the day before, what had happened at home before leaving for work, how I felt.

  As I walked into the nurses’ station, I arrived in the safe zone of emergency medical technicians, nurses, x-ray techs, and lab techs. My physician partners looked stressed and hurried as they usually did at this time of night, prime time for emergency medicine.

  “Nielsen, really good to see you!” said Max, a friend and fellow ER doc as he raced toward a trauma room. “Grab some charts, we just took a big hit.”

  No time to get a cup of coffee or converse, there were eight charts in the rack, representing patients ready to be seen. An emergency room in a big American city is a crucible of human suffering and desperate behavior. Everybody and everything rolls in off the streets at one time or another, and anything can happen. The walk-in case might have the flu or viral meningitis, the man on the stretcher might have a bruised shoulder or a bullet in the heart. Many of our late-night visitors were gang members and crack addicts. I never knew what to expect when I pulled back the curtain: Once, when I was pregnant, a man pulled a knife while I cut off his leather jacket with trauma scissors.

  I was only saved by a savvy ER nurse, a former medic with two tours in Vietnam. He saw the knife coming toward my ribs and threw me out of the way into a wall before I knew what was happening.

  I should say here that I am only five foot three, but nobody has ever thought of me as small. It was a lesson I always taught my female interns: Doctors are not short. Doctors have no gender. Doctors are in control—or at least you have to seem that way as a patient’s world spins into chaos. Through it all you have to wear a face that shows no judgment, no revulsion—only empathy and calm. After a while it becomes second nature.

  This night, the first few cases were routine. I talked with them, examined them, and “dispositioned” them, deciding if they went to intensive care, critical care, surgery, or home. The stroke victim would go to the ICU, the child with abdominal pain was sent directly to surgery for an appendectomy, the man with a fractured ankle was splinted and then released home in the care of an orthopedist. There were multiple heart attacks, overdoses, and a cancer patient with acute pneumonia. A woman walked into the waiting room w
ith two black eyes and a gash on her forehead that clearly needed stitches. She told the triage nurse that she had “fallen down.” After treating her wounds, I referred her to a domestic violence counselor.

  Before long, I had twenty cases in my head—in “orbit,” as we say.

  It was what I was trained to do, and I settled into the night’s tempo.

  Still, it seemed there was never enough time to spend with patients.

  The object of a commercial ER is to move people through as quickly as possible, “to meet and street” them without compromising care.

  Sometimes we all felt like hamsters spinning in our wheels.

  At 2 a.m. we got a call on the radio that a gunshot wound was coming in by ambulance. I made my way to the EMTs’ break room and downed three packs of crackers and a cup of black coffee. I was pulling on my gown, mask, foot protectors, and goggles when a second call came over the box:

  “Three minutes out. Twenty-three-year-old male, gunshot wound to the head.”

  The other members of the trauma team left their workstations and descended on the empty cart in our biggest room. Everyone had a job to do and everyone knew how to do it and how to function together as a team. This was what I loved about emergency medicine, how everyone worked so well in unison. Nurses laid out sterile packs and hung IV bags. The trauma clock was set. Heat lamps were turned on above our heads.

  I rushed to the ambulance entrance. This gave me precious minutes to get information as the patient was being wheeled in. “What do you have?” I asked the paramedic.

  “Twenty-three-year-old male, self-inflicted GSW to the head, left frontal, twenty minutes down. Vitals: pulse one fifty, BP ninety over fifty, resp twenty-two, intubated.” I glanced at the patient and at the cardiac monitor on the stretcher. His heart was racing. The rundown was repeated to the trauma team as we transferred the patient to our bed. The bullet had entered his left temple at close range; the wound was ringed with black specks of gunpowder and it was pumping blood.