My wife is radioactive.
She is the most radioactive human
being I’ve ever met …who continues to live and move and breathe.
It all began as World War II was
nearing its conclusion, and her father Dock V., the proud father of five and
husband of a young wife, enlisted in the U.S. Navy, and was posted to the
U.S.S. Topeka.
During the last couple of months in
which the war raged the task force, of which the Topeka was a part, bombed
Tokyo, and its planes had been launched for a second run, but were recalled
when the Japanese Empire capitulated; a direct result of the two atomic bombs
which devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Prior to the culmination of its
service in the Far East, the Topeka saw duty in Tokyo Bay.
Dock always blamed a couple of bouts
with cancer on his service off the Japanese islands, and subsequently applied
for a VA disability. There was always an implication, stated or otherwise, that
his military service took him closer to one of the ‘atomic cities’ than can be
properly substantiated, or at least that he and his shipmates were exposed to
the radioactive fallout which saturated land, sea and air after the deadly
blasts.
His daughter, Jean, was born less than
four years after the surrender of Japan, and given my father-in-law’s suspected
exposure to radiation, and its wherewithal to impact the body’s chromosomal
blueprint, might be referred to as an ‘atomic baby.’
My wife and I both grew up in the
small, but unique city of Bartow, and attended school together. As a matter of
fact, we were both students in Mrs. Waters’ 4th grade class. And
speaking of babies I taught her everything she knew at the time about “the
birds and the bees;” (which was precious little, as Jean had just informed me
that women were responsible for making babies when I added something to her
limited knowledge. But that is a whole different story than the one we are
pursuing here).
Pt. 2
Bartow, the third largest city in Polk
County, happens to be its county seat. When looking at a state map, you can’t
miss it. Larger than Rhode Island, at 2000 square miles the third largest of
Florida’s 67 counties, Polk sets smack dab in the center of the state like a
gigantic belly button.
Things are changing now, but there was
a time when the major industry in our county was phosphate production. And for
anyone ‘in the know’ there is the understanding that our county has a Radon
problem; made more problematic by the quantity of upturned phosphatic earth
with which we contend.
The City of Bartow was built on and
around reclaimed phosphate pits. Not only this, but great radioactive gypsum
stacks, containing huge quantities of industrial waste water, surround the
city. Recently, one of these earthen monstrosities ‘sprung a leak’ when a
gigantic sinkhole opened up beneath it; allowing millions of gallons of
radioactive water and a myriad of chemicals to reach the Florida aquafer. (And
did I mention that at one time a uranium recovery plant was located within ten
miles of our ‘fair city?’ Well, it was).
Bartow ‘boasts’ (if that is an
appropriate word) more incidences of cancer per hundred residents than the
state or national average. One portion of the city is a ‘hot bed’ for the
malady, and scores of people in the area have succumbed to the disease. (I
think Erin Brockovich would ‘have a field day’ here).
My wife not only grew up with the
threat of Radon, and the invisible gamma rays which it produces, but throughout
her young and middle-aged years she was employed in, among other places, a
hospital, nursing home and school; all within the geographical boundaries of
the county seat.
With each passing year her exposure to
radiation was growing exponentially.
Pt. 3
During the decade of the 90’s, my wife
and daughter were afforded the opportunity to travel on a Christian missions
trip to the countries of Belarus and Russia. It was the chance of a lifetime
and they were not going to miss out on both the potential for inestimable
impact upon the citizens of these countries, and the inherent beauty of the
region.
I suppose neither my wife nor I gave
it a second thought prior to her departure, but having arrived in Gomel,
Belarus Jean became acquainted with ‘Svetlana,’ the group’s English translator.
The young lady was a lovely individual
both inside and out; with the exception of …a noticeable tumor on her forehead.
Of course, such a condition could not go unnoticed nor unspoken, and Svetlana
offered that the cyst was a direct result of the 1986 Chernobyl disaster, and
the gradual and prolonged effects of the radiation on the populace of that
region. The City of Gomel lies just 70 miles from that infamous place.
"The worst scars have settled in the
mind. And no place has been punished more than the Gomel region of Belarus,
where the Soviet authorities denied the accident for several days, allowing
people to linger in the radiation, then lied about its severity.
An area of nearly 2 million people
-- 20 percent of the country's population -- Gomel once had the most fertile
farmland in all Belarus. Today it is as if somebody had sown the land with
salt: 20 of 21 agricultural districts produce nothing. People have become
paralyzed with fear. They are afraid to move, afraid to stay, afraid to marry
and afraid to have families. All normal life stopped here simply because there
was a strong northerly wind on April 26, 1986." (Michael Specter)
Jean and I have
often looked at the photograph of Svetlana which she keeps in her missions
album, and wondered whether she is still with us, or whether by now she has
succumbed to the awful malady.
Obviously, while
my wife and her team resided in Belarus they were exposed to low levels of
radiation which is, at some level, still being emitted by the defunct Chernobyl
Nuclear Power Plant.
Pt. 4
“The Big C” is no respecter of
persons. There isn’t a country, state, metropolis or village in the world upon
which it hasn’t laid its vile hand. Bartow, Florida. Gomel, Belarus. Paris,
France. Podunk, West Virginia.
Our beloved Shih Tzu, Buddy, had been acting
strangely the past few days. (He was actually a she, since the moniker seemed
to fit and we’d given her a male name). Buddy wouldn’t let my wife out of her
sight. Where Jean went, well, she went. If she walked into the living room,
Buddy was right behind her. If she needed something out of the refrigerator,
the little pooch was underfoot. If she decided to take a nap, the little Shih
Tzu curled up at the end of the bed, and followed her lead.
Jean hadn’t felt well, physically or
emotionally, and one day as she chose the latter activity, above, she had the
sense that some invisible weight was pressing her into the bedstead. Oppressive
and suffocating, it seemed like Death, itself.
My wife’s physical and emotional
symptoms were indicative of a problem which could not be ignored, and I knew
dogs possessed an acute sense of smell, and were able to detect the presence of
any number of organic maladies and substances. I encouraged Jean to make an
appointment with her physician, and as the result of a mammogram a lump was
discovered in one breast. At this point,
‘Dr. Scott’ referred her to a surgical oncologist, and a biopsy was performed.
When the tests ‘came back’ the lump
was found to be malignant. Thankfully, the malignancy was still contained
within the duct, and a lumpectomy was scheduled.
When Jean awoke from the scheduled
lumpectomy she learned the lead wire had dislodged, and the surgery could not
be completed. ‘Dr. Andrews,’ a renowned female surgeon, was not a ‘happy
camper.’ Ultimately, the surgical technician was released for not having
properly positioned the wire. Later in the week the lumpectomy was successfully
performed.
As it fell together, the three
surgical procedures which had thus far transpired proved to be the least of it.
Jean was scheduled for a consult, and
Dr. Andrews recommended she submit to a follow up regimen. And thus, over the
course of the next several weeks my wife submitted to (drum roll)
…33 installments of radiation.
(Readers, that final word in the
previous sentence should ‘ring a bell’ for you).
At this writing we are thankful that
Jean has been cancer free for well over a decade, and she can rightly be called
a ‘Survivor.’
An unusual series of coincidences
which when taken together are among the most unusual circumstances to which I
have ever personally been privy.
A father exposed to the radioactive
cloud generated by the atomic blasts of WWII.
A hometown which exudes gamma rays
from the ground upon which it was constructed.
A short term missions trip located
right ‘next door’ to the site of the infamous Chernobyl disaster.
‘The Big C’ and its aftermath. Almost
three dozen episodes involving the administration of radiation.
Almost seven (count ‘em 7) decades of
exposure to radiation of one kind or another.
As a nurse my wife’s patients always
remarked that her hands were ‘as soft as a baby’s butt’ and ‘as warm as a
summer breeze.’
I can only guess why.
My Radioactive Wife
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 44. Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or 'save' please include the credit line, above
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 44. Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or 'save' please include the credit line, above
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