MY RADIOACTIVE WIFE

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’ 4^th 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. Copyright pending