X-Men, or learning to love the bomb
This is the sort of post that requires of me a second cup of coffee, a sweater, and time. I still am not sure entirely what I am writing, or why, or even why it needs to be here, semi-public, but it is here. If I say anything worrisome, please be assured that I already have the appropriate psycho/medical support structure in place.
All of this starts with good news: my grandmother will be receiving compensation from the government that ensures that she will never go homeless or hungry. I work with homeless, heart-broken, and addicted men and women, military veterans who all have acquired the same liver disease, and part of what I do is help create hope for them. Not every grain of sand that has found its way into their shells becomes a pearl, and I am no savior, but at least I look them in the eye and treat them with respect, whether they deserve it or not. I take issue with the idea that every veteran is a hero, but every one of them is a human being. It is harder with those who are older, approaching my grandmother's age, to hope for recovery.
And my work was harder still when my grandfather was dying in a VA bed, effectively a million miles away. The story is ordinary: I can't afford to take much time off, and cross-country flights tend to be exorbitant, especially between smaller airports, and besides, he was a fighter, an ex-Marine, a man who wouldn't take something like cancer lying down. His quadruple bypass more than fifteen years ago certainly hadn't slowed him any, nor did his other physical problems. I finally found a reasonably-priced flight and purchased it a few weeks in advance, as one does in ordinary stories. My grandfather was showing signs of recovery up to three days before the flight, but I got the call two hours before I got to the airport.
In a way, it was lucky: I did not have to see my grandfather stripped bare and hooked to machines, but instead dignified in repose, waxy but at peace in his casket. And I was there to support my grandmother through all of the proceedings; I shook his friends' hands, made food, saw how remarkable an impact he had made on those around him. The funeral itself was beautifully cathartic, and my grief at my grandfather's death has run an ordinary course. What is extraordinary, however, is why he died.
I never got the official report, of course, but I was told that it was brain cancer. Anyone can get cancer, but apparently the odds go up if he was stationed in a persistently-radioactive Hiroshima as part of the rebuilding campaign. My grandfather spoke fondly but vaguely of his time in Japan and the kindness of its people, and I can only guess that as one of the first forces established in the area after the bomb dropped, he must have seen the ravages of land and life that an atomic explosion causes. The military personnel there wore special badges that indicated how much radioactivity they had been exposed to and were ushered away after a certain limit, but the badges were only sensitive to ambient and direct radiation, not the food they ate or water they drank. Many were asked to swear an oath of secrecy. The American government now recognizes Atomic Veterans, as they are called, and allots them special medical care, but more often it ends up as compensation to their families, like my grandmother. Those who had more direct exposure, the troops at the tests at Bikini Atoll and Nevada, are long gone, but like most soldiers, came home and started families of their own after the war.
Among the bodily insults one can sustain and survive, radiation is fairly unique in that it can and does affect one's genes, and can thus affect that person's children and grandchildren. It is inconclusive whether the effects are found in the third generation (mostly from some research conducted with Japanese survivors), but among those children born to Atomic Veterans with more direct exposure, leukemia and rare, often autoimmune diseases are more common. Because the government dragged its feet for so long, however, there is and will be little data tracking these families.
There are few family secrets one can find out in her thirties that are so perniciously unsettling, especially to someone with hypochondriac tendencies. In my lower moments, I wonder if I am harboring a ticking cancer bomb, and as I am quite poor, I have no idea how I'd pay for something like cancer treatment and still keep my home; the potential for death is actually quite far down on the list of worries. I think about all of the unusual health problems my family has encountered (and, yes, survived, if one discounts the embarrassment of events like of getting shingles across her breast at 14 and having to show the only pediatrician on call at the time, who also happened to be her boyfriend's father). When I am feeling more whimsical, I wonder if I am a mutant, and rue the fact that it hasn't developed into anything fantastic like the ability to fly or to control objects with my mind or even to train my cats. But it is a brief jump from cats to children, as my mother persists in referring to them as her "Grand-kitties" (one of her many tactics to subtly suggest I make her a grandmother) and then I think of the genetic burden I might pass to a child of my own.
Even before I learned of my grandfather's legacy, I never really thought of myself as good mother-material, both in genes and in temperament. Now it seems even more remote an option: how could I in good conscience create a child? Even if it received the most perfect of all possible genetic contributions (already established as unlikely), there is the possibility that it may have to watch me sicken and die. Or worse, as I tend to be pathetic and difficult when I am ill. I had always considered that I might adopt a child later, perhaps when I am in my mid-forties, stable, and interested in motherhood, but now this feels like a rather cruel idea.
But why should any of this be anyone's business? I suppose what I hope to make public is the very existence of Atomic Veterans and the aftereffects of wartime chemical/radioactive exposure. My generation is also among those born to fathers exposed to Agent Orange, or at least to those who maintained some sperm count afterward, and the government has also been slow to recognize these veterans as well. While compensation does nothing to lessen the pain of losing my grandfather, it will be crucial in taking care of my grandmother, and I am grateful for this. I want others to know that there are resources out there, that the oaths of secrecy about atomic events has been rescinded, and that there are a few places to start this sort of research:
Ironically, I visited Hiroshima roughly fifty-five years after my grandfather, although at the time I did not know he had been there. It is a vibrant, beautiful place, despite the very public reminders of the bomb's devastation, and the people there were probably as kind to me as they were to the Marines who helped them restore some order in the months after the war ended. I cannot fathom that sort of forgiveness, if I may call it that, but I cannot forget it either. I think of survival as another part of my grandfather's legacy, but that's not the right word--what I am looking for means turning one's face away from the wall and to the task at hand, even if it is horrible, and finding a germ of hope in the connection with others. If I had had the chance to say good-bye, I would have also thanked my grandfather, but I think he knew.
All of this starts with good news: my grandmother will be receiving compensation from the government that ensures that she will never go homeless or hungry. I work with homeless, heart-broken, and addicted men and women, military veterans who all have acquired the same liver disease, and part of what I do is help create hope for them. Not every grain of sand that has found its way into their shells becomes a pearl, and I am no savior, but at least I look them in the eye and treat them with respect, whether they deserve it or not. I take issue with the idea that every veteran is a hero, but every one of them is a human being. It is harder with those who are older, approaching my grandmother's age, to hope for recovery.
And my work was harder still when my grandfather was dying in a VA bed, effectively a million miles away. The story is ordinary: I can't afford to take much time off, and cross-country flights tend to be exorbitant, especially between smaller airports, and besides, he was a fighter, an ex-Marine, a man who wouldn't take something like cancer lying down. His quadruple bypass more than fifteen years ago certainly hadn't slowed him any, nor did his other physical problems. I finally found a reasonably-priced flight and purchased it a few weeks in advance, as one does in ordinary stories. My grandfather was showing signs of recovery up to three days before the flight, but I got the call two hours before I got to the airport.
In a way, it was lucky: I did not have to see my grandfather stripped bare and hooked to machines, but instead dignified in repose, waxy but at peace in his casket. And I was there to support my grandmother through all of the proceedings; I shook his friends' hands, made food, saw how remarkable an impact he had made on those around him. The funeral itself was beautifully cathartic, and my grief at my grandfather's death has run an ordinary course. What is extraordinary, however, is why he died.
I never got the official report, of course, but I was told that it was brain cancer. Anyone can get cancer, but apparently the odds go up if he was stationed in a persistently-radioactive Hiroshima as part of the rebuilding campaign. My grandfather spoke fondly but vaguely of his time in Japan and the kindness of its people, and I can only guess that as one of the first forces established in the area after the bomb dropped, he must have seen the ravages of land and life that an atomic explosion causes. The military personnel there wore special badges that indicated how much radioactivity they had been exposed to and were ushered away after a certain limit, but the badges were only sensitive to ambient and direct radiation, not the food they ate or water they drank. Many were asked to swear an oath of secrecy. The American government now recognizes Atomic Veterans, as they are called, and allots them special medical care, but more often it ends up as compensation to their families, like my grandmother. Those who had more direct exposure, the troops at the tests at Bikini Atoll and Nevada, are long gone, but like most soldiers, came home and started families of their own after the war.
Among the bodily insults one can sustain and survive, radiation is fairly unique in that it can and does affect one's genes, and can thus affect that person's children and grandchildren. It is inconclusive whether the effects are found in the third generation (mostly from some research conducted with Japanese survivors), but among those children born to Atomic Veterans with more direct exposure, leukemia and rare, often autoimmune diseases are more common. Because the government dragged its feet for so long, however, there is and will be little data tracking these families.
There are few family secrets one can find out in her thirties that are so perniciously unsettling, especially to someone with hypochondriac tendencies. In my lower moments, I wonder if I am harboring a ticking cancer bomb, and as I am quite poor, I have no idea how I'd pay for something like cancer treatment and still keep my home; the potential for death is actually quite far down on the list of worries. I think about all of the unusual health problems my family has encountered (and, yes, survived, if one discounts the embarrassment of events like of getting shingles across her breast at 14 and having to show the only pediatrician on call at the time, who also happened to be her boyfriend's father). When I am feeling more whimsical, I wonder if I am a mutant, and rue the fact that it hasn't developed into anything fantastic like the ability to fly or to control objects with my mind or even to train my cats. But it is a brief jump from cats to children, as my mother persists in referring to them as her "Grand-kitties" (one of her many tactics to subtly suggest I make her a grandmother) and then I think of the genetic burden I might pass to a child of my own.
Even before I learned of my grandfather's legacy, I never really thought of myself as good mother-material, both in genes and in temperament. Now it seems even more remote an option: how could I in good conscience create a child? Even if it received the most perfect of all possible genetic contributions (already established as unlikely), there is the possibility that it may have to watch me sicken and die. Or worse, as I tend to be pathetic and difficult when I am ill. I had always considered that I might adopt a child later, perhaps when I am in my mid-forties, stable, and interested in motherhood, but now this feels like a rather cruel idea.
But why should any of this be anyone's business? I suppose what I hope to make public is the very existence of Atomic Veterans and the aftereffects of wartime chemical/radioactive exposure. My generation is also among those born to fathers exposed to Agent Orange, or at least to those who maintained some sperm count afterward, and the government has also been slow to recognize these veterans as well. While compensation does nothing to lessen the pain of losing my grandfather, it will be crucial in taking care of my grandmother, and I am grateful for this. I want others to know that there are resources out there, that the oaths of secrecy about atomic events has been rescinded, and that there are a few places to start this sort of research:
- Agent Orange exposure
- Radiation exposure
- Other wartime exposure, including the Gulf War, Afghanistan, and Iraq
- National Association of Atomic Veterans
Ironically, I visited Hiroshima roughly fifty-five years after my grandfather, although at the time I did not know he had been there. It is a vibrant, beautiful place, despite the very public reminders of the bomb's devastation, and the people there were probably as kind to me as they were to the Marines who helped them restore some order in the months after the war ended. I cannot fathom that sort of forgiveness, if I may call it that, but I cannot forget it either. I think of survival as another part of my grandfather's legacy, but that's not the right word--what I am looking for means turning one's face away from the wall and to the task at hand, even if it is horrible, and finding a germ of hope in the connection with others. If I had had the chance to say good-bye, I would have also thanked my grandfather, but I think he knew.