Memorial Day

Atomic Blast, Bikini Atoll, 1946

When I was a child, I don't remember my family being especially patriotic. We didn't make a point of attending parades and we marked July 4th merely with a few sparklers and some watermelon.
I didn't even realize until I was nearly an adult that my dad had been in the navy. He probably missed being considered part of Tom Brokaw's "The Greatest Generation" by a few years - or maybe even months.
When my dad was in high school in rural Iowa, WWII was in full swing. Like most other young men of the time, he knew the draft awaited him as soon as he graduated. He went ahead and enlisted in the Navy before graduation, figuring the Navy would be a better place to serve than the army.
Fortunately, by the time basic training was finished, the war was over, so my dad never saw combat. Instead, he was a radio operator on a support ship in the Bikini Atoll for Operation Crossroads. In the summer of 1946, the U.S. Navy decided to test the effects of atomic weapons on various types of naval vessels by detonating atomic bombs over the chosen ships and underwater.
My dad remembered being present for the blasts, with the crews of the ships, supposedly at "safe" distances from ground zero, remaining on deck and merely closing their eyes and covering their heads during the explosions. When the blasts were over and the ships were brought closer to the targets to investigate the damage, my dad remembered seeing huge cannons simply wilted over like flower stalks too long out of water.
During the operation, the crews of the various naval vessels swam in the lagoon, ate fish from the lagoon and showered in water from the lagoon. All of this was considered safe at the time.
Fast forward 50-some years and it is 2004 and my dad, who has had increasing respiratory problems over the past several years, comes down with a massive infection. The doctor sends him to a hematologist, who diagnoses my dad with myelodysplastic syndrome, a blood disorder resulting from mutations in the bone marrow that causes the red blood cells that are produced to be ineffective.
Now, my dad was 77, a typical age for those who receive this diagnosis. But his hematologist remarked that he had never seen so many different types of mutations as were in my dad's bone marrow. The only explanation, he said, was an exposure to radiation at some point in my dad's life.
My dad was a farm boy who later became a horticulturist, teacher, lecturer and newspaper columnist. The only radiation exposure he ever had was at Operation Crossroads.
He was diagnosed in May 2004 and died on July 3 of the same year. The progression of the disease was devastating and fast. A misguided surgery attempt to find internal abdominal bleeding left him to spend his final two weeks in intensive care, suffering from intensive care psychosis and unable to make his own medical decisions or say his final farewells.
Basically, my father bled to death before my eyes and those of my sisters and his wife of more than 50 years.
Shortly after his death, I did a little internet investigating and came across the website of the Atomic Veterans. This is an organization of veterans of all branches of the military who were present during various atomic events in the 1940s, '50s and even '60s. Through the site I came across information about the Radiation Exposure Compensation Act passed in 1990. My husband and I helped my mom gather together all the necessary documents, proving their marriage, that my dad had in fact been in the navy and was present at Operation Crossroads, his diagnosis and a letter from his doctor.
Unfortunately, our case wasn't strong enough and the government denied my mother's claim for compensation. You see, myelodyplastic syndrome wasn't listed under the "acceptable" diseases known to be caused by radiation exposure. Though myelodysplasia is considered a pre-leukemic condition - in other words, over time, the patient will develop leukemia - my dad did not, in fact, have leukemia.
The government refused to acknowledge its role in my father's death.
I suppose I should be glad that my dad lived a full life, that my sisters and I suffer from no birth defects, and that, though horrible, my dad's death did not drag on for months or years - and I am.
But it was so hard to lose him earlier than we should have. Other than arthritis, my dad was healthy as a horse before the diagnosis, and longevity runs in his family.
So my dad's death joins those of so many others for whom the government refuses to acknowledge any level of responsibility. I can't help but think of the current crop of injured veterans from our latest war in Iraq and Afghanistan and the reports of inadequate care, poor living conditions and the financial suffering of their families.
I am glad I live in the United States. I wouldn't give up my freedoms and I take the responsibilities inherent in living in democracy seriously.
But I would be much prouder of my government - of any government - if it would admit mistakes and take care of its own.
Maybe someday.