Archer quickly ordered a syringe, and injected a fast-acting sedative into her arm.
She was rapidly becoming delirious. “Where is my baby? I want to see it!” she screamed.
“Sara. Sara! Don’t! You had a little boy. But please, Sara, it won’t help for you to see him,” said Parsons.
She shook his hand off her shoulder and started pulling her body upright on the delivery table.
“Keep her still!” ordered Dr. Archer. “I’m not finished down here!”
“My baby. I must see him! Where is my baby?” Bernard held her against her struggles. “All right, Sara. Relax and I’ll bring the baby to you.”
“No! I’ll find him myself,” she panted.
The surgeon shoved against her, pinning her to the table. “You wait now, Sara. Stay right here. Don’t move, and I’ll bring your baby to you.”
A nurse stepped in and replaced him. She talked soothingly to the prostrate woman, calming her until the sedative took action.
The obstetrician had removed the afterbirth. The pancake shaped, spongy placenta and the vestiges of membranes were dropped into a pan.
Bernard lifted the infant. Using a surgical towel, he wrapped the cloth tightly around the body, concealing all but the head. Cradling it on his arm, he eased back to Sara’s side.
She was calmer now.
“Sara,” he said, glad that the sedative was working, “Sara, here is your baby.”
She looked at Parsons, then down at the child. She made no effort to take her baby from Bernard but, after a long moment, turned her face away and broke into a gentle sob.
Dr. Archer sutured the incision closed, making neat, precise stitches; taking infinite care to reduce the episiotomy to a thin, clean scar—almost as if removing any visible sign of the birth would also obliterate the memory of it.
The child was taken out. Shortly afterward, Sara was wheeled into a recovery room.
It was a later hour that found the two physicians sitting at a desk with cups of steaming coffee.
“Parsons, that was the only time in my career when I absolutely couldn’t do a thing but stand there,” said the obstetrician.
“With the baby?” asked Parsons knowingly.
“Yeah. I couldn’t do anything but stare at that poor, deformed child. I....I’ve never delivered anything like it before.”
Dr. Parsons absentmindedly dropped in another cube of sugar. For the moment his thoughts were elsewhere, with Sara Harrington.
“You anticipated some problems with the delivery, didn’t you?” asked Archer. “I did. From the patient’s past history, I figured there’d be at least transfusions needed for the baby, but....Parsons, are you listening to me?”
“Huh? Yeah. I heard you, Archie.”
“What did you think we’d find?” he asked.
“I didn’t have any ideas, really. I suppose Sara was the one who was most convinced that something was wrong.” He now knew why she hadn’t felt the normal kicks and jerks characteristic of limb movements.
“I’d sure like to have an autopsy of that child, though,” said Archer. “Without it, we’ll never know if they were radiation induced deformities or not.”
Parsons replied absently, “She won’t permit an autopsy.”
“How do you know?” asked Archer. “Have you mentioned it to her?”
“No, of course not,” said Parsons. “But I’m sure she won’t go along with it. She asked me to arrange for the child’s cremation.”
“Well, there won’t be any cremation yet. Not until I’ve asked her about an autopsy,” stated the obstetrician.
Looking up from his coffee, Parsons said, “I don’t want her harassed about this, Archer. You go on and ask, but if she says no, then that’s where it stands. No pushing, understand?” His words carried threateningly across the table.
“Without the examination we’ll never know whether the deformities resulted from radiation or what,” Archer replied testily. “Absence of arms and legs doesn’t necessarily result from radiation. Thalidomide produced the same anomalies.”
Dr. Parsons was finding the obstetrician increasingly irritating. “Sara Harrington certainly never took thalidomide, and whether the radiation caused the malformations is beside the point, Archer. What I’m saying is that she shouldn’t have any more agony now—certainly not a further reminder of that baby. You should just forget the autopsy.”
Dr. Archer disagreed. “Nope. I’m going to ask for one. She has nothing to lose by permitting it.”
Sighing, the surgeon pushed the coffee mug aside and propped his arms on the table. “You know, she’s not aware that the child was deformed. When you go in to talk with her about the autopsy, she’s going to wonder why—and she’ll ask. What are you going to say, then, Archie? That the child had no limbs?”
Shrugging, the obstetrician replied, “Why not? She’s got a right to know.”
“Right! For God’s sake, man, hasn’t it occurred to you that for her it may be best if she didn’t know?” Bernard felt his voice rising to a crescendo, but made no effort to temper it. “The woman stayed with a dying husband, exposing herself to radiation. She came to this very hospital twice for treatment of him and each time was turned away. She watched him as he slowly and agonizingly died, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it! Archer, I’m telling you to leave her alone! Don’t even mention an autopsy to that woman! Do you hear me?” He felt his hands quivering with anger as he finished the outburst.
It was evident by Dr. Archer’s expression that he had not reckoned on such a heated argument from his colleague. Pulling himself to his full height, he snapped back, “What in the hell gives you the right to tell me what to do, Parsons? Just because you’re the chief of this staff doesn’t mean you can start pushing me around. I was in this hospital long before you ever got here and I’m not about to be treated like some young intern, by God.”
Parsons retorted, more heatedly now, “I have the right, and in this case I’m telling you to lay off.” Suddenly, his tone softened, “Lay off, Archer, or I’ll have your job—I swear to God.”
A deep flush of blood suffused Archer’s neck and continued on up to his cheeks. “Oh, so that’s it! You’re still holding it against me because I didn’t volunteer to serve in the isolation unit—to play martyr with you! I knew that somehow you’d try to get even with me, Parsons, but I never figured you to have to sink this low to do it!”
Had the accusation been on target? Bernard wondered. Was Archer right or was the man suffering a guilt complex from his own decision not to work with the radiation patients? Sure, he recalled that he had harbored some nasty thoughts about the staff members who had turned their backs on him and his small crew. But it wasn’t a long-festering resentment, dormant over the past few months, that had finally surfaced. No, it was something stronger than resentment, something he felt about himself. He hadn’t been bothered at the time—at the moment he had decided Ben Harrington couldn’t be saved—by his decision to withhold the antibiotics for patients with a greater chance of recovery. His assessment of the man’s recovery potential had been made professionally, and there was no need to regret his choice. Yet, he did. He often wondered—since Harrington had miraculously escaped death once—if he might not have avoided it again with the precious antibiotics. No matter how he tried to shake the feeling off, he always returned to the unwelcome thought that he had played God and determined, almost guaranteed, Ben Harrington’s death. It was an unpleasant vision, the picture of himself arranging the life and death of people. “You’re wrong, Archer. Despite what you may think, you’re wrong!”
“Bull! shouted Archie. “You’re just worried that you can’t handle the job of Chief of Staff, and you’re going to try to cover your inadequacies by picking on me—me and the others. There’ll be others, won’t there, Parsons?”
Now, in the heat of anger, Bernard began to see that he had been right about Archer. The man did suffer guilt pangs about his role, and coupled with
that was his growing resentment that Parsons had gained the appointment of chief administrator. Recognizing the truth in both himself and his associate, he wearily replied, “I’m not out to have your job, Archer. Frankly, I don’t give a damn whether you’re on this staff or not, but I’m not interested in taking your job from you. All I want is to make certain that Sara Harrington is allowed to recuperate in as much peace and quiet as this facility can provide.” He looked up at Archer, still poised before him. “And that’s exactly the way it’s going to be. Understand?”
A long, suspenseful moment passed as the two men stared at each other. Finally Archer exhaled a slow breath and answered, “Yeah, I got your message.” With that, he walked out of the room.
Bernard heard the door close after Archer. It had been an unusual day, the sort of day that occasionally happened to medical people, the kind that they always wanted to forget—the constant dealing with the illnesses that plague man, the never-ending contest with death—and the toll was great on the surgeon. It was not during the aftermath of the White Water incident, but later, that he’d had momentary impulses to take off his white jacket and walk out of the hospital forever, never to look back, and never to return to the vocation that had gradually become more demoralizing that satisfying to him. It was no longer enough to just get through each day. There had to be more than that. What had happened to the old ideals, the old enthusiasm? When had it begun slipping away? And why was it so hard to re-capture? His body ached from fatigue. He was totally exhausted.
The traveling suit felt strange after the months of baggy, loose fitting maternity clothes. But it was a comfortable, good sensation that Sara had, knowing that she still filled it out in the right places.
Sara adjusted the chaise and gently unfolded her body along its length. Her dress was entirely incongruous with the patio and the lazy, warm sunlight that filtered through the morning haze. It was a serene, gentle time of day and it had brought her out to enjoy her last few hours of California, relaxed and alone in the secluded area behind one wing of the hospital.
Her thoughts skipped ahead to the near future. She wondered when Senator McCauley would contact her. On their last meeting he had said that once the formal investigation was underway, then he’d get in touch with her. Well, he was in his chamber today, beginning anew with his attempt to weed out the causes and evaluate the effects of the disaster. She must be there when his call came. More so than ever before, it was imperative that she take her place before those committees and agencies that the Senator deemed importantly open and receptive to the facts of White Water. White Water... .it had provided impetus to an anti-nuclear movement, but maintaining the momentum would rest with the people, the ones who were concerned. To sway, and keep permanently fixed, the federal government, the Atomic Energy Commission, and private industry, would become an all-consuming task—one in which she was eager to be a part.
“Hello there,” he said. “How did you manage to get out here? This place hasn’t been used in months.”
“Good morning, Bernard.” Sara smiled warmly at the tall, thin physician. “I spotted this little nook on one of my frequent rounds through the corridors. It’s delightful.”
“But seedy,” he said, glancing around.
“After that gloomy room, this is a regular heaven. Besides, I simply could not stay inside any longer.”
He pulled out another chaise and took a seat. “Only five days, Sara. Are you positive that you aren’t pushing this a bit—this desire to leave us?”
Her soft laugh flowed through the morning air with a touch of feigned gaiety. It was an unconvincing display of humor. “You may think this is the greatest spot on the west coast, Doctor, but I assure you that it is not. Oh, don’t misinterpret that, Bernie—I’m eternally grateful for all you’ve done for me. Believe me.”
“But five days... .I question if you should be this active and should undertake such a lengthy trip so soon after the birth,” he said with a hint of worry.
“Dr. Archer believes that it’s perfectly all right. He says the quicker a woman gets out of the child bed, the faster she recuperates.”
“Archie is a horse’s patoot.”
“Oh Bernie, you couldn’t be that unchivalrous. Dr. Archer is a fine man.”
“Uh huh. But he’s still the south end of a north bound donkey.” This time she genuinely laughed. “Are you absolutely certain that you’re not too busy to drive me to the airport?”
“Not a chance, not a chance. I haven’t been out with a beautiful woman—in let’s see—about eighty years.”
She looked at the fibers of silver hair growing in among the darker ones. With his small trim mustache, Bernard Parsons was a very distinguished-looking man. “How old are you, anyway?” she asked.
“Ah now, have I ever asked you anything that personal, Sara? Or would you have answered me if I had?”
“Well,” she replied in mock annoyance, “it would be impolite to ask a lady her age. Besides, she’d lie to you.”
Bernard chuckled. “I’m forty-one.”
His age surprised her. “My goodness, you look....”
“Yeah. Older.”
She had been thinking of ten years older.
His attention was caught by a wheelchair being pushed down the hall. “Hey! Hey, you two. Come out here for awhile and enjoy the sunshine.”
He jumped up and shoved his chair aside so that Cecil could roll Althea into the sunlight.
“We can only stay a second,” announced Cecil. “We have some important plans to make.”
“Haven’t I heard via the grapevine that you two are getting married?” asked Sara.
“Yes, we are,” Althea replied.
“Yes, we are,” echoed Cecil.
“Congratulations to both of you. I hope you’ll be very happy,” Sara said. “Will you be leaving soon, Althea?”
“In another week. Another seven days. It’s awfully exciting, you know. Cecil has been working on the apartment. We’ll live in San Diego.” The words came rushing out of her mouth.
“Uh, listen, I hate to cut this short, but we must get with it, Althea,” said Cecil fondly.
They bid Sara goodbye and left.
Sara sighed, and glanced at her watch. “It’s about time we were leaving, Bernard.”
“Hmm. Your folks will pick you up at Kennedy Airport?”
“My sister will. Dad hasn’t been well lately and he and Mom hate to travel into New York.”
“I was in Connecticut once. Overnight. I stayed at a friend’s house in Bridgeport.”
“Did you?” she asked with interest.
“We had a clambake on the beach that night.”
“It’s beautiful state, Connecticut,” answered Sara.
“Oh yeah. I’d like to see it again, sometime.”
“Well, if you do make it back East, you must be sure to visit with me, Bernie.”
“Do you mean that?” he asked.
“Of course. You’ve been such a tremendous help to me, the very least I could do is offer to show you around my old home town.”
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m taking a month’s vacation in August. Maybe I’ll really drop in on you.”
“Good. I’d enjoy visiting with you.”
“Guess I’d better get your bag to the car, then.”
“Bernie?” She’d said his name quickly.
“Yes?”
“I wanted to ask you about....the...” She hesitated. Should she ask? Did she really want to know? Would it better not to know? Sara looked at Bernard intently.
“About what, Sara?”
She fumbled with the gold wedding band on her finger, turning it slowly around and around. There was little new that could be said about her baby, she decided. Had there been more, this tender, gentle man would have told her. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. “Will you come to see me?”
Parsons smiled. “Plan on it.”
A SHORT HISTORY OF THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE
NUCLEAR POWER PLANTS
On December 20, 1951, at the Experimental Breeder Reactor EBR-I in Arco, Idaho, USA, for the first time electricity - illuminating four light bulbs - was produced by nuclear energy. EBR-I was not designed to produce electricity but to validate the breeder reactor concept.
On June 26, 1954, at Obninsk, Russia, the nuclear power plant APS-1 with a net electrical output of 5 MW was connected to the power grid, the world's first nuclear power plant that generated electricity for commercial use. On August 27, 1956, the first commercial nuclear power plant, Calder Hall 1, England, with a net electrical output of 50 MW was connected to the national grid.
As of Jan 19, 2011 in 30 countries 442 nuclear power plant units with an installed electric net capacity of about 375 GW are in operation and 65 plants with an installed capacity of 63 GW are in 16 countries under construction.(2)
U.N. Secretary General Ban Ki-moon warned that the world must prepare for more nuclear accidents on the scale of Chernobyl and Japan’s Fukushima plant. He said the grim reality demands sharp improvements in International cooperation (3)
(2) European Nuclear Society web site home page. www.euronuclear.org , April 21, 2011
(3) Los Angeles Times. April 21, 2011. UKRAINE - U.N.’s Ban gives nuclear warning
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Barbara Griffin Billig graduated from Washington University in St. Louis at age nineteen with a degree in biology and a minor in chemistry. She taught for several years in St. Louis before moving to Southern California. There she owned a variety of businesses including pet shops, restaurants, and a real estate brokerage firm. Deciding to take a sabbatical from the business world for several years she wrote, in conjunction with another teacher, Bett Pohnka (1935-1991) “The Nuclear Catastrophe” to heighten awareness of the potential problems associated with nuclear power plants. This fiction novel, originally written in 1977, eerily portrays what ultimately came to pass with 3 Mile Island, Chernobyl, and the Japan Fukushima nuclear reactor meltdown. The original hardcover first edition is still in libraries throughout the United States. This third edition was written post Fukushima.
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