Nuclear Phobia

I heard the news On September 9, 2016, just before six in the morning.   I was parking my car in the basement of the hospital.  North Korea had successfully tested a powerful bomb that could fit on a missile and the missile could be deployed on a submarine from anywhere in the world.

Anywhere.

I had a sudden flashback to my childhood recollections of the Cuban missile crisis.  My parents were out of town when that happened and  I was convinced I would never see them again.  There were grainy black and white images on TV of the deadly weapons crossing the ocean in ships, school assemblies about what to do in case of attack, 4-H meetings that taught us about bomb shelters… 4-H club was the worst because we were told that one essential item in any bomb shelter was a gun so that you could kill anyone who tried to come in and share your food, your water, your filtered air…

Anyone.

I had terrible nightmares during those times, one dream so vivid that I still recall it in great detail.  We were standing in front of our home, my mother, my sister, and I.  We had just returned from a shopping trip in Houston, and my mother was talking to a friend who had stopped her car at the end of our driveway.  My sister and I waited, staring at the moonless midnight blue velvet sky studded with stars.  In the south, I saw what looked like an exceptionally bright falling star, to the left of Orion.  It poofed into a little flash before hitting the horizon.  Then there was a blinding light everywhere and a huge mushroom cloud rose where the star had fallen.  We rushed to get into the house.  “Why?” I thought.  ‘”It won’t be any safer in there.”  My sister stumbled, and I saw her face melting.  I was overcome with despair.  We were all going to die.  I looked at my mother, whose face was still intact.  She smiled.  That’s when it hit me.  At least, we were all going together.

When I awoke, my bed was still shaking.  The sun streamed in through the white wooden shutters onto the pale yellow walls.  I could hear my mother across the hall, talking on the telephone, placing an order for a delivery from our local grocer.  Life was still good.

The threat of nuclear holocaust was an overriding and terrifying theme in the world during my childhood and adolescence—not always verbalized, but always present.  In my first year of college, I was petrified by a chilling movie on the topic that was screened at a campus film fest.  My then boyfriend consoled me with his rational explanation of nuclear deterrence.  Since he was a PoliSci major I trusted his assessment.

I don’t know when the fear finally abated.  I think it was gradual, drowned out by fury over the injustice of the Viet Nam War and the cruel bombing of Cambodia.  And later deterrence was replaced by detente.

The primal gut wrenching feeling is still way inside there.  It never went away, I just gradually encased it in a sturdy capsule, much as an oyster forms a pearl around a grain of sand.  This morning’s news bored a hole in that defense system and the fear is leaking out again.  My perspective is different now.  I no longer have my whole life in front of me.  I’m actually nearing the end.  So it is my children and grandchildren for whom I ache.  It’s a different kind of fear now.  And far more deeply chilling.

I am aware of the irony in this piece.  I sit secure in my comfortable dwelling while elsewhere in the world, people face the threat of suicide bombers when they go shopping or even drone strikes in their homes.  And in parts of our own country a child can be shot dead while playing in her own front yard.  We don’t choose when and where we are born and we don’t choose what we fear.