The War That Followed Him Home

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The newly listed online ad was what I had been waiting over a month for: A medium-sized, late model SUV with low miles and with maintenance records well documented. The seller was also the original owner, and the ad said he was a disabled veteran, and that he and his wife now only needed one car.

In my mind I pictured the seller as an elderly man, having served perhaps in Korea or Vietnam. I figured he probably walked with a cane, and had a U.S. and Marine Corps flag displayed in his front yard. It was wrong of me to assume this, but as a child, all the veterans I saw looked like this, and I guess the memory carried itself into adulthood.

When I called about the car however, the guy who answered didn't sound like an old man. I asked a few questions that were promptly answered, and I decided the car was worth taking a look at. My friend Steve picked me up, and we drove to the veteran's home located in the Northwest part of the Vegas valley. The man who answered the door was 27 year old Daniel Meyer, and although he wasn't an old man, he moved like one. An Air Force helicopter electrician and mechanic, Daniel served multiple tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, and although he's still technically considered to be on active duty by our U.S. military, Daniel is in absolutely no condition to work.

As he showed me the car, Daniel moved slowly as he pulled an oxygen canister behind him—it's tubes running over his ears and to his nose, and then leading fifty-feet back to the concentrator unit located in his home. Daniel is on oxygen twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If he goes more than a few minutes without it, bad things start to happen. The government still has yet to approve financial coverage for his daily oxygen supply, so for now a local medical clinic is generously donating the necessity to the veteran.

Daniel explained to Steve and I that he'd been diagnosed with Bron­chi­oli­tis Oblit­er­ans, a rare and currently irreversible lung disease. Daniel said a double-lung transplant is needed, but because the disease has weakened his heart, he doesn't qualify to be on the lung transplant waiting list. In short, Daniel was telling us his days were numbered.

How did this happen?

While in Afghanistan, Daniel was exposed to burn pits—open-air bonfires that burned such things as medical supplies, batteries, and plastics. Human limbs have even been thrown into burn pits—although done by the locals and not by our military. It was by inhaling these toxic and noxious fumes that Daniel became ill, and folks, that's fucked up.

Watch a CBS News report on burn pits (the new Agent Orange) here.

I respect anyone who serves their country—either in combat or behind the scenes—but at least in combat, one knows taking a bullet is constantly in the cards. Out on the front lines one knows that getting shot, killed, paralyzed, or losing a limb is possible, and that it's part of the risk that comes with enlisting. However, being a helicopter mechanic inside a hangar—and on an Air Force base—should provide a certain sense of security, and the last thing one should have to worry about is getting a deadly and rare lung disease.

I don't know all the statistics and numbers, but it's safe to say over five-hundred—and perhaps even thousands—of our service men and women have been affected by exposure to these burn pits. Some only have minor issues—such as treatable allergy symptoms—but others, like Daniel, have suffered the full brunt of the disease. From what I saw—and Steve agreed with me—not coming home from such a war alive would be considered a better alternative than having to face the future with this debilitating and unrelentless affliction. Daniel would probably disagree because he has such a positive attitude, a great sense of humor,  and is facing his battle head-on, and with extreme courage and faith.

Daniel is also a writer, and just started blogging at DanielMeyerBlog.com. His posts are well written, interesting, insightful and informative. I highly suggest reading his three-part series about how he met his awesome wife of over two years, Harmonie, and how after just knowing each other for only a week, got married. Check out his other posts too, and leave Daniel a comment. I'm sure he'd love to hear from you.

Not only did I buy the car that Daniel is no longer capable to drive, but I also got something much more worthy and valuable—that being a humbling reminder not to take life and health for granted, and the reaffirmation that all war is indeed Hell, and it's affect—both physically and mentally—will last much longer than any deafening silence from any weapon.

Thanks Daniel, and the car has been everything you said it would be.

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FiN.



Comments transfered:

1. Salina

   September 12, 2011 at 2:45 pm (edit)

   Wow.
2. 

   Suzy

   September 3, 2011 at 6:08 pm (edit)

   Once again, another brilliant piece. It brought tears to my eyes. Thanks, Tyge.
3. 

   Tyge

   August 26, 2011 at 11:44 pm (edit)

   Your welcome Patti, and thank you for the comment. Daniel is an inspiration, and I was honored to meet him. When we shook hands after I bought his car, it meant more to me than just buying his car… I was shaking hands with an unsung hero.
4. 

   Tyge

   August 26, 2011 at 11:37 pm (edit)

   Joane, I whole heartedly agree with you. I worked with a guy who passed away from being exposed to Agent Orange, and over 30 years after Vietnam, there’s still a hazy area the government refuses to acknowledge. I can only hope the burn pits are more recognized, and proper amends are made by the government and military, and in a reasonable amount of time.
5. 

   Tyge

   August 26, 2011 at 11:27 pm (edit)

   Merci! I’m glad you liked the post, and I hope many people read it, and become more aware of this issue that until I met Daniel, I was unaware of.
6. 

   Tyge

   August 26, 2011 at 5:34 pm (edit)

   Your welcome! According to my sitemeter stats, plenty of people have been clicking on it!
7. 

   Daniel Meyer

   August 25, 2011 at 11:54 pm (edit)

   My family and I appreciate this article more than you can imagine Tyge. We have been circulating it on Facebook, trying to raise awareness. Thank you again man!
8. 

   Susan in France

   August 23, 2011 at 5:18 am (edit)

   Thank you so much for this beautiful article about Dan. I’m Dan’s aunt and I live in France, so Dan’s blog (and now yours) are my primary sources of information on his illness. As Aunt Joane stated, we are all terribly proud of Dan but bitterly shocked and disappointed by the incredible mismanagement that has led to this tragedy.
9. 

   Tyge

   August 21, 2011 at 6:14 pm (edit)

   Thanks Daniel,

   I wasn’t sure if I should have used your name or not, but then I found your blog, and figured it would be alright. Glad you enjoyed my post, and I must say your posts are very enjoyable too. Keep writing, and people will keep reading!

   Lovin’ the car, and getting a new radio installed this week.

   Take care, and keep the faith.
10. 

    Joane

    August 21, 2011 at 2:25 pm (edit)

    You have written a marvelous piece. We are all very proud of Daniel and you have acurately described his positive attitude. I hope the Government does the right thing for my nephew, and for all veterans who come home with disabilities. Don’t let our soldiers down, USA. They have given much for our freedom. Let us give back to them.
11. 

    Patti (Grammy)

    August 21, 2011 at 2:17 pm (edit)

    Tyge: I would like to thank you for the wonderful article about my grandson. His family & friends know all about him but you just met him and saw the person we all see. Again thank you for posting this so that others may know of the possibilty of this illness.
12. 

    Daniel Meyer

    August 21, 2011 at 9:40 am (edit)

    So Tyge, I woke up this morning and logged in to my blog to finish writing my next article. My dashboard loads and I see I have a lot more page views than normal (because I just started writing a few weeks ago). I clicked on it and read the article and was astonished that it was about me. You wrote an absolutely great story seeing as though we only met for an hour or so! I appreciate it more than you could know and I hope the car treats you well for years to come!

    Part 3 to my blog series, “Living Life With a Major Illness” will be up today. Thanks again and I will link my readers over here.
13. 

    Dawn Wheeler

    August 21, 2011 at 8:55 am (edit)

    Wow, another amazing story Tyge. We have a blog at Walgreens that is basically a bitch fest, I may suggest they all read this guys story and rethink what they are complaining about!
14. 

    cynical.girl

    August 21, 2011 at 7:54 am (edit)

    I’m Speechless. Thanks.

A Blessing and a Curse

It was an autumn day in 1981 when I first learned about the atomic bomb. We were studying the events of World War II in my sixth-grade class, and our teacher told us about the scientists who had harnessed the power of a small atom, creating a devastating device that brought an end to the war. Our textbooks showed pictures of the bomb’s wrath—shadows of vaporized people on sidewalks, twisted steel skeletons of demolished buildings, the vast emptiness of two cities known as Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

That night during dinner, Dad asked about my day at school. I told him about the atom and the scientists. I told him about the bombs and their use on Japan. I knew Dad had been in the war, even in the Pacific, but that was all I knew. After dinner he disappeared into the attic and returned with a dozen black and white photographs.

“Take these with you to school tomorrow and show your teacher,” he said.

The photographs were similar to those I had seen in class—barren, scorched landscapes, buildings with windows blown-out, streets lined with charred telephone poles and tangled wires. Dad pointed to one of his photographs and explained how the hypocenter of the bomb left an area so flat, the Army Air Corps could land their planes there. For this reason the American forces dubbed the hypocenter “Atomic Field”—not because it was full of radiation, but because airplanes could land there.

No one really knew about radiation back then, at least not the men at Atomic Field.

Dad's Nagasaki photo, 1945

My Nagasaki photo, 2008

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The next day I took the photographs to school and that night the telephone rang. My teacher wanted Dad to speak to the students. Dad politely refused. At the time I didn’t know why he didn't want to speak to the class, but a few days later I went to the attic and opened his military trunk—something he had told my sister and I never to do.  Inside the metal box were some of the most disturbing and gruesome images I have ever seen, and to this day I regret my curiousity. It was then I knew Dad had seen things he didn't want to remember or talk about.

Years later, while on a religious retreat to The Sisters of Loretto Motherhouse in Kentucky, Dad saw a work-of-art made by resident nun, Sister Jeanne Deuber. Her sculpture was a nearly life-size crucifix, encircled by fire. The body and flames were made of paper-mache, and was mounted on a wooden cross. From afar the body appeared to be covered in burns. When closer however, one could see images of atomic bomb victims—mostly women and children—laminated on the body’s skin. The name of the piece was “Once,” and it was Sister Deuber’s hand-made memorial to the victims of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

When Dad saw it, the proverbial fire under his ass was lit, and he became inspired. He returned home and opened his Marine Corps trunk.

Dad's photo of Ukrami Cathedral, 1945

My photo of Ukrami Cathedral, 2008

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In the ensuing months, Dad sorted through piles of photographs, and selected certain 4x5 negatives to enlarge into poster-size prints. He decided not to use the more gruesome images, because he felt the victims had already been exploited from his photographing them while on their deathbeds.

"Once was enough," Dad said.

In 1995, during the 50th anniversary of the atom bombs being dropped, the exhibit toured extensively throughout Japan. The elderly brought their sons and daughters to see Dad's photographs, and those siblings brought their children—some only five or six years old. Many of the photographs in the exhibit were of innocent children—also known as "A-bomb orphans" because no surviving parent could be found. Thanks to the atomic bombs, there were an estimated five thousand of them.

Years passed, and in August of 2007, so did Dad. He died on the ninth of August—on the 62nd anniversary of the bombing of Nagasaki. Today is the 66th anniversary of the bombing, and the fourth anniversary of Dad's death.

I'm glad he finally opened the trunk. I'm glad he created his exhibit, took it to Japan, and that he was finally able to see smiling faces while there. Dad often said he never saw a smiling face while in 1945 Japan.

I should be more active in keeping Dad's photographs in the public eye. Thankfully, my stepmother Kimiko has been doing this—and extremely well. As I've lamented before, I prefer to remember him first and foremost as the father he was, and secondly as the photographer he was. Yes, he took some great photographs, but he was an even greater dad.

I've been told by many people that his photographs are my inherited legacy, and should I live long enough, it's my birthright to return to Japan in 2045—on the 100th anniversary of the atomic bombs being dropped. I'll be seventy-six years old then, and about the same age as Dad was when he first returned to Japan with his exhibit. I don't know what the future holds, although I should be honored and proud and privileged to promote peace through my father's photographs.

Instead though, right now the best I can do is selfishly say this inherited legacy is a blessing and a curse.

Forgive me Dad, for not being as strong as you.

FiN.

Remembering Post Atomic Japan

Dad took this picture of a young teenage boy who was badly burned by the atomic bomb that fell on Nagasaki Prefecture on August 9th, 1945.

When Dad returned to Japan in 1993, he was touring the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum and saw another one of his photographs displayed of the boy.

"I'm sure he died shortly after I photographed him," Dad told the museum's curator.

"He did not die—he lives!" the curator exclaimed, "I will take you to him. He is the Chairman of the Nagasaki Council of the A-Bomb Sufferers."

The boy, Sumiteru Taniguchi, was delivering mail on his bicycle when the atomic bomb detonated over Nagasaki. His arms and back were badly burned, and as he tried to pick up the scattered letters and parcels, the energy quickly drained from his body. He joined some other survivors walking along the railways, but by nightfall his wounds got the best of him, and he had no choice but to collapse. When morning came, the young survivor was mistaken for one of the many dead bodies he laid among, and rescuers overlooked Taniguchi for another two days.

When finally rescued, Sumiteru spent the next year and nine months in hospitals, teetering between life and death, and all the while lying on his stomach. His wounds refused to heal, and bedsores formed on his chest. His internal organs shifted, and his rib cage—the bones weakened by the radiation—began to implode. It was during this young boy's acme of pain and suffering that a U.S. Marine Corps photographer—my father—visited the hospital and exploited Sumiteru by photographing his wounds.

Nearly fifty years later the bittersweet reunion between the two men made headlines all over Japan.

 

In 2008 my stepmother donated many of Dad's photographs to the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum. On behalf of my family—and as part of the NHK documentary being filmed—I travelled to Nagasaki to attend the opening ceremony of Dad's exhibit.  I met many people while in Japan, including Mayor Taue of Nagasaki, and Tetsuo O'hara, the original publisher of my father's book. Nothing, however, prepared me for when I was walking to the podium, and saw Mr. Sumiteru Taniguchi standing in front of me.

All I could do was shake his hand and bow.

And bow.

And bow.

I still don't think I bowed enough.

Sumiteru Tanaguchi is a survivor. He's a living symbol of the suffering endured by thousands of Japanese civilians—both alive and dead. Unlike Cyronel's father who was featured in yesterday's post, Taniguchi is not embarrassed to be a Hibakusha (a survivor of the A-bomb), and has never repressed his survivor's guilt, his injuries, or his determination to abolish everything nuclear.

During the exhibit's opening—and in front of everyone, and with local and national news cameras rolling—Taniguchi unbuttoned and removed his shirt. His translator pulled the undershirt back, and exposed Sumiteru's recent surgery on his scars and lesions. It's been sixty-six years since the bomb, and he's still having operations—and his wounds still refuse to heal.

 Sumiteru showing me his most recent surgery that he had just prior to my visit.

What does one say about such an awful thing? All I could do was shake my head in pity, and pity is something the Hibashukas don't want or need.

All the Hibashukas want is the abolishment of all things nuclear, and for all weapons of mass destruction to be obsolete. They  also want the world to remember what happened on August 6th and 9th, 1945.

I don't think that's too much to ask for.

If you would like to see ten more photographs of Sumiteru Taniguchi, both past and present, click the link below. In 1993 my father photographed Taniguchi's wounds again, and I must say the images are very graphic, although they need to be seen.

Go to: Sumiteru Taniguchi's Photo Gallery

Please return tomorrow when I post the fourth and final article that remembers Japan, 1945.

FiN.

Remembering Post Atomic Japan Part III

In the spring of 2009  journalist David Weir came to Las Vegas and interviewed me about my father for the Japanese magazine, The English Journal. I recently obtained the audio from the interview, and have edited our lengthy conversation down to a five-minute synopsis. I also created a slideshow that goes along with the interview, and it features relevant photographs taken by my dad.

It was an honor to be interviewed by David Weir, and I'm happy to report our friendship has continued through the years. David grew up building his successful career exactly like I dreamed of doing for myself when I was younger—and although my writing career never came to fruition,  Dave has been a writer and/or editor  for myriads of publications and websites, including The New York Times and Rolling Stone.

In 2005 David wrote a retrospective of Hunter S. Thompson for the San Francisco Chronicle. When I learned this (just before my interview with him) I knew I was in good company.

Please watch this brief slideshow and interview before reading further. It will enlighten you with the letter that follows.

Expand the video to full-screen mode for better viewing.

Three years ago Japan's NHK Television filmed an indepth documentary about my father and his photographs. Between it's first airing and it's encore a week later, an estimated 11 million people watched the film. The photograph of the young boy carrying his deceased brother reverberated greatly with the Japanese people, but out of the hundreds of letters and comments I received from Japan, the below letter from Cyronel in Tokyo affected me the most, and I hope it does the same for you.

I received this letter three years ago today:

Dear Mr. O'Donnell,
 
Hi, I just saw the documentary about your father and his photos on NHK last night; it was very moving and heart-breaking at the same time that I was in tears by the end of the programme. I'm embarrassed to say this but, I didn't know about your father Joe O'Donnell or the fact that he was the man behind those electrifying photos until I saw him on TV last night.

I would also like to thank you for bridging the gap between me and my step-father whom I've always hated so much. Because of the photos/programme I had the chance to communicate with him. I learnt what he has gone through and now I understand why he's "like that."

I was watching the programme with my step-father. Although I knew he was already born during the war, he never talked about it nor shared me his experience. Besides, I barely speak with him (to avoid arguing) and he isn't much of a talker either. 
 
The programme began with that photo of the boy carrying his unconscious baby brother. And my step-father was like "Watch this boy… watch him carefully. He's a brilliant boy. He worked hard. He did a great job taking care of his brother till the very end without shedding any tears."
 
I've always been interested with history and war stories so I without having any second thoughts I said "Okay" and watched the programme with my step-father in silence. My step-father was born and raised in Nagasaki until he moved to Tokyo when he was a teenager. I've always wondered why he never took the family or visits Nagasaki. Until last night, I had no idea that he's one of the thousands of "Hibaku-sha" and he lost his father, elder sister and baby brother in the bombing.

Fortunately, his mother survived until she was 88 despite what she has gone through from her exposure to the radiation. My step-dad hasn't been in great shape in the past 10 years either. Although he is very much alive and kicking, he has gone through chemo and surgeries a few times, still sees his doctor weekly and takes tens of drugs/supplements every day.

Through all these years, I simply thought that he got ill because he wasn't taking care of himself and because he was a self-centered cold-hearted stubborn workaholic. I even thought he deserves it. I had no idea that his cancer and all these illness that he has been through was from his exposure from the bomb's radiation. He told me that he never wanted to talk about it nor wanted people, even the doctor, to know that he's one of "them" – as one of the Hibakusha, the A-bomb survivors exposed to the bomb's radiation – because it is embarrassing and he didn't/doesn't want people to pity him. He didn't want anybody to know about it until he got his cancer. He was "forced" to swallow his stupid pride and show his "Hibakusha Insurance ID" (or something like that), which his mother got for him when he was younger "just in case something happens," to the hospital because he wanted to stay alive and get any help that he could get to be better. He had chemo, and I've always wondered how my father could afford months and years of chemo, weekly check up and all his drugs. There was even a time that I NEVER visited my parents' house because I couldn't bare seeing my beautiful and loving mother taking care of my balding, weakening and lifeless step-father. I also remember telling my mum that I prefer him dying than to go through and bring all these pain and suffering to myself and my loved ones.
 
And now, EVERYTHING makes sense to me - Why he never wanted to talk about his family or his youth, why he never visits Nagasaki, that he didn't even go to his mother's funeral, why he never understood my mum's tight bond with her family, why he has always been cold, selfish, and a loner, and why he chose to have chemo and go through all the pain and suffering.

I apologize for the very long email and again, thank you very much for sharing the whole world your father's photos. 
 
 
Cheers from Tokyo,

Cyronel

FiN.

Richard Nixon and The Flat-Screen Television Paradox

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Last week I had the good fortune of winning a 32" Dynex HD flat screen television in yet another drawing. Over the years the cost of flat screens have gone down immensely, and my new TV can now be found online for $259.00.

My point is this: if anyone is interested in buying a big, bulky and heavy RCA 27" television, let me know. I'll even help you carry it down my staircase.

Actually, that's not really my point, but this is:

Back in the 1950's, when my father worked as a photographer for the United States Information Agency, he was assigned to (then) Senator Richard Milhous Nixon. During their travels the two became friends, and the friendship lasted well into Nixon's Presidency. In his later years, when my father was asked what Presidents' administrations were the most memorable to work for, Dad always said the Kennedy administration was the most interesting, but working under President Nixon was the best.

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Senator Nixon and Dad. The original photograph is signed by Nixon, thanking my dad for taking over 3,000 photographs of him.

Dad often enjoyed telling a story about a conversation he had with Richard Nixon:

The two were talking about technology—perhaps the latest camera model, or sending a man to the moon—and Nixon told Dad, "Joe, someday there will be two cars in the driveway of every home, and every home will have two televisions, and those televisions will be thin enough to hang on a wall, just like a painting."

Of course Dad thought this was a bunch of bullshit—or as he would say, hokum. Why on earth would any family need two cars? And two televisions in every home? What's the purpose?

Then one summer day in 1985, Dad came home from work and threw the latest issue of Popular Science on the kitchen table where I was sitting and eating a Pop-Tart.

"You see!" Dad exclaimed while tapping the magazine, "Nixon was right!"

Indeed, Nixon's prediction for the future had become a reality.

Dad didn't live long enough to see flat screen televisions become so popular. These types of TVs were around in 2007—the year my dad died—but I doubt he ever remembered seeing one because Alzheimer's Disease is a bitch, and don't let anyone try to tell you otherwise.

Here's another interesting story about Nixon, one that I saw the other day on the Discovery Channel:

Outgoing President Lyndon Johnson was leaving office, and he gave the incoming President Richard Nixon some advice.

"When your Presidency is over," Johnson told him, "you're going to want to write a memoir and sell it as a book. Trust me on this, you'll forget a lot of stuff during your time as President, so be sure to record everything on tape... and I mean everything."

Of course Nixon did as Johnson suggested, and a few years later Nixon's Presidency came to an abrupt end when his Watergate tape recordings were discovered.

It was a disappointing and devastating culmination for Nixon, but at the time, the American people didn't know about his talent for predicting things yet to come—like two cars being in every garage, and two flat screen televisions being in every home. And sadly, Nixon was unable to predict his own future.

According to Dad though, Tricky Dick was a great man.

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FiN.