happened?”
The doctor handed her a box of tissues. “Well, there’s no way of knowing for sure, but since there’s no evidence of head trauma, my guess is that it either happened in utero or it’s genetic. Given his medical history, we can pretty much rule out diseases. One possibility is prenatal exposure to environmental toxins which can affect brain development,” he said. “You know, mercury, cadmium, arsenic, lead, or any kind of radiation. As far as you recall, were you ever exposed to any such chemicals while pregnant?”
“No.”
“Chemotherapy?”
“No.”
“Did Martin use any pesticides or insecticides to excess that you know of?”
“No.”
“Or longtime exposure to carbon monoxide?”
The question jogged through her. “Do you mean did I try to kill myself?”
“That was not my question, but car exhaust is one form of the gas. Another is a faulty oil burner. Anything like that?”
Rachel shook her head. His questions were cutting closer to the quick. And she wondered if she were projecting the image of someone with a history of mental instability.
“Of course not,” the doctor said, musing over the charts. “How about alcohol or drugs?”
She had sensed the question before it hit the air. “No. I drink very little, and I certainly didn’t while carrying Dylan.”
“Then my guess is that it’s probably genetic since there’s a lot of evidence linking heredity factors to neurophysiological disorders—schizophrenia, depression, stuttering, hyperactivity, alcoholism, and so forth But, once again, I’m not the man to ask. You really have to see a pediatric neurologist.”
Silence filled the room as the doctor waited for her to respond. “Rachel, are you all right?”
She nodded ever so slightly, thinking how there was only one thing more devastating than discovering that your much-wanted child has a brain disorder: the thought that you may have caused that disorder. In a low voice, she said, “I took drugs when I was in college.”
There! It was out.
Dr. Rose rocked back in his seat. “I see. And what did you take?”
“LSD laced with TNT,” she said. “On and off for about two years.”
“And you’re wondering if that caused brain damage in your son.”
She nodded.
“From what I know, there’s no evidence that LSD is a mutagen—that it causes chromosomal damage that could affect unborn children. There were rumors aloft in the sixties, but none was ever found. But I don’t know what this TNT is.”
“It’s also known as trimethoxy-4-methyl-triphetamine, TNT to street people.” The name was etched in her brain.
Rachel tried to push back the tears as she reached into her handbag and pulled out a Newsweek article from three weeks ago. As was typical of newsmagazines its cutesy title belied the horrors: “Acid Kickback.” As if they were reporting about heartburn. She handed the sheets to the doctor.
He adjusted his reading glasses. “‘New study shows evidence linking TNT-tainted LSD and genetic defects in users’ offspring.’” Then he read the rest of the piece to himself as Rachel sat there slowly dying.
For years, she had rested easy in the knowledge that no evidence had been found that LSD was a mutagen. Then Newsweek and the wire services had
picked up a recent study by a Yale research group that set off an alarm in Rachel’s soul. The chief culprit was a family of synthetics chemically described as tryptamines, the ugliest of which was TNT, a substance hundreds of times more potent than mescaline. It was what Jake Gordon had synthesized and added to his acid back in school. According to the report, the stuff was genetically toxic, entering the reproductive cells of the female users and causing alterations in the ova, resulting in deformities in children. What startled Rachel was the figure: sixty-five percent of habitual female users of TNT-laced acid gave birth to children with cancers and birth defects. Two babies in the study were born
The doctor handed her a box of tissues. “Well, there’s no way of knowing for sure, but since there’s no evidence of head trauma, my guess is that it either happened in utero or it’s genetic. Given his medical history, we can pretty much rule out diseases. One possibility is prenatal exposure to environmental toxins which can affect brain development,” he said. “You know, mercury, cadmium, arsenic, lead, or any kind of radiation. As far as you recall, were you ever exposed to any such chemicals while pregnant?”
“No.”
“Chemotherapy?”
“No.”
“Did Martin use any pesticides or insecticides to excess that you know of?”
“No.”
“Or longtime exposure to carbon monoxide?”
The question jogged through her. “Do you mean did I try to kill myself?”
“That was not my question, but car exhaust is one form of the gas. Another is a faulty oil burner. Anything like that?”
Rachel shook her head. His questions were cutting closer to the quick. And she wondered if she were projecting the image of someone with a history of mental instability.
“Of course not,” the doctor said, musing over the charts. “How about alcohol or drugs?”
She had sensed the question before it hit the air. “No. I drink very little, and I certainly didn’t while carrying Dylan.”
“Then my guess is that it’s probably genetic since there’s a lot of evidence linking heredity factors to neurophysiological disorders—schizophrenia, depression, stuttering, hyperactivity, alcoholism, and so forth But, once again, I’m not the man to ask. You really have to see a pediatric neurologist.”
Silence filled the room as the doctor waited for her to respond. “Rachel, are you all right?”
She nodded ever so slightly, thinking how there was only one thing more devastating than discovering that your much-wanted child has a brain disorder: the thought that you may have caused that disorder. In a low voice, she said, “I took drugs when I was in college.”
There! It was out.
Dr. Rose rocked back in his seat. “I see. And what did you take?”
“LSD laced with TNT,” she said. “On and off for about two years.”
“And you’re wondering if that caused brain damage in your son.”
She nodded.
“From what I know, there’s no evidence that LSD is a mutagen—that it causes chromosomal damage that could affect unborn children. There were rumors aloft in the sixties, but none was ever found. But I don’t know what this TNT is.”
“It’s also known as trimethoxy-4-methyl-triphetamine, TNT to street people.” The name was etched in her brain.
Rachel tried to push back the tears as she reached into her handbag and pulled out a Newsweek article from three weeks ago. As was typical of newsmagazines its cutesy title belied the horrors: “Acid Kickback.” As if they were reporting about heartburn. She handed the sheets to the doctor.
He adjusted his reading glasses. “‘New study shows evidence linking TNT-tainted LSD and genetic defects in users’ offspring.’” Then he read the rest of the piece to himself as Rachel sat there slowly dying.
For years, she had rested easy in the knowledge that no evidence had been found that LSD was a mutagen. Then Newsweek and the wire services had
picked up a recent study by a Yale research group that set off an alarm in Rachel’s soul. The chief culprit was a family of synthetics chemically described as tryptamines, the ugliest of which was TNT, a substance hundreds of times more potent than mescaline. It was what Jake Gordon had synthesized and added to his acid back in school. According to the report, the stuff was genetically toxic, entering the reproductive cells of the female users and causing alterations in the ova, resulting in deformities in children. What startled Rachel was the figure: sixty-five percent of habitual female users of TNT-laced acid gave birth to children with cancers and birth defects. Two babies in the study were born
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