Gray Mountain: A Novel(52)

The intent of the new federal law was to sharply reduce exposure to coal dust. Tough standards were soon in place and miners were offered free chest X-rays every five years. The X-rays showed 4 in 10 miners tested had some level of black lung. But in the years after the law took effect, new cases of black lung plunged by 90 percent. Doctors and experts predicted the disease would be eradicated. However, by 1995 government studies began to indicate an increase in the rate of the disease; then an even bigger increase. Just as troublesome, the disease appeared to progress more rapidly and it was showing up in the lungs of younger miners. Experts share two theories for this: (1) miners are working longer shifts, and thus are exposed to more dust; and (2) coal operators are exposing miners to illegal concentrations of coal dust.

Black lung is now epidemic in the coalfields, and the only possible reason is a prolonged exposure to more dust than the law allows. For decades the coal companies have resisted efforts to strengthen the standards, and they have been successful.

The law does not allow a miner to pay a lawyer; therefore, a typical miner with a claim must try to navigate the federal black lung system by himself. The coal industry is harshly resistant to claims, regardless of the proof offered by the miner. The companies fight the claims with experienced attorneys who skillfully manipulate the system. For a miner who prevails, his process usually takes about five years.

For Thomas Wilcox, the ordeal lasted twelve years. He was born near Brady, Virginia, in 1925, fought in the war, was wounded twice, decorated, and upon his return home he got married and went to work in the mines. He was a proud miner, a staunch union man, a loyal Democrat, and a fine husband and father. In 1974, he was diagnosed with black lung disease and filed a claim. He had been sick for several years and was almost too weak to work. His chest X-ray clearly showed complicated CWP. He had worked underground for 28 years and had never smoked. His claim was initially approved, but the award was appealed by the coal company. In 1976, at the age of 51, Thomas had no choice but to retire. He continued to deteriorate and he was soon on oxygen around the clock. With no income, his family scrambled to support themselves and cover his medical expenses. He and his wife were forced to sell the family home and live with an older daughter. His black lung claim was thoroughly choked up deep within the federal system by crafty attorneys working for the coal company. At the time, he was due about $300 a month, plus medical care.

By the end, Thomas was a shriveled skeleton, stuck in a wheelchair and gasping for breath as the final days passed and his family prayed for a merciful end. He could not speak and was fed baby food by his wife and daughters. Through the generosity of friends and neighbors, and the tireless efforts of his family, the supply of oxygen was never depleted. He weighed 104 pounds when he died in 1986, at the age of 61. An autopsy yielded incontrovertible proof of black lung.

Four months later the coal company dropped its appeal. Twelve years after he filed his claim, his widow received a lump sum settlement for back benefits.


Note: Thomas Wilcox was my father. He was a proud war hero, though he never talked about his battles. He was a son of the mountains and loved their beauty, history, and way of life. He taught us all how to fish the clear streams, camp in the caves, and even hunt deer for food He was an active man who slept little and preferred to read late into the night. We watched him gradually slow down as the disease took its grip. Every miner fears black lung, but he never thinks it will happen to him. As reality set in, Thomas lost his energy and began to brood. The simple tasks around the farm became more difficult. When he was forced to quit the mines, he went into a prolonged period of deep depression. As his body grew weaker and smaller, talking became too strenuous. He needed all of his energy just for breathing. In his final days, we took turns sitting with him and reading his favorite books. Often, he had tears in his eyes.

MATTIE WYATT, JULY 1, 2008





It was in the last section of the thick binder of seminar materials, and had obviously been added later. Samantha had not noticed it before. She put away the binder, found her running shoes, and went for a long walk around Brady. It was after eleven on Sunday night, and she did not see another person outdoors.





16


Mattie was in court in Curry County, Annette was running late, part-time Barb had yet to show, and part-time Claudelle didn’t arrive until noon on Mondays, so Samantha was all alone when Pamela Booker made a noisy entrance with two dirty kids behind her. She was crying by the time she gave her name and started begging for help. Samantha herded them into a conference room and spent the first five minutes trying to assure Pamela things would be okay, though she had no idea what “things” were in play. The kids were mute, with wide eyes and the startled looks of those traumatized. And they were hungry, Pamela said when she settled down. “Do you have anything to eat?”

Samantha raced to the kitchen, found some stale cookies, a pack of saltines, a bag of chips, and two diet sodas from Barb’s stash, and placed it all on the table in front of the two children who grabbed the cookies and bit off huge chunks. Through more tears, Pamela said thanks, and began talking. The narrative spilled out so fast Samantha had no time to take notes. She watched the kids devour the food while their mother told their story.

They were living in a car. They were from a small town just over the line in Hopper County, and since they lost their home a month earlier Pamela had been looking for a lawyer to rescue them. No one would help, but one eventually mentioned the Mountain Legal Aid Clinic over in Brady. Here they were. She had a job in a factory making lamps for a motel chain. It wasn’t a great job but one that paid the rent and bought groceries. There was no husband in the picture. Four months ago, a company she’d never heard of began garnishing her paycheck, took a third of it, and she couldn’t stop it. She complained to her boss, but he just waved a court order at her. Then he threatened to fire her, said he hated garnishment orders because of the hassle. When she argued with him, he followed through with his threat and she was now unemployed. She went to see the judge and explained everything, told him she couldn’t pay her rent and buy food at the same time, but he was not sympathetic. Said the law was the law. The problem was an old credit card judgment she hadn’t thought about in ten years. Evidently, the credit card company sold her judgment to some bottom-feeding collection agency, and, without her knowledge, an order of garnishment was issued. When she couldn’t pay the rent on her trailer, her landlord, a real *, called the sheriff and kicked her out. She piled in with a cousin for a few days, but that blew up and she left to live with a friend. That didn’t work either, and for the past two weeks she and the kids had been living in their car, which was low on everything—oil, air, gas, and brake fluid, the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. Yesterday, she shoplifted some chocolate bars and gave them to the kids. She herself had not eaten in two days.