Five Pages a Day (2 page)

Any serious misfortune can leave a victim wondering, Why me? Why was I paralyzed while my friends continued their ordinary lives? At the time I was too sick to wonder. Later I decided there is no answer. Everyone has good and bad luck at times; things happen that we can't control. By chance I was exposed to the polio virus, and by chance I had a severe case. There was no “reason” that I got sick, no one to blame, nothing to point a finger at.

The old saying that bad news comes in threes was true in my case. The original diagnosis of paralytic, or spinal, polio was followed by the news that I also had respiratory polio, which makes it hard to breathe,
and
bulbar polio, which impairs the ability to talk or swallow. Having one kind of polio was bad enough; having three kinds was over-whelming.

On the third day, still burning with fever, I was transferred to University Hospital in Minneapolis. My breathing was so shallow that the doctors feared I would need to go into an iron lung, a machine that would help me breathe. The Sheltering Arms couldn't care for patients as sick as I was.

At University Hospital, nurses draped an oxygen tent over my head and shoulders. This thick sheet of plastic, held up by a frame, was three feet above me, with the sides hanging down to touch my bed. Oxygen was released inside the “tent.” The room looked foggy through the plastic, but the oxygen eased my breathing.

I ached all over, my throat hurt, and except for turning my head from side to side on the pillow, I couldn't move at all. Severe muscle cramps knotted my leg and arm muscles, but I couldn't shift position to ease the pain. When I wanted to roll from my back to my side, a nurse had to help me. If my nose ran, someone had to wipe it for me. When I itched, I couldn't scratch. I was trapped in my own body.

My parents, dressed in hospital gowns and wearing masks and gloves, came to my bedside. I realized they were allowed in because the doctors were afraid I would die.

From the moment I found out I had polio, a fear of death had lurked in the shadows of my mind. Twelve-year-olds aren't supposed to die, I thought, yet I knew it could happen. I saw the same fear in my parents' eyes and wondered if my life was nearly over.

Mother and Dad were forbidden to touch me and could stay for only a few minutes each time, but I felt safer knowing they were there.

They held a straw to my lips and coaxed me to drink. They offered food, too, but the fever had taken away my appetite. My throat hurt, it was hard to swallow, and I was flat on my back. Even in good health, it's difficult for a person to eat or drink lying down.

After eight days, my fever broke. Soon after that the oxygen tent was removed. I was going to live.

Although the life-or-death crisis was over, I was still paralyzed, and so the long process of rehabilitation began. There was no cure for polio, but the doctors thought the Sister Kenny treatments, named for the Australian nurse who first used them, might minimize the lasting effects.

The Sister Kenny treatments consisted of hot packs and muscle stretching. I had both each day. Woolen cloths were dipped in tubs of steaming water, wrung out, then draped on my bare back, arms, and legs. The first time I had the hot-packs treatment, I was sure the nurse had made a mistake and over heated the water.

“My skin is burning!” I cried. “The water is too hot!”

“It has to be this hot to help you,” the nurse said.

I soon learned that after the first searing moments, the hot packs felt good because the moist heat made my cramped muscles relax. When the cloths cooled, they were removed and fresh hot packs applied. Each time, I closed my eyes, dreading the first few moments when another steaming cloth hit my bare skin.

Physical therapy followed the hot packs. The frequent muscle spasms I'd had during the acute stage of polio had tightened my muscles, and they needed to be gradually stretched back to normal before they could regain strength.

The stretching hurt, and I dreaded my twice-daily sessions with the physical therapist. She had no patience with my tears, and I dubbed her “Mrs. Crab.”

My parents returned to Austin. Dad needed to go back to work, and now that it was clear that I would live, visiting hours were again enforced.

A kind intern, Dr. Bevis, listened to my silly “knock, knock” jokes, gave colorful reports of the University of Minnesota football games, and encouraged me to work hard at my exercises. “I want to see you walk again,” he said. I promised him I would try.

My eight-year-old roommate, Tommy, was in an iron lung. This tube-shaped machine enclosed all of him except his head. Bellows pumped air in and out of his lungs, causing them to expand and contract.

Tommy and I listened to the “Lone Ranger” radio programs. As we cheered for our hero, the soft “swooshing” sound of Tommy's iron lung provided an odd accompaniment to the “Lone Ranger's” stirring music.

At night, I missed my parents and worried about my future. How could I ever lead a normal life?

One morning, after three weeks of paralysis, I lay in bed rehearsing a new joke to tell Dr. Bevis. By then I had a full-blown crush on him, and my daily jokes were a way to get him to spend more time in my room.

As I waited for his visit, my leg itched. I scratched the itch, then realized what I had done. I scratched again, to be sure I really could do it. The fingers on my left hand moved back and forth.

“I can move my hand!” I yelled.

The nurses came running, followed by Dr. Bevis. Triumphantly, I demonstrated my new skill.

“Can she really do it?” Tommy asked.

“Yes,” said the nurse.

“Hooray!” yelled Tommy.

Dr. Bevis beamed.

No Olympic athlete ever felt more exultant at winning a medal than I did over moving the fingers on one hand.

Slowly, I regained the use of my muscles. First my fingers moved, then my arms. Next I could sit up, and then I was able to feed myself.

A month later, I was transferred back to the Sheltering Arms where I was placed in a room with four girls my age. A common enemy creates strong bonds, and Dorothy, Alice, Shirley, and Renée soon became my best friends. They knew what it was like to battle polio; my friends back home did not.

Visitors were allowed on Wednesday evenings and Sunday afternoons. The one hundred miles between my home in Austin and the hospital in Minneapolis made Wednesdays out of the question, but my parents came every Sunday, regardless of the weather or road conditions.

I was the only girl in the room who got visitors. Dorothy's farm family couldn't leave their chores long enough to drive several hours each way; Renée's parents and Shirley's also lived too far away to come.

And then there was Alice. She had been at the Sheltering Arms for ten years. She had gotten polio before Sister Kenny developed her treatments, and as a result she had shriveled arms and legs as well as the condition known as “dropfoot,” which prevented her from standing. When Alice's parents learned that she was permanently disabled, they realized they couldn't care for her and the rest of their children, too, so at the age of three Alice had become a ward of the state. She pretended not to mind, but when I heard Alice's story, I knew there were worse things than being paralyzed.

My parents soon included my roommates in their visits. Dad took home movies of us, then showed the movies the next Sunday. Mother brought surprises and treats for each girl. My brother, Art, came from college and joked with everyone. The other girls looked forward to my family's visits as much as I did.

Friends and neighbors in Austin, hearing about the polio girls who didn't get company, loaded my parents with potato chips and peanuts, brownies and cookies, all of which we stashed under my bed.

Before long I got a wheelchair and learned to push myself around. I named the wheelchair Silver after the horse in the “Lone Ranger.” To the dismay of the staff, I learned to make Silver rear on his hind legs. I raced down the hall as fast as I could, then slammed on the brakes, causing the small front wheels to lift off the floor while I balanced on the large rear ones.

The nurses warned me that this was dangerous, but each time the other kids asked me to do my trick, I waited until the grownups were out of sight and then tore down the hall and “popped a wheelie” in front of the door, where my roommates could see me and applaud.

The wheelchair became my ticket to independence. After I learned to get into it and then back into bed by myself, I even passed out cookies in the dark, when we were supposed to be asleep.

On my thirteenth birthday, I sat in Silver and blew out the candles on the chocolate cake that Mother had brought. I had only one wish: to walk by myself.

My physical therapist, Miss Ballard, became my personal cheerleader, encouraging me to stretch and to work at my exercises. She believed I would walk someday, and her confidence made me believe it, too.

The friendship of my roommates also sustained me. We often sang together after lights out at night. We told jokes and teased each other about boyfriends. Alice, Dorothy, Renée, and Shirley seemed like sisters, and the success of one of us became the success of all. When I got walking sticks and said goodbye to Silver, the other girls clapped. Even though none of them would ever get out of their wheelchairs, my progress was a victory against our mutual foe.

Every Sunday Mother brought my homework, so in addition to attending the hospital school for two hours each day, I studied on my own, trying to keep up with my class in Austin. Between school-work and physical therapy, my days were full. But not so full that I didn't get homesick once in a while. I especially missed Grandpa, who lived with my family. I missed B.J., too, although he wrote me funny letters, which I read aloud to the other girls. His letters were signed with a muddy paw print.

In February, five months after I moved in with Dorothy, Alice, Renée, and Shirley, I was discharged from the Sheltering Arms. By then I could walk a few steps by myself.

I continued the physical therapy at home, lying on the dining room table while Mother stretched my muscles. I practiced walking, trying each time to go one minute longer.

In April, still using my walking sticks, I returned to school. Eventually I walked alone well enough that I no longer needed the sticks.

The experience of being paralyzed and uprooted from my family changed me forever and continues to affect me now, half a century later. Polio taught me perseverance. I rejoiced over minor accomplishments and learned that success can come one small step at a time. Because I know that life might change or even end without warning, I appreciate each day. I cherish family and friends, and try to make the most of my time and talents.

{ 3 }

High School Days

W
hile I recovered from polio, I read a lot. The summer after I got home from the hospital, I devoured an entire set of encyclopedias, from
A
to
Z
. I discovered the Louisa May Alcott books and read
Little Women
many times.
Daddy-Long-Legs
by Jean Webster became a favorite.

I had always loved to read, although I don't remember being read to as a child. When I was growing up, I never saw my parents read for pleasure, yet I regularly sneaked a flashlight into bed and read with my head under the covers when I was supposed to be asleep.

On bright summer days, I sat on the couch with my nose in a book until Mother insisted that I “go outside and get some fresh air.” Then I stretched out on the grass or in our hammock and read some more.

I remember only one teacher who read aloud to the class. When I was in fourth grade, Miss Beck read us
The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew
. I hung on every word and begged her to read more than one chapter each day. Miss Beck didn't give in to my pleas, but she did encourage me to read other books. My school had no library, so she suggested that I borrow books from the public library.

I took her advice, checked out a copy of
The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew
, and finished it ahead of the class.

I became a regular visitor at the library. My parents let me read whatever I brought home. The only time they disapproved of my reading was when I used my allowance to buy comic books. Mother thought they were a waste of money, but she never forbade me to read them. My favorites were
Little Lulu
and
Archie and His Friends
.

I loved the library so much that I even played library at home. Each of my childhood Raggedy Ann books has a yellowed 3 x 5 card taped on the inside front cover. On the card, written in my childish cursive writing, is the title of the book and lines for the borrower's name and the due date. However, none of those lines were ever filled in. I pretended to be a librarian, but I couldn't bear to lend out my cherished books.

After polio, I read even more because my weakened muscles prevented me from swimming, bike-riding, bowling, and other activities that my friends enjoyed. Most people, including my family, did not yet have television. Radio, movies, board games, and sports provided entertainment.

Although I loved to read, the
Dog Newspaper
had temporarily ended my hope of becoming a writer. That dream did not surface again until I was in high school.

In my junior year, I signed up to work on the
Austin Sentinel
, my school newspaper. My first creative writing was published there. While the other kids wrote teacher interviews and articles about school games, band concerts, and field trips, I wrote an article about how buttons were trying to take over the world. It warned of an elaborate plot for buttons to pop off clothing at important events, all perfectly timed and coordinated by the button leaders.

I will forever be grateful to the
Sentinel
's advisor for publishing my button piece. Because it was so different from what the school newspaper usually printed, it created a stir. Once again I received congratulations on my writing, and this time the feedback made me think seriously of becoming a writer.