The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story (11 page)

“He told me all about you, too.”

Dr. Miller made no effort to examine her, but asked detailed questions about how she felt and how much she could move her limbs. Olivia demonstrated, making unsteady, almost imperceptible movements of her legs. Then, in the same circumspect terms he used downstairs, Dr. Miller discussed the Sister Kenny treatment. When he finished, Olivia smiled stoically.

“Then it’s up to Dr. Vance?”

“Yes. You know, Mrs. Walton, the movement you can make with your legs is very encouraging.”

Olivia laughed. “I’m glad you could even see it. I thought maybe it was just in my imagination.”

“No, I could see it, all right. And I’m not speaking so much as a doctor right now. I’m remembering when I was in your place. I couldn’t do that for months.”

“I’ve been exercising. If I keep it up, I’ll build up more and more control, don’t you think?”

Olivia’s enthusiasm seemed to alarm the doctor. “It’s certainly possible,” he said tentatively. Then he gave her a sympathetic smile. “I know. You want more than ‘possibilities.’ You want certainties. I’m afraid there just aren’t any with polio, Mrs. Walton.”

Watching from across the bed, John felt a wave of compassion for Olivia. He wished the doctor would tell her something positive; encourage her with the exercises, or tell her there was even a slim chance of recovery. But he understood the doctor’s cautiousness.

“It’s natural for you to want to get back to the person you were before this happened,” Dr. Miller said. “But you should be realistic and accept the fact that there are other possibilities.”

“You mean I should be willin’ to settle for less than that?” Olivia asked.

“No, not for less. But maybe for something different.” He suddenly smiled, as if reflecting on his own situation. “It’s really not so bad, Mrs. Walton.”

It was easy to forget that Dr. Miller was crippled and permanently confined to a wheelchair. His inner strength and commanding manner gave the impression of energetic virility. The subtle reminder of his real condition brought a faint blush to Olivia’s cheeks.

“I’m sorry, doctor. And I do appreciate your comin’ to see me.”

He waved aside the apology. “Mrs. Walton, I’m looking forward to the day you’ll be coming to see me.”

John waited until they were downstairs and out to the car before he asked the question. “Doctor Miller, do you think the movement in Livvy’s legs means there’s some hope?”

The man considered the question for some time. “It’s possible, Mr. Walton. On the other hand, every case is different.” He shook his head and smiled. “The only thing I can say for sure is that if determination and persistence are a factor in a person’s recovery, your wife’s got as good a chance as anybody I’ve ever seen.”

John nodded, but the doctor looked troubled, as if he had more on his mind.

“Mr. Walton, I realize how much you and your family hoped the Sister Kenny treatment might turn out to be a miracle cure for Mrs. Walton. And I can see that from your viewpoint I sounded very negative about it. But I think you are a realistic man. You know that nothing is ever pure white or pure black. So I’ll say this off the record—and with not a whole lot of scientific evidence to back it up. Personally, I don’t see how the Sister Kenny treatment can do any harm. And with your wife’s attitude, it just might be the right combination to bring off some kind of a miracle.”

John was surprised by the statement. He also appreciated how difficult it was for the man to make it. “But you don’t think I should tell Livvy.”

“No, I don’t. People react differently to doctors’ advice. Some become so dependent on it they make no effort on their own. Others—sometimes because they have no faith in doctors at all—bring about their own cures through sheer determination. They just say to themselves they’ll be damned if they’ll let any bug interfere with their lives. Your wife is a strong woman. I think she just might be better off making the decision on her own rather than depending on someone else’s opinion.”

“What if Dr. Vance recommends against the treatment?”

“If he does, I would consider his advice very seriously. But in the end it’s still her decision. And it’s possible that Dr. Vance might think the treatment has a great deal to offer. It wouldn’t surprise me if he endorsed it wholeheartedly.”

John nodded. “Yes, I reckon that’s possible.” It would certainly simplify things, he reflected.

The doctor suddenly smiled. “Mr. Walton, you’ve got a fine family. I can’t tell you how much I was impressed by that oldest boy of yours. And no matter how all this comes out, you’ve still got something very valuable in this house. Your wife’s illness isn’t going to change that.”

The statement was both flattering and mildly pessimistic. Before John could respond to it, the doctor waved and the car pulled away.

VI

D
r. Miller’s visit seemed to have settled nothing. If anything, John-Boy had the feeling the doctor thought his mother should try and make the best of spending her life in a wheelchair. And John-Boy got little encouragement when he delivered the pamphlets to Dr. Vance. The doctor had come out to his crowded waiting room for only a minute, and was puzzled by the literature.

“It’s about the Sister Kenny treatment,” John-Boy explained, “Dr. Miller at Boatwright College got the pamphlets for us, and he thought you might be interested in readin’ ’em.”

“Oh, I see. You mean for your mother.”

“Yes sir.”

The doctor nodded and slid the pamphlets into the pocket of his smock. “Is she having any discomfort from the splints?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s good. I’ll be over to see her tomorrow.”

“We’d appreciate it if you’d read the pamphlets, Dr. Vance.”

“I will.” He gave John-Boy a distracted smile and disappeared.

The next morning John-Boy had another surprise.

As far back as he could remember, the only occasions on which his father ever went to church were Christmas and sometimes Easter—or when some friend or relative died. But after the dishes were washed and dried and John-Boy headed up the stairs to get ready for church, he met his father coming down the hall wearing a suit and a necktie. He looked as casual about his appearance as if he dressed that way every day.

“You goin’ to church, Daddy?”

“Yep,” his father said and went on down the stairs.

Only Erin stayed home with Olivia, and until all the kids got in back of the truck and they drove off, no one said a word.

“How come Daddy’s goin’ to church?” Elizabeth finally asked.

“I reckon he just feels like it,” John-Boy shrugged, and the subject was dropped.

In the church nobody questioned his presence. It seemed like his singing voice boomed out louder than all the rest of the congregation put together, and his “Amens” at the end of prayers were emphatic and conclusive. When the service was over he politely answered questions about Olivia for five minutes, and then they all marched to the truck and returned home.

Until they had climbed out of the truck, none of the children noticed Dr. Vance’s car parked near the porch. Then, knowing they would soon hear the critical decision, they went quickly inside.

Dr. Vance was waiting for them in the kitchen. The pamphlets were on the table, and he smiled through the greetings. Still, John-Boy felt a stab of apprehension. Beneath the polite smile, Dr. Vance didn’t look too happy.

John pulled out a chair. “Sit down, Doc. Grandma, you want to make some coffee?”

John-Boy and Grandpa also eased into chairs, while the others stood near the sink. Dr. Vance fingered the pamphets for a minute and then pushed them aside.

“Your daughter told me you’d be home shortly,” he said, “So I haven’t discussed these with Mrs. Walton yet.”

“I take it you’re not in favor of the Sister Kenny treatment, Dr. Vance.”

It seemed to John-Boy that there was an odd note in his father’s voice. It was not impatience so much as a quiet determination—as if he had made some important decision and he was intent on carrying it through.

The doctor sighed heavily and shook his head. “It’s not only me, Mr. Walton. I talked to two other doctors last night after your son left the pamphlets. One of them is a physiotherapist and the other is an orthopedic surgeon in Richmond. Frankly, two of us were dead-set against it. The third felt that there was a possibility that the treatment might have some merit. However, even he felt that the risks might far outweigh the possible benefits.”

“What’s a physiotherapist?” Grandpa asked.

Dr. Vance smiled. “Oddly enough, it’s a man who does exactly the kind of treatment this Sister Kenny prescribes. Principally, he works with people who have had badly broken bones, or people who may have had physical defects from birth. Through massage and a combination of heat and water treatments he attempts to strengthen muscles to correct the defects.”

“Is he the one who thought the Kenny treatment might be good?” John asked.

“Yes. And he’s also the one who warned against the risks. You see, physiotherapy can be a very complicated procedure, and requires considerable knowledge of muscular balance. In most cases, therapists are working with only one limb and a limited number of muscles. In the case of polio there is a massive atrophication. An attempt to properly strengthen all the muscles would necessarily be a very lengthy and complicated procedure. It would require a great deal of equipment, and expert supervision.”

“Could it be done in a hospital in Richmond?”

Dr. Vance shook his head. “I asked Dr. Pierce the same question. He said he wouldn’t attempt it. Aside from the complexity of the problem, it is still highly doubtful that the muscles would respond to the treatment. You see, there’s still a fact we must face, Mr. Walton. The nerves are probably suffering from permanent damage. In the majority of polio patients that is the case. Under such circumstances no amount of massage or physiotherapy could ever revitalize them.”

“And you think Livvy’s nerves have been damaged that much?”

Dr. Vance nodded grimly. “I’ve tested and retested her reflexes right from the start. There’s no doubt in my mind. In her case I’d say the odds are overwhelmingly against any kind of recovery. That’s the principle reason I would advise against the Kenny treatment. In the long run, starting a treatment like that would do nothing more than postpone her adjustment.”

“Adjustment to what?”

Dr. Vance took another deep breath, as if hating what he had to say. “To being crippled, Mr. Walton. Sooner or later, your wife’s going to have to face the fact that she’ll never walk again. The longer she puts it off the more difficult it’s going to be for her. I’m sorry it’s necessary to be blunt, Mr. Walton. But Mrs. Walton has been crippled by a terrible disease. She must learn to accept that.”

Far more than the words, it was the grim expression of the doctor’s face that caused John-Boy’s heart to sink. Grandma had served coffee, but no one touched it. At the sink Elizabeth was staring at the doctor, almost in tears.

“It’s hard,” Dr. Vance went on, “but it’s true. She’s got to accept it. She’s got to get on with the job of shaping a life for herself with her new limitations.”

“You mean a wheelchair?” Grandpa asked.

“I’m afraid that’s precisely what I mean. Every single person who ever had polio probably believed sincerely that he was going to recover, and made some effort to use his legs and strengthen the muscles. And everyone of them would have been better off if he immediately accepted the fact that he was crippled and made the best of it. Believe me, Mr. Walton, your wife is no different. In the end, her efforts and her exercises will only prolong the adjustment.”

John-Boy glanced at his father. He seemed to have stiffened in the face of the harsh words. He nodded toward the pamphlets.

“This Sister Kenny treatment—what are the risks involved?”

“In the first place,” Dr. Vance said firmly, “the splints would have to be taken off in order to begin the treatment. This is extremely dangerous. Unsupported, the muscles are likely to pull the legs into gross deformity. Secondly, the treatments would be very painful. The motor nerves, which control leg movements, may be damaged, or totally destroyed. But the sensory nerves, which relay pain, can still be healthy enough to make the treatments unbearable.” He shook his head. “But probably the worst part of all is giving her false hope. Believe me, Mr. Walton, if you looked around enough you could probably find a hundred different people claiming to have a cure for polio. There are thousands of quacks in the world who make fortunes by promising cures for incurable diseases. And unfortunately, there are thousands of patients spending millions of dollars going from one of these quacks to another.”

“Doesn’t appear to me this Sister Kenny woman’s askin’ for any money,” Grandpa said.

“No, I’ll grant that. But it’s still a false hope. People can have other reasons for promoting quack cures.”

John gazed at the doctor for a long time. “Doc, would you come up and tell Livvy everythin’ you’ve told us? All about the risks, and about other people with polio thinkin’ the same way she does?”

The doctor hesitated. “Yes. I did intend to examine her today. But I think the decision is yours as much as hers, Mr. Walton. In her condition it’s hard for your wife to be objective.”

John nodded and rose. “I been thinkin’ about it.”

“I hate that man,” Elizabeth said as quickly as John and the doctor were gone.

Grandma poured herself coffee and sat down. “Now, that’s no way to talk. Particularly on the Sabbath.”

“He’s just doin’ what he thinks is right,” Grandpa added.

“Do you think Mama will want to do it?” Mary Ellen asked.

Grandma shook her head. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But that steam and massage—sounds to me like it’s just what Livvy needs.”

John-Boy didn’t know what to think. If someone had asked him an hour ago, he would have been one hundred percent in favor of the treatment. But Dr. Vance’s saying that everyone else who ever had polio was just as determined as his mother—that was a discouraging thought. And if the treatment didn’t work, she would be crippled even worse.