I am a Baby Boomer who grew up learning to make the best of life in a segregated South. I was able to function in this environment while coping with the effects of paralysis brought on by polio and of the loss of my nuclear family.

From age 18 months to 4 1/2 years old, I lived in hospitals and rehabilitation facilities, where I underwent numerous surgeries and daily physical therapy.  I only remember bits and pieces of my life during that time.  But my grandmother, aunts and uncles have told me so many details about those years. 

 
When I was 17 months old, my Aunt Ella and Uncle Lightning Bug (he earned the reputation during his dapper days when he had three-or-four-too-many-girlfriends) took me fishing with them while my mother was working. My aunt and uncle allowed me to sit at the edge of the pond to play in the water so they could keep an eye on me while they fished. I was fascinated with the water and as many toddlers do, I couldn’t resist tasting it over and over again.

The next day, I had a fever.  My family thought I was coming down with a cold and provided home remedies for me.  By the second day, I was frequently falling and couldn’t even sit on a chair without falling off. So my parents took me to a doctor who didn’t mind treating black people. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me, but told them that antibiotics would eliminate my symptoms.

Rapidly, my body began to change from a healthy get-into-everything toddler to one that was too weak to get up and be mischievous. My Aunt Ella said she knew something was seriously wrong with me because I wouldn’t eat. Back then, eating was my hobby. I was very plump and rightfully earned the nickname, “Pig.” I had two cousins who were two and four months older than me, but I had no problem physically taking their food from them even after I had hurriedly eaten all of mine.

On the third day, I was unable to stand or to hold objects. So my parents took me to Macon Hospital where I was examined and admitted to the “colored ward.”  The doctor said that I had spinal polio and the virus had wrecked my body so badly that he expected me to die within 24 hours. I hung in there, but by the fifth day, paralysis had claimed the majority of my muscles. I was only able to move my head, and my fever was so high that I had one seizure after another. 

After a week of no improvement I was sent to a hospital in Augusta, where I underwent numerous surgeries and rehabilitation for several years. About a year after I was in Augusta, my mother was killed in a tornado. Then, my 62-year-old maternal grandmother became my guardian and my aunts became my “mothers.” Although they visited me once a month, they were not allowed to come into the room that I shared with three other children. When they were allowed to visit me in my room, I would cry and become depressed when they left for home without me.

My depression interfered with my progress. Even as a toddler, depression caused me to not to care about doing anything – especially physical therapy. So over the years I forgot my family but my health improved and I was able to walk with crutches, leg braces and a corset with steel strips that helped me to sit up. I hated that corset more than the braces with the ugly brown brogan shoes.

My recovery was so miraculous that I became a March of Dimes poster child for the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis. Back then that was an important recognition for a black child in the segregated South. The foundation was founded in 1938 by President Roosevelt in Warm Springs, GA, to provide funds for polio research, education and patient aid, according to Wikipedia. In the 19^th century, Warm Springs the town was prominent for its mineral springs that flowed at nearly 90-degree Fahrenheit and were open to the public. 

FDR first came to the town in the 1920s in hopes that the warm waters would aid his paraplegia, at the time thought to be caused by polio. During one of my appointments at the Roosevelt Warm Springs Institute for Rehabilitation, I toured the town and the Little White House. The Little White House was most intriguing because a lot of FDR’s personal belongings were still there – even his convertible Model-T car with wooden hand controls that operated the gas and brake pedals looked as though it had just rolled off the assembly line.

After living with polio for more than 50 years, I’ve learned that a good sense of humor, strong determination and close relationships can get you through anything. I continue to have a rewarding life. I’ve served on the boards of numerous organizations, designed souvenir books for churches and traveled.

Now, I’m dealing with post-polio syndrome, just like others who survived paralytic polio in childhood: muscle weakness, extreme fatigue and in some cases, paralysis. I live with the effects of all three, but I refuse to stop living my life because I’m in control of my destiny and refuse to roll over and play the blame game. In other words, I’m too busy living to feel sorry for myself.

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