My Polio Memoir: 1953–2016

By Ida Curtis

Part I of My Polio Memoir starts in 1953 when I was eighteen years old and diagnosed with polio at McCook General Hospital in Hartford, Connecticut. After a period spent in isolation at McCook, I was moved to Newington Home and Hospital for Crippled Children for treatment. During the two years there, I recovered the ability to use my arms, but not my legs, and met my husband-to-be. Using a wheelchair, I became independent enough to leave the hospital and return to my parents’ home.
Part II continues the story and covers a much longer period of time. The second part is about my life using a wheelchair. I attended college, married, and had two children. My husband and I lived in eight different states and in British Columbia, Canada. Our mobile lifestyle meant the need to find accessible housing with each move. In the last chapter I tell of the change in views about what people with disabilities can accomplish and the changes in legislation that make all aspects of life more accessible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781365461774

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My Polio Memoir: 1953–2016

My Polio Memoir

1953–2016

By Ida Curtis

For Jared, who is the hero of my memoir, and my life.

Preface

Part I of My Polio Memoir starts in 1953 when I was eighteen years old and diagnosed with polio at McCook General Hospital in Hartford, Connecticut. At the time the only symptoms I had were a headache, high temperature, and the inability to eat. I was nourished via a tube in my arm, and although my limbs felt normal, I soon discovered I was unable to move them.

After a period spent in isolation at McCook, I was moved to Newington Home and Hospital for Crippled Children for treatment. I spent two years there being treated by physiotherapists, making friends in a ward of twelve girls, attending high school in a bed, and graduating from High School. During that time, I recovered the ability to use my arms, but not my legs, and met my husband-to-be. Using a wheelchair, I became independent enough to leave the hospital and return to my parents’ home.

Part II continues the story, but is told in a different way and covers a much longer period of time. Although I left the hospital assuming I would in time recover the use of my legs, it didn’t happen. The second part is about my life using a wheelchair. I attended college, married, and had two children. My husband and I lived in eight different states and in British Columbia, Canada. Our mobile lifestyle meant the need to find accessible housing with each move. In the last chapter I tell of the change in views about what people with disabilities can accomplish and the changes in legislation that make all aspects of life more accessible.

Seattle, October 2016

Part I

1953–1955

1. I’m Positive

It was August 1953, and I lay in a hospital bed waiting for the results of my spinal tap. The doctor who had done the test had a mask over his face when he returned to the room. The test is positive, he said.

I had no idea what he meant. Positive sounded upbeat, but when I saw the startled expression on the face of the nurse who had been waiting with me, I had a feeling the news wasn’t good. Because I had a temperature of 105 and a throbbing headache, our family doctor had admitted me to McCook General Hospital in Hartford, Connecticut, for tests. I was eighteen years old and looking forward to starting my senior year in High School. Dr. Friedburg, whom I had known forever, suspected I might have polio, a disease feared because it’s victims, mostly children, often ended up crippled or in an iron lung.

I wasn’t a child and I walked into the hospital without even a stiff limb. I didn’t believe there could be anything seriously wrong. After the positive diagnosis I was moved to a private room and my parents had to talk to me through a glass window. The nurses who came in wore masks, but, aside from having no appetite, I didn’t feel sick enough to be in a hospital. I don’t remember much about those days in isolation beyond talking to people through the window and having an IV tube in my arm because I wasn’t able to eat. I slept a lot. When I thought about having polio, I recalled seeing children, leaning on crutches, pictured in the March of Dimes posters soliciting money for treatment and a cure. Since my head no longer ached, and I didn’t feel any pain, I couldn’t relate to those children. There must be a mistake.

The week before I was admitted to McCook, I vacationed at a cottage on the Connecticut seashore with six of my girlfriends, and now several of them appeared on the other side of the window. None of them had become ill, but Joan told me her mother rushed her to a doctor to be tested for polio. Everyone seemed surprised that I was the only one affected. In fact, no one in my small hometown had contracted polio that summer. Again, there must be a mistake.

No one had explained to me what was going on, and I didn’t talk to a doctor all the time I spent at McCook. My limbs felt perfectly normal, and although I couldn’t move my arms or legs, I figured it was just a matter of gravity. Once someone helped me up, I was sure I’d be able to put my feet on the floor, stand up, and take off.

After I moved from isolation to a private room, I appealed to my father for help. Dad, I know I can walk if you just help me sit up.

He didn’t argue with me. Perhaps he wanted to believe what I said, or maybe he was just humoring me. Dad put his arms around my shoulders and tried to lift me into a sitting position. I didn’t even make it ten inches off the bed before I felt a terrible pain in my back. My limbs might feel normal, but clearly they weren’t. There was no mistake.

My first thought concerned the High School activity I looked forward to the most. I had recently made the cheerleading squad and feared I wouldn’t get better in time to put on the attractive blue and gold uniform. Something needed to be done. I needed some pills, or some kind of treatment. Why weren’t the doctors doing anything?

It turned out treatment was to happen at the Newington Home and Hospital for Crippled Children. Believe it or not, no one groaned at hearing the name of this institution, and today it’s called Newington Children’s Hospital. I knew the institution well. I grew up in Newington and was transferred to the Hospital where my father, a member of the local Lions Club, volunteered. He and his friends pushed beds to an auditorium where the kids watched movies on Saturday nights.

Thrilled with the transfer, I looked forward to being in a hospital where my friends would be able to visit me every day. I soon learned that the hospital was not only a home for many children, but also a surgery, a rehabilitation center, and a school. Serious work was going on, and visits from family and friends were restricted to one-hour on Saturday and Sunday. On top of that, only two visitors per patient were allowed up to the ward at one time.

Since I didn’t learn about the limited visiting for a while, my first reaction when I rolled into a ward for teenage girls was delighted surprise. I saw a row of white metal beds lined up on each side of a long room. Colorful pictures, some of them of popular singers, were taped on the metal head-bars. Many of the beds had an array of stuffed animals tucked behind the pillows.

Only about half of the beds were occupied, and the girls I saw were dressed in casual clothes. There wasn’t a white hospital gown, or even a pair of pajamas, in sight. One girl, encased in a huge body cast, wore her unbuttoned blouse over her cast. I later learned that Mary, a city girl older and wiser than her fifteen years, had undergone surgery to correct a curvature of her spine.

My head twisted from side to side as I tried to take in all the sights. When rolled from the ambulance stretcher and lifted onto my own white metal bed, a privacy curtain closed around me. A nurse, Mrs. Wright, introduced herself and helped me into a blouse and skirt my mother had supplied. I would have preferred my dungarees, but apparently the hospital dress code called for skirts and blouses. No doubt such attire made it easier for the nurses to dress a bed-ridden patient.

By the time my curtain opened, several girls had returned to the ward. I counted twelve beds. One of the youngest girls, leaning on a pair of crutches, stopped at my bed. Hi, I’m Clara, she said. What’s wrong with you?

I have polio, I replied, saying the dreaded word for the first time. I realized the room had grown silent as everyone listened.

Clara’s eyes moved from my head to my toes. How much can you move? she asked.

Not much, I said, looking down at her crutches. What’s wrong with you?

I had a club foot, but the doctor fixed it. I’ll be going home soon. The word home brought a bright smile to her face. Peggy’s also a polio.

Clara pointed across the room at a blond girl who appeared to be about my age. She was sitting up, which I took to be a good sign, and she smiled at me. Then Clara continued in a whisper, She can’t move her legs either.

Two nurse’s aides arrived and one ordered Clara back to her bed. Lunch was being served and apparently everyone had to eat either in or by their bed. A tray containing chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans was placed at my side.

Is this going to work? an aide asked. I understand you can use your right hand, but I can help you if you want.

Miss Hummel had placed a pillow at my back so that I could lie on my side. I replied that I could feed myself, hoping it was true. My left arm was still useless, but my right arm and hand, although weak, had regained some movement. To my satisfaction I was able to make a dent in the mashed potatoes and even ate some of the chicken, which had been cut up for me. I tried only one bean. Desert was a small bunch of green grapes and I ate every one of them. I wasn’t sure what to think about my new roommates, but the food was a big improvement. At McCook the nurses tried to encourage me to eat by promising to remove my IV, but just the smell of their food had turned my stomach. The first solid