The Polio Card

Dear readers: The number “88” is important. As in, “1959 Oldsmobile Super 88.” Also important: 1988 was the year we opened our leather business.

But this week’s offering has nothing to do with cars or leather stores. The number just sounds good for nostalgic reasons. Read on!

The polio card

I don’t think I’ve ever played “The Polio Card.” I’ve known people who did, however.

In a land far away and a time long ago, there was “Uncle Billy.”

Uncle Billy had had polio, and this apparently meant to him that he had been given a lifetime pass to lie on the couch in his mother’s home, watching TV and smoking cigarettes.

Uncle Billy died. It didn’t seem like he had ever developed a will to live, a drive to thrive. Perhaps infantile paralysis did actually rob him of ambition. Didn’t happen to me. I’m plenty ambitious.

The orangutans

Once upon a time I was watching a nature movie, probably from National Geographic. Some field scientist had been able to ingratiate himself with a clan of orangutans, assuaging their fears enough to get intimate, close-up film.

I was enjoying watching the social interaction of the big primates when suddenly the film crew came across one of the big guys who had suffered from . . . (drum roll) . . . a case of infantile paralysis.

The poor old guy was pretty adaptive and skilled when swinging from the branches, moving about above the jungle floor, using hairy, long arms – not legs. But when his companions decided to go somewhere on the ground, he was left in the dust. Limping off, trying to catch up, in an all-too-familiar way.

I knew long before the narrator said anything that it was polio. Even in a beast, there is a peculiar, specific effect of the disease that is easily recognized by the trained eye.

My trained eye

Once upon a time in Blackfoot, Idaho, I was walking down an alley, heading out on my daily rounds, my newsman’s “beat.” At the end of the alley, and across the street I saw a man limping along.

Just for a moment, I felt revulsion. A flash of disgust.

Then reality struck. The man I had seen was me. My gimpy image had been reflected in a mirror a block away on the front of the Wally’s Jewelry store. I saw myself as others see me, and I was revolted.

Mimicry

Once upon a time, I left the leather store here to walk across the street to get the mail. I saw a young man putting fuel in his truck over at the Conoco.

Suddenly, the guy took off around the vehicle, and as he went, he mimicked me. He limped like me. He laughed, an evil cackle, then he took off walking “normally.”

At first, I was enraged. My blood boiled. I thought of going over there and confronting him. Maybe punch him in the nose. Finally, a calming thought came to me.

The fellow had better be careful, making fun of crippled people. It’s like the chance you take when you park in a handicapped spot and you don’t need it. You might become handicapped.

I often wonder if the young man is still able to walk normally – or if he is now crippled himself, somehow. Instant Karma comes to mind.

Another survivor

Earlier this week we picked up a few things at our favorite Safeway, then got in the car and prepared to leave.

Suddenly, it was as if the windshield had become a wide screen at the movies. The poor man made his way painfully across the screen, right to left. The man used no cane or crutch. Perhaps he was too proud to use one, or maybe it just hadn’t been suggested to him.

The lurch was unmistakable. His right shoe featured an enormous lift. A shoemaker had added perhaps four inches of heavy material, in a vain attempt to even things up.

Even with the lift, the man’s weight sank two or three inches every time he took a right-foot step. It looked like it hurt. I KNOW it hurt.

Here came the tears. People who’ve known me all my life have never seen me cry. But Laura has, and she knows what I will invariably say next:

“It isn’t about me. I’m not weeping about me. It’s about what I KNOW.”

One morning a couple of weeks ago, Laura and I sat having breakfast and watching Eighth Avenue traffic from the Country Inn downtown.

Here came a woman walking on the sidewalk across the street. She didn’t have the benefit of special shoes. She didn’t have a cane or crutch.

As she inched painfully along, I could see that there was a huge disparity in the length of her legs, perhaps as much as six inches. One of her legs was not only shorter than the other, it was pitifully small, with almost no muscle. There was obvious hip damage, too.

She appeared to be of Mexican or South American descent – she came from a place in the world which doesn’t benefit from the common presence of the vaccine.

Again, I wept. Again, I said to Laura, “It isn’t about me!” And it isn’t.

The foot-washing

Last Easter, I happened to be one of 12 persons at St. Peter Roman Catholic Church chosen to participate in the foot-washing.

This is a ritual which is a traditional part of Holy Thursday, the Triduum, Easter weekend. The priest emulates Christ, who washed the feet of his disciples.

Even with all my writing skill, I can’t begin to describe the feeling of having one’s pastor wash one’s feet. I’m at a loss for words.

Unbeknownst to me, Laura had taken her camera with her to the choir loft, and made a video of the ceremony.

I watched the film later. Climbing the three stairs into the sanctuary, and making my way in my turn to the seat of honor, I looked like nothing so much as a crippled old orangutan – wearing a very nice suit. And a very nice tie.

Helping Tom get well

After I had polio at age four, my parents, my doctors and what seemed like the whole town of Fort Lupton made an effort to help me get well.

I still keep the greeting cards that dozens of people sent to me during the numerous occasions when I was in Children’s Hospital in Denver. Once in a while, I drag out the scrapbook and look through the cards and letters.

I still bear the scars where the orthopedic surgeons tried so valiantly with knives and sutures and transplants to correct the devastation of the disease.

I still remember how hard my Mom worked every morning before school for years, exercising me on a blanket on the dining room table.

I will always remember how hard my Dad worked, taking me to therapeutic swimming lessons at Fitzsimons Army Hospital, teaching me to ride a bicycle, taking me skiing, urging me to play football.

Still, it isn’t about me. It’s about polio.

-0-

Word of the week: Mass. You’re gonna love it. It comes from Latin, messa, or missa, which means “dismissal.” At the end of Mass, the priest would say, in Latin, “ite, missa est,” or “you are dismissed.”

From that phrase, “Mass” came to be the name of the celebration of the Eucharist, a sacrament of the Roman Catholic Church, consisting of a series of prayers and ceremonies.

Next week’s word: Oxymoron.

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comments below!