Small Steps

by Peg Kehret

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Willie helped me into bed and warned me to stay there. “In all my years of nursing,” she said, “I’ve never had a polio patient try to dance the hula.”

  Although I wasn’t hurt, I was a bit shaken, and I meekly promised not to do the hula again.

  “Good,” said Willie. “What would I write in my report? ‘Patient broke leg doing the hula’?” She began to laugh, and soon all of us had a runaway case of the giggles.

  For days afterward, patients and staff asked me, “Is it true that you tried to do the hula?” When I admitted that I had, the response was always the same: incredulous laughter.

  My strength increased daily, and I was measured for a pair of walking sticks. If I could learn to walk with sticks, I wouldn’t need the wheelchair any longer.

  Walking sticks are similar to crutches except shorter. Instead of going under the armpits, they end just below the elbow. A ring of metal circles the patient’s arm at the top of each stick, and there is a wooden crossbar to hold on to.

  “Why do I have to wait for new sticks to get here?” I asked. “Dorothy already has a pair, and she only uses them an hour a day. She won’t care if I borrow them.”

  “It is important,” Miss Ballard said, “for the walking sticks to be exactly the right height for you. If they are too short, even by only an inch, you would have to lean forward, which would cause back problems. If the sticks are too long, you would not be able to use all of your arm strength for balance.”

  Willie told me that using sticks strengthened the leg muscles. “If you can walk with sticks,” she said, “you may get so strong you won’t need them anymore.”

  I asked Miss Ballard if this was true.

  “No two cases are the same,” she said. Then she smiled and added, “I hope you’ll learn to walk with them and then to walk without them.”

  Every morning I greeted Miss Ballard with, “Are my sticks here yet?” Each day I was told to be patient.

  “They are made in Canada,” she said, “and each pair is cut to be exactly the right size. It takes time.”

  “Too much time,” I complained. While I waited, I learned to get from my bed to the wheelchair by myself. This new skill was a giant step on the road to independence. Now I could get out of bed any time I wanted. I could go to the O.T. room or visit someone in a different ward or simply wheel myself up and down the halls.

  I liked to talk with other people, and I spent a lot of time visiting patients who didn’t get any outside company. Remembering how Tommy had enjoyed hearing my books, I began reading aloud to the little kids every day. I chatted with some of the adult patients, too, especially one who told about all the pets she had at home. I loved hearing about her animals, even though it made me lonesome for B.J.

  The bad news, as far as the staff was concerned, was that I soon became a daredevil in my wheelchair. My favorite trick was to “pop a wheelie.” I pushed my wheelchair as fast as I could. When I got to top speed, I yanked on both hand brakes. This forced the large back wheels of the chair to stop so suddenly that the two small frontwheels raised off the floor. I leaned against the seat as I sat tilted back with my feet in the air.

  I received several warnings about what would happen to me if I tipped up too high and crashed over backward, but I did my stunt whenever the nurses weren’t looking.

  I never showed my parents this trick because I knew they would forbid me to do it. My roommates never mentioned it to them, either, even though the other girls frequently requested a demonstration when we were alone. I was always happy to tear down the hall and pop a wheelie at the doorway of our room.

  My new mobility made it easier to get the food my parents brought, which was stashed under my bed. (The beds were high.) Friends and neighbors of my family, hearing about the four girls who didn’t get much company, loaded my parents with home-baked brownies, animal crackers, and tins of peanuts. Mother added bags of apples and oranges and bunches of bananas. It was a regular supermarket under my bed.

  During my first weeks at the Sheltering Arms, the only way we could have a snack was to ask a nurse to get it for us. Often we were told it was too close to mealtime, or the nurse was busy right then, or we had already eaten too many treats that day.

  After I learned to get out of bed alone, I would sit in my wheelchair and grasp the arm with my left hand so I wouldn’t fall out while I reached under my bed. My wooden back scratcher, a gift from Grandpa, hooked cookie containers and pulled them out from under the bed far more often than it scratched my back.

  Since a fresh load of food arrived each Sunday, we felt compelled to eat everything before Saturday night. I piled the goodies in my lap and wheeled from bed to bed distributing them, not caring how close it was to mealtime or how many cookies we had already eaten that day.

  As we munched cookies after dinner one Wednesday, Willie came in and said, “Peg, you have a visitor in the lobby.”

  “Me?” I said.

  “I don’t see anyone else named Peg,” remarked Alice.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  Willie shrugged. “He didn’t give his name.”

  “He?” said Renée, and Willie nodded mysteriously.

  “It must be Art,” I said.

  “If it was Art,” Renée said, “he would have asked for Dorothy.”

  “Art would come up to our room,” said Shirley.

  “Is he tall, dark, and handsome?” Renée asked.

  “No,” said Willie. “He’s tall, blonde, and cute.”

  “Whoo, whoo,” said Renée. “You didn’t tell us you have a boyfriend!”

  Quickly I combed my hair and got into my wheelchair. I couldn’t imagine who my visitor was. I wheeled into the elevator, rode to the first floor, and went out to the lobby.

  “Hello, Peg.”

  “Dr. Bevis!” He was even better-looking in street clothes than in his white uniform. I was overjoyed to see him.

  “I came to see how my favorite patient is doing,” he said. “Believe it or not, I miss your knock, knock jokes.”

  I told him about my roommates and about the hotbaths and about my physical therapy treatments with Miss Ballard.

  “I’ve talked with her on the telephone several times,” he said. “She tells me you are an exemplary patient and very brave.”

  I wasn’t sure what exemplary meant, but from the way he said it, I figured it was a compliment. I hoped he would report the part about being brave to Mrs. Crab.

  “How is Tommy?” I asked.

  “When I left, he was listening to the ‘Lone Ranger,’ ” Dr. Bevis said.

  “Is he still in the iron lung?”

  “Yes. For now.”

  Dr. Bevis didn’t stay long, but his visit left me glowing with pleasure. His parting words were, “Don’t forget. You’re going to come back to University Hospital and walk for me.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said, and this time we both knew it was more than wishful thinking. I just might make it.

  12: A Disappointing Trip

  “Lights out!”

  Each night at nine the call rang out, and a nurse flicked the switch, darkening our room. We rarely protested. Sometimes we talked for awhile in the dark, but most nights we were ready to go to sleep. Breakfast arrived early, and the struggle to do ordinary activities was tiring.

  On the night of my visit from Dr. Bevis, however, we talked for a long time, sharing memories of doctors and nurses and treatments.

  These memories led to talk about when we got polio and how we first learned what was wrong with us.

  Dorothy said, “I was sick for three days before my parents could get me into town to a doctor. By then, my legs were paralyzed, and I had trouble breathing. When I got to the hospital, I went in the iron lung right away, and they couldn’t start the hot packs and muscle stretching until I came out.” There was no hint of regret about this delay; sweet Dorothy simply stated the facts and accepted them. />
  Renée and Shirley told similar stories of not getting medical help until after they were paralyzed, and of time in an iron lung delaying the Kenny treatments.

  “It didn’t matter when they brought me to the hospital,” Alice said. “The Kenny treatments weren’t used when I got polio.”

  “You never had hot packs?” I asked. “Or physical therapy?”

  “Nope.”

  My first reaction was, lucky you, no Torture Time. But I instantly realized it wasn’t lucky at all. Alice might not have had “dropfoot” if she had received hot packs and stretching. She might have been able to stand or even walk.

  I wondered what my condition would be if I had not received the Sister Kenny treatments. Would my hands be deformed from permanently tight muscles, like those of some patients I had seen? Would my legs be withered from disuse? Would I, like Shirley, be unable to sit up more than an hour at a time?

  We also talked about our homes and families, and about what we missed the most.

  Shirley said, “I miss my grandma. When I was little, she used to sing me to sleep.”

  Alice said, “I’ll sing you to sleep,” and she began to sing, “Rock-a-bye, baby, on the tree top.”

  This was the first time I had heard Alice sing; she had a clear, strong soprano voice. After listening to Alice’s song, nobody said another word. We didn’t want to break the mood of her lullaby.

  The next night after lights out, I said, “Alice, I know how to harmonize. If you’ll sing soprano on some songs, I’ll sing alto.”

  Alice sang: “Shine on, shine on harvest moon, up in the sky.”

  I chimed in with the harmony. “I ain’t had no lovin’ since January, February, June or July.”

  Dorothy giggled at the lyrics. Alice and I sang on.

  My mother’s family used to go on picnics, and as dusk fell, all the aunts, uncles, and cousins would sit around the campfire, singing. Mother always sang as she worked around the house, too, and when I was small, she often sang songs to entertain me. Whenever my family traveled, we sang in the car as a way to pass the time. Because music had always been part of my life, I knew all the words to many songs.

  Alice, whose main source of entertainment for years was listening to the radio, knew many songs, too. Dorothy and Renée also loved to sing. Because Shirley’s breathing was shallow, the rest of us couldn’t hear her sing, but she said she liked to try.

  From then on, every night after lights out, we all sang in the dark. We sang “Blue Skies” and “I’ve Been Workin’ on the Railroad” and “You Are My Sunshine.” We sang rounds: “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and “Three Blind Mice.”

  One night we sang longer than usual, doing all of our favorite songs and thinking of new ones that we hadn’t done before. After more than an hour of this, Dorothy remarked, “I’m hungry.”

  “So am I,” said Renée.

  “Hold everything,” I said. “Food is on the way.”

  “You can’t turn on the light,” Alice said. “The nurses will see it.”

  “I won’t turn on the light.”

  “You’re going to get up in the dark?” squeaked Shirley.

  “I don’t need to see. I can feel the wheelchair, and I know where the food is.”

  I got in my wheelchair, fished out a box of cookies, and made the rounds of the other beds in the dark. I felt daring and heroic, and only slightly guilty.

  “Thanks,” whispered Renée.

  “You saved my life,” whispered Dorothy. “I was starving.”

  “Me, too,” said Alice.

  Shirley said nothing, but she took two cookies and ate them.

  I parked Silver, climbed back in bed, and was munching on peanut-butter cookies when the door opened and a nurse peeked in. There wasn’t a sound in Room 202. Not even any chewing.

  December shivered in, and Miss Ballard told me that my parents had asked permission to take me home for an overnight visit.

  “Do I get to go?” I asked.

  “It isn’t usually done,” she told me, “but you are getting along well, and your parents want to try it. If you want to go, I will give permission.”

  “Of course I want to go,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “It will be hard to get around at home,” she said.

  “I don’t care. When do I leave?”

  The arrangements were made for the following weekend. I was to be picked up at noon on Saturday and returned Sunday evening.

  Even though Miss Ballard didn’t usually work on Saturday, she was there when my parents arrived. She had written detailed instructions about what I could and could not do.

  “Be careful getting her into the wheelchair,” she warned. “Be sure the brakes are locked, or it will scoot away from her. Don’t let her get too tired. She should not have any visitors besides your immediate family, and she needs to go to bed by nine o’clock, and— ”

  “Miss Ballard,” Mother interrupted. “She is our daughter. We’ll take good care of her; I promise.”

  Miss Ballard nodded and kept quiet, but she looked nervous as I was helped from the wheelchair into the back seat of our green Oldsmobile.

  Sunlight glinted on the snow, and the fresh air smelled wonderful. The other girls had told me that in warm weather they were wheeled around the grounds, but since I arrived it had been too cold to go outside.

  It was a two-hour ride. Seat belts were not yet used in passenger cars, so there was nothing to help me stay upright.

  I had never realized how much I depended on my leg and back muscles to keep my balance in the car. The motion made me tilt from side to side, and I was unable to steady myself. When we went around a curve, I had to grasp the armrest and hang on to prevent myself from falling over sideways.

  My parents were not aware of my problem, and I didn’t tell them. I wanted to be well enough to go home for good, and if I admitted how weak I was, we would all know that I wasn’t well enough. By the time we got home, I was so tired from the effort of trying to stay upright that I could barely make it into my wheelchair.

  Our house had two front steps. As I pushed my wheelchair up the sidewalk to the front door, the steps loomed in front of me like Mt. McKinley. How was I going to get in the house?

  Dad realized my predicament. He grabbed the handles of my chair and turned it around so I faced the street. Then, with great effort, he pulled me up the steps. I couldn’t brace my feet against the footrest because I had so little strength in my legs. I gripped the arms of the wheelchair and hoped he wouldn’t dump me.

  Silver balked when it was time to cross the threshold. Dad yanked mightily. The sudden jolt pitched me forward; I clutched the chair to keep from tumbling face-first down the steps.

  It was great to see Grandpa, although when he saw the wheelchair, he looked so unhappy that I felt I should apologize.

  B.J. didn’t care whether I could walk or not. He barked and ran in circles and slurped my hands.

  Mother had prepared all of my favorite foods: macaroni and cheese, green beans, Waldorf salad, and for dessert, cream puffs. Mother’s cream puffs were six inches across, filled with whipped cream, and topped with homemade hot fudge sauce. I always requested them for birthdays and special company.

  I was unable to push my wheelchair on the carpeting; Dad had to push me into the dining room. The arms of my wheelchair were too high to fit under the table, so I had to be helped into a regular chair. Once there, I couldn’t slide the chair forward. By the time I was in place, I was too discouraged to eat much.

  The first floor of our house had a tiny half-bath consisting of a toilet and sink. My wheelchair did not fit in it. To get the chair close enough to the toilet, I had to leave the door open. There was no bar on the wall to hold onto, like there was at the Sheltering Arms, so I needed help to get off the toilet. The lack of privacy embarrassed me.

  Since going upstairs was out of the question, I slept on a cot in the living room.

>   I had longed to come home but now that I was there, it wasn’t much fun. Home wasn’t the same if I couldn’t sleep in my own bedroom or use the bathroom by myself. It wasn’t the same when I couldn’t sit down at the table without help. I felt like a stranger in those familiar rooms. When it was time to go to sleep, I wished I had someone to sing with.

  In the morning, I practiced one of my piano lessons and discovered that my foot could no longer work the sustain pedal. When B.J. brought his rag toy to me, I wasn’t strong enough to play tug, as I used to. My friend Karen called, but when the phone rang, I couldn’t move my chair across the carpet to answer it. I had to wait for Grandpa to push me.

  At noon, it began to snow. Dad and Mother decided we should leave early in case the roads were icy. I did not object; I was ready to return to the hospital. Trying to get along in the normal world was too hard. I still needed more help than my well-meaning family could provide.

  The ride was even more tiring this time because I was weary at the start from the effort and excitement of my time at home. Once again, I clung to the armrest and struggled to keep my balance in the back seat.

  Because of the snow, it took longer than usual to get back to Minneapolis. I grew more uncomfortable every minute. With relief and gladness, I returned to the welcoming embrace of the Sheltering Arms.

  Miss Ballard questioned me at length on Monday morning. When I confessed that I had been glad to come back, she smiled ruefully and said, “I was afraid of that. But I had to let you try.”

  “Silver almost threw me,” I said, “going up the steps to my house.”

  Miss Ballard looked horrified and covered her ears with her hands. “I don’t want to hear about it,” she said.

  13: The Great Accordion Concert

  Although I had not yet mastered the fine art of moving the pile of marbles from spot to spot with my toes, I received a new challenge in O.T. I was going to learn to play the accordion.

  Certain muscles of the arms and hands are used when pushing an accordion in and out, and it happened that I needed help with those particular muscles. The Sheltering Arms owned an accordion, and Miss Ballard knew I’d had two years of piano lessons. She said the accordion was the perfect exercise for me.