Not a Poster Child

by Francine Falk-Allen

  By the time I was about forty, I had finally accepted that I would continue to fall throughout my life. I know, you’d think I would have gotten clear about it long before that, but I was optimistic and believed in my younger days that life was a continuum of constantly improving circumstances. Ah, the folly of youth.

  Right around that time of acceptance, I badly sprained my knee while trying to walk down a carpeted ramp wearing—you guessed it—tennis shoes, and had to be taken to a hospital emergency room. I had not done myself this much damage since I’d torn my Achilles tendon twelve years before.

  By this point I had moved out of the Sonoma Sufi house and was living in a rental in San Rafael. The challenge this time, once I got home from the emergency room with crutches and began looking for a good doctor in my new area, was finding anyone who knew even an iota about polio. I knew that my recovery was going to be different than that of a normal person with a sports injury. The orthopedist at the hospital had been in his sixties, but when he’d looked at the x-rays and then at my legs, his perplexed comment had been that it looked like I had arthritis in my leg. He hadn’t even noticed that the leg was atrophied and partially paralyzed—something an orthopedic doctor should have been able to see at a glance.

  I made ten or fifteen calls trying to find an orthopedist who knew anything about polio in my county. I ended up calling physical therapy offices for referrals, and finally located one doctor who knew polio. She lived an hour away and only came to Marin one day a week. I made the appointment.

  I always drove with my left foot crossed under the steering column over to the accelerator—something I couldn’t do with the brace they’d given me at the hospital, which held my right leg straight out, no room for it under there with no bend at the knee—so I had to take a cab to my appointment. (I learned at this time that there were no subsidized, or free, transportation services in my county for handicapped people unless you were over sixty or permanently unable to drive. Many people seem to believe that there are a lot of services for injured or handicapped people, but in fact they are limited for younger patients who are not on public assistance.)

  This all happened right in the middle of an intense work phase for me. Every hour that I was not working on a nonprofit tax return put it closer to being in jeopardy of filing past the due date in three days, or my having to stay up all night to prepare it. When I arrived at the rehab clinic, I was asked to wait in the reception area, since they were fitting me in as an emergency. I waited an hour or two, in pain and having a hard time finding a position I could sit in comfortably with my leg up on a chair. My back was starting to hurt. There was nowhere to lie down and elevate my injured leg.

  Finally, someone came out and said, “Dr. Clark doesn’t have time to see you today. She has to go back to the East Bay. She will be back next week and you can make an appointment to see her then.”

  “What?” I replied with subdued anger. “I have been waiting here for two hours in pain, after taking a cab to get here, because I can’t drive. I have called all over Marin County trying to find a doctor knowledgeable about polio. I’m supposed to be working. I want to talk to her for at least a couple of minutes.”

  Soon Dr. Clark—a dark-haired woman in a full-skirted, white-with-red-polka-dots dress—came into the reception area and asked coolly, “What seems to be the problem?”

  I told her I’d been waiting for two hours in pain and had a very badly sprained knee on my polio leg. “I appreciate that you fit me in, but I have called all over Marin and could not find a doctor who knows anything about polio and the more complicated healing involved,” I told her. “My time is valuable too. I’m injured, I’m a tax accountant, I have already lost time from work, and am supposed to be preparing a non-profit tax return which is due this week.”

  I was fuming from her sense of self-importance, and had a feeling she’d figured that since I was a polio patient and disabled, I had nothing better to do but sit in that office for hours and then go home and come back at her convenience. Maybe not, but that’s how it seemed.

  Dr. Clark briefly examined my knee. “You should see Dr. Ed DeMayo here in Marin,” she suggested. “He is an orthopedic surgeon, and knows something about polio. Then you could come here for rehab later on.”

  I thanked her, she left, and I asked the receptionist if I could use their phone to call another cab.

  Dr. DeMayo proved to be a great orthopedist and was very helpful in explaining my options and eventually prescribing physical therapy. He understood that my leg would heal more slowly than a normal leg due to its circulation and atrophy problems, and that I could not stand on it alone for more than a second, even when it was in excellent health. He also took the time to ask me a lot of questions about how I was doing in general and how I took care of myself, and checked to see I was using my cane on my strong side. (He knew the right way to use a cane, unlike some orthopedists—impressive.)

  In that first interview, while I sat on the exam room table, Dr. DeMayo said something surprising: “My polio patients are among the most intelligent and innovative people I encounter in my practice. Polio survivors have a knack for adaptation and figuring out how to do what you need or want to do.”

  (There are stats on this: we tend to be highly educated, with a much higher percentage of college graduates than the national average in the US and a higher number who go into professional work, and are often described as “type A,” overachieving personalities.)

  “I have always wondered if polio selected for intelligence,” Dr. DeMayo continued, “which would seem like a cruel twist of fate; or if polio people just had to become more intelligent as an adaptation in life.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but for me, it’s true that I’ve come up with things like shoe modifications that helped me walk better.”

  I would think that if Dr. DeMayo’s theory is true, it is because we’ve had to think things out for ourselves in order to overcome a lot of obstacles, and thinking creatively does increase intelligence. It was a flattering statement and I appreciated his observation and opinion. It was one of the few positive observations on a handicap that I’ve heard.

  The physical therapist I worked with after seeing Dr. DeMayo suggested that I needed an ankle/foot orthotic, called an AFO. This is a lightweight plastic brace that keeps a drop foot in a closer-to-level position. It has a partial cuff around the calf where a Velcro strap is attached. I wear a nylon knee-high under it and another over it to keep it firmly against my foot. When I wear pants, few people notice it. It’s quite noticeable with ballerina length or shorter dresses, however, even with panty hose over the knee-highs.

  Wearing an AFO helps prevent catching my toe on so many minute obstacles, and also allows me to not hike up my hip so much so that my toe can clear the floor. My gait has improved slightly since I started wearing it, and my hip does not get as tired. Except for the times when I am going in our pool or taking a break from wearing shoes, I wear one of these AFOs all the time.

  I hadn’t worn what is essentially a brace in thirty-three years. I was at first disappointed to be told to wear a brace again, and also had to throw out all my old shoes and gradually buy new ones in a larger size to accommodate the AFO. But the featherweight device soon proved its worth with the reduction of fatigue and greater safety it provided. It’s the first thing I’d save in a fire (after the cats).

  I saw Dr. DeMayo for every serious injury I had for many years to come.

  26

  —

  making way for mr. right, and a new challenge

  In 1991, at age forty-three, after the breakdown of yet another inappropriate relationship—the first long-term one (two years) I’d had since my marriage ended in 1975—I started going to Adult Children of Alcoholics meetings. I saw that I had some codependency issues that were causing me to choose the wrong men (ya think?!). I’d learned as a young adolescent, probably seven years after Daddy died, that he had been an alcoholic, though he never drank at home a
nd was a sterling fellow by everyone’s account. My mother described the behavior of her previous husband as that of an alcoholic, and my first stepdad was a severe alcoholic, taking money from Mom’s purse and hiding vodka bottles throughout the house. Mom had married three alcoholics in a row; I’d married one, and had had alcoholic boyfriends as well.

  I had read a little about codependency and saw that Mom had passed on the worst of these habits to me—things like expecting others to know what I thought, and stonewalling them when they misbehaved. I had acted like this in my twenties, without successful results.

  In one particular ACA meeting, I was listening to a woman share about her fear of visiting her father over the holidays (he had beaten her and her siblings when they were children) and thinking, I am so lucky my childhood was never that bad; I had a happy childhood. Then a picture flashed before me of my mother slamming my backside repeatedly with a wooden paddle when I was tiny, maybe five, less than three feet tall. I was crying, “Mommy, Mommy, stop! I won’t do it anymore!”

  I flushed inside and thought, My gosh, what else am I in denial about?

  I soon began attending Co-Dependents Anonymous (CoDA) meetings as well, and I found that working the twelve steps (for my “addiction” to my expectation that having a committed man in my life would solve my emotional problems) was the most whole and effective spiritual practice I had followed.

  There are many people who just go to the meetings—and they are very beneficial, don’t get me wrong. They help you see your habits and traits, and that repeating the same behaviors and expecting a change is, well, crazy. There’s a story told in these groups about going down the same street and falling into the same hole over and over, and that eventually you go down a different street. Going to the meetings is a support, but not a full practice. The steps themselves are what teach acceptance of life as it is, especially the knowledge that one has no control over other people.

  The inventory step is the most psychologically and emotionally enlightening work I have ever done. I made a written list of the personality traits I had that came from habit or as a reaction to the negative influences in my life, and included what I got from them and how they held me back. Then I shared this written work with a sponsor, another person farther along in my program. I meditated and worked to remember to not let these things control me. They still came up, of course, but now I was more aware of where they came from and better prepared to not let them rule my life.

  After a couple of years of this program, I felt revamped and renewed, like I had an ongoing white canvas for my life. More than anything I had done previously, the steps had assisted me to live from my authentic self.

  For New Year’s Eve 1992, I asked a friend I didn’t know well if she knew of a party where I could wear a really great dress I’d bought. It was a dark green velveteen column with spaghetti straps and a slit on the side—the side of my pretty leg, not my gimpy one.

  It happened that she and some friends were having just such a party at a rented venue, sixty miles south of my home, on that dark and very stormy December 31.

  I rode down with a handsome guy about two years younger than I was with whom I had quite a bit in common—singing, music, math, other stuff. As soon as we arrived, he acted like he’d never met me. It was a party of mostly dates, and he and I were both looking for romance from the options there. It was clear I was not an option for him.

  I noticed another younger man early in the evening. He had a tall, lanky frame, collar-length, perfectly curly dark hair, and a moustache, and wore a double-breasted, well-fitted suit. He was all over the place talking to people, so I assumed that he was one of the organizers. Really cute, but he didn’t show an interest, so I paid little attention beyond my first impression. One guy asked me to dance one time in the whole evening, and I couldn’t wait to go home after a couple of hours.

  With no one for me to kiss, I was glad when midnight came and went. Once the chaos of the countdown died away, I went to the restroom. As I walked back to the stool where I had left my coat, the bandleader announced, “This is going to be our last number, and while we break down, we’ll play some CDs for you.”

  When I approached my seat, I saw that the cute guy with the curly hair was sitting on it, and on my coat as well.

  I really wanted to get one more dance in and said to him, “It’s the last song! Do you want to dance until your date comes back?”

  “I don’t have a date,” he said, shaking his head once.

  “Oh!” I said, surprised, and we moved to the dance floor.

  We danced and talked about our love of rhythm and blues. Then he asked someone else to dance, and then someone else, who was voluptuous and a bit tipsy.

  I asked the hostess, Leslie, “Who is that guy?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He came with Sharon.” She gestured toward the voluptuous woman he’d danced with. “Do you want me to find out?”

  “No, never mind,” I said, thinking, Too young and too cute; probably a salesman, and dangerous.

  A few days later, Leslie called me. “That guy you liked? His name is Richard and he would like to go out with you.” She’d seen him at a party and they’d talked. She hadn’t given him my number, but she’d gotten his. So I called him, and during the course of the relaxed and enjoyable conversation that ensued, he let slip that he was a computer programmer and thought of himself as a nerd. I was relieved to hear it.

  On our first date, we met halfway between our respective homes (he lived in the South Bay) for dinner and dancing at Harry Denton’s nightclub in San Francisco. They had a great rhythm and blues band, and we danced off and on for two hours, taking frequent breaks. He didn’t seem to mind my needing to take breaks when I told him I was a polio survivor and needed to rest every twenty minutes or so; it gave us a chance to talk more easily. (I’d learn months later that he was picked on for being geeky and scrawny as a kid, which has made him much less judgmental of people’s differences.)

  Our lively conversation that evening was almost non-stop. At one point he said, “What are the chances of meeting someone you really hit it off with? One in ten thousand.” (I thought he was actually quoting a statistic, but on another date, he told me he’d just made that up.) That night of dinner and dancing was the easiest and most fun first date I’d ever had. But when it came time to say good night, he just gave me a quick kiss.

  I guess he’s not that interested, I thought.

  I soon found this was not the case when Richard called from Boston, where he was on business, to invite me on our second date.

  I was flattered that he thought to call when he was away for work.

  “I’m putting together a ski trip at Tahoe,” he said, “a bunch of us are going up. Do you ski?”

  I thought he was inviting me to sleep with him for a weekend and was a little taken aback. “Ummm . . . no,” I said, “I’ve never tried to ski. My right leg is pretty weak and I don’t think I could do it.” I realized he didn’t fully understand the extent of my limitation.

  “Well, do you want to try?”

  “Mmm . . . well, I’ve heard of handicapped adaptations so I could look into that . . . where exactly are you going?”

  “We’re going to Alpine Meadows. Would you be okay up there if you couldn’t ski and everybody else was off on the slopes? Would you still feel like you were having a good time?”

  I appreciated his concern for my happiness and desire to include me. I was also glad that my potential inability was not an issue for him. “Oh, yes,” I said. “I always take a book everywhere I go, and can be happy sitting in front of a fire reading. But . . . what are the sleeping arrangements going to be?”

  “The women will have one bedroom and the men will be in another,” he said.

  My initially perceived pressure was off, so I said, “Okay, sure, I’ll come.”

  “Great!” he said, and we chatted a few minutes more before hanging up.

  I researched whether there were any f
acilities for disabled skiers. Happily, Alpine Meadows had a school, Tahoe Adaptive Ski School (TASS). I called them; they said to rent boots before I came up, and the special skis we’d deal with at Tahoe. Then, of course, I had to go out and get some semblance of ski clothing, which amounted to some snow pants to go over my leggings.

  I spent significant time that first morning in the mountains just getting fitted for the skis, because they said my legs had to be level and they had different heights of wooden lifts to put on the skis. We were going to try cross-country first, because it’s safer and less challenging.

  “Are we ready to slip and slide!?” my female instructor said when I finally had all my gear in order.

  Wrong phrase to use with me.

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “Slipping is definitely not something I like to do, having done a lot of it. Plus, I’m forty-five.”

  She laughed. “Oh, this will be different,” she said. “You don’t look even forty—but either way, lots of people learn to ski when they’re in their forties.”

  (Really? I still doubt this.)

  So the moment comes, and we get up there on a little mound—and I mean really little, like, two feet high—and I’ve got the poles, I’m wearing the skis, and my very kind, optimistic, and patient instructor is telling me what to do, and . . . whoosh! My little right leg flies out to the side and I’m down.

  I hate falling. I’ve done a lot of it, as I’ve already explained, and I’ve hurt myself repeatedly that way, so my habit is to really watch where my feet are and what might be on the ground, because, as my mom used to say, I can trip over my own shadow.