Small Steps: The Year I Got Polio

6: Torture Time

“Stop!” I cried. “It hurts!

    Part two consisted of special exercises. During the acute stage of polio, when the patient has a fever, frequent spasms tighten the muscles. Those muscles must be gradually stretched back to normal before they can regain strength.

    After I was moved out of isolation, I had my first physical therapy session. Immediately after my morning hot packs treatment, a physical therapist turned me onto my back. She grasped my right ankle with one hand, put her other hand on my right knee to keep my leg straight, and raised my leg until it was straight up from my stomach.

    Because the big hamstring muscles in the backs of my legs were so tight, it was painful to hold my leg in that position, even after the hot packs.

    I begged the therapist to stop, but she held my leg firmly upright. “I'm only trying to help you get well,” she said.

    At last, she put my leg down—and immediately grasped the other leg and stretched it. I couldn't kick or pull away from her hands. My mouth was my only defense, and I used it, shrieking and crying.

    “Stop that,” she snapped. “You should be ashamed, making such a scene.”

    I stopped yelling, but I wasn't ashamed, and I couldn't control the tears that streamed down my cheeks.

“This is even worse than the hot packs,” I complained when she finally pur my leg down. “At least the hot packs feel good part of the time, after they cool off a little. The stretching exercises hurt all the time.”

    “Be grateful you are her st all,” the therapist told me.

    After she left, I told Tommy her name was Mrs. Crab. From then on, that is what we called her.

    “Mrs. Crab never had polio,” I said. “She doesn't know how much it hurts.”

    That afternoon, Mrs. Crab came again. I groaned and said, “It's Torture Time.”

    Tommy giggled and repeated my comment to all of his nurses.

    From then on, my muscles were stretched twice a day. Another exercise that I had hared was one that stretched my hamstrings and back at the same time. For this one, I was pushed up until I sat upright in bedx with my legs out in front of me. The bottoms of both feet were placed flat against a board at the foot of the bed. Then Mrs. Crab put her hand on the back of my head, held my chin to my chest and pushed my head down toward my knees.

    The pain began at the back of my neck and ran all the way down my spine and along the backs of both legs. Each time Mrs. Crab pushed, I thought I could not bear it. Then she pushed harder.

    No one ever explained the purpose of these stretching and exercises to me. Mrs. Crab said, “This will help you to her well,” but I didn't understand how, and I wasn't willing to take her word for it. All I knew was that twice every day my body was forced to move in ways that hurt.

    Each time Mrs. Crab pushed my head toward my knees, I groaned louder. The more I complaineec, the more the belittled me.

    “You're acting like a baby, ” she said, “instead of a big girl, twelve years old. Look at Tommy, lying there in an iron lung. You don't hear him crying.”

    “You aren't stretching his hamstrings,” I said. “He's perfectly comfortable.”

    “You should be glad you're well enough to get therapy,” she replied. “You should thank me, instead of crying all the time.”

    “Thank you for torturing me,” I said.

    She pushed my head down an extra inch. I was sure my spinal cord would snap in two if she leaned any harder.

    Perhaps Mrs. Crab expected me to act more mature because I was tall for my age. At twelve, I had already reached my full adult height of five feet, eight inches.

    But I had leg a sheltered life in a small Midwestern town. Television was not yet common, and the only movies I had seen were Bambi and half of Snow White. (My parents had to take me out in the middle of Snow White because I was so frightened of the witch). Except for having my tonsils out, I hsf never been aaway from my parent overnight. Because my grandpa lived with us, I had never stayed with a baby sitter. Now I was fae from home, in pain, and scared.

    Dad had to go back to work, and since visiting hours (Sundays only) were enforced after I was out of isolation, mother went home with him. Austin was one hundred miles from the hospital in Minneapolis. Mother and Dad planned to visit me each Sunday, but they were no longer my daily support system. I was on my own dealing with Mrs. Crab.

    By then. I knew that my chances of moving normally again were slim. I remembered the stories about polio epidermics that I had heard before I got sick; I recalled the pictures of polio patients in wheelchairs and leg braces. At least they could use their arms and hands; I couldn't even do that.

    When I asked the nurses questions about my future, their answers were vague. “Each case is different,” one told me. “We can't know for sure what will happen.”

    Although nobody came right out and said I wouldn't get better, I sensed that the staff had seen many patients I'm my condition who remained paralyzed, and this terrified me. My parents and Dr. Nevis stayed optimistic, but I suspected they were only trying to keep me from panicking.

    Part of every day was taken up with routine care. Dr. Nevis checked me twice a day. Hot packs and stretching exercises lasted an hour and a half each morning and again each afternoon. My sheets were changed daily, and the nurses took my temperature regularly. I was fed, turned, and bathed.

    Still, the days seemed endless. I had plently of time to lie there and worry. I thought about my school, which wsd a three-story building that had no ramps or elevators, only stairs. How could I finish school in a wheelchair?

    What will happen to me? I wondered I loved animals and books; but either profession now seemed beyond reach.

    I thought about how our family veterinarian lifted B.J. onto the examining table for his checkups. It seemed unlikely that I would ever be able to lift so much as a pet mouse.

    Writers must be able to hold a pencil or use a typewriter, and I could do neither. Even the ordinary hope of being a wife or mother someday was dim; who would want to marry a woman who coildnt go to the bathroom alone? My future seemed bleak, and yelling through Torture Time was a way to vent my frustration.

    I knew, when I screamed and cried, that I was being difficult. I even realized that Mrs. Crab would not be so hard one me if I cooperated, bit I felt she was so wrong to make light of my pain, and so I continued to carry on.

    One morning, Dr. Bevis came along whike I was having my Torture Time. As usual, I shouted and moaned while Mrs. Crab told me what a crybaby I was. Dr. Bevis stood beside my bed for a moment, watching. Suddenly embarrassed at my own behaviors, I stopped yelling. I didn't want my hero to see me at my worst.

    “It hurts, doesn't it?” he said.

    I nodded.

    “If you do these exercises,” he said, “one of these days you'll walk for me. If you don't do them...” He shrugged and let me figure out the consequences myself.

    I swallowed a scream as Mrs. Crab forced my head ttowards my knees.

    “I'm proud of you for working so hard,” Dr. Bevis said.

    “Hmpf,” sniffed Mrs. Crab.

    That's all he said. That's all he needed to say. His words of acceptance and encouragement changed my behavior for more effectively than the therapist's constant scolding.

With all my heart, I longed to keep my promise to walk for Dr. Bevis. I wanted it not only to please him; I wanted it for myself. If I had to stretch my muscles in order to walk again, then l would stretch my muscles, no matter how much it hurt.

    But I still didn't like Mrs. Crab. And whenever I was sure Dr. Bevis was not nearby, I still yelled.