“POLIO: A PERSONAL ACCOUNT”

Ernst F. Tonsing, Ph.D.

Thousand Oaks, California
January 18, 2004

FEAR

“I had polio.” It has been only the last few years that I have been able to say that.
To speak these words, I had to overcome distressing cultural prejudices and personal
hang-ups. Mention the words, polio, or infantile paralysis,” to people who had lived
through those awful years, and it was like admitting that you had terminal cancer.
Immediately, images of clumsy wheel chairs and withered legs, cumbersome and ugly leg
braces, and pathetic eyes staring from the immobilized, disembodied head sticking out of
a large “iron lungs” were raised. Tell this to someone who had come after the clinical
trials and mass testing of the 1955 Jonas E. Salk vaccine injections and the 1957 Albert
B. Sabin oral vaccine, and it is equivalent to identifying oneself as a dinosaur.
Personally, to say that I had polio was to bring up traumatic memories of months
confined to a hospital bed, of horrible pain, and of feelings of discouragement when legs
and arms made little improvement after months of therapy. Furthermore, it was the
agony of admitting that I was partially “crippled,” and would never be able to do
everything I wanted to do.

Those born after the fearful ‘50’s can have little understanding of the sense of
dread of contracting the virus unless they recall vividly the hours after the tragedy of
September 11th, and the realization that we knew neither the source nor the direction from
which the next attack would come. Large groups of people were dreaded, so parents kept
kids from movie theaters and swimming pools. Going to Sunday school or church was
not only an act of faith, it was testing God. Was it transmitted by water fountains, toilet
seats, railings on the stairs or by shaking hands? Would it strike one’s classmate or
friend, the neighbor’s new baby or the clerk at the downtown store? Could a meal at a
restaurant, sitting in a classroom or playing on the schoolyard with other kids be lethal?

These questions and others were continually pondered silently if not spoken out
loud during the 1950’s. Summer, when, it seemed, that most of the cases of polio
occurred, was particularly dreaded. The fear of polio, as I remember it, is comparable to
that of terrorism or AIDS today, and it wasn’t only parents who worried. We kids
worried too!

CONTRACTING POLIO

Everyone, of course, has heard of the most famous polio patient, President
Franklin Roosevelt. The organization, which he founded, of which I have only the
greatest words of praise, the “March of Dimes,” regularly had money-raising drives in
our community. I recall my class in Franklin grade school at Salina, Kansas, being
escorted to the entrance hall to be lined up and “marched” by a table to drop a tightly held
dime into the container. The picture on the front of the box had the pathetic image of a
young girl with withered legs, resting on some crutches.

As a family, first in Salina, then in Topeka, Kansas, we made all a precautions.

We stayed away from crowds, did not use the civic swimming pools even in the one
hundred plus temperatures, nor did we go to the Saturday matinee movies. We did go to
church and I was allowed to go to Boy Scout meetings. My after-school job of selling
cigarettes, soups and sandwiches at a counter in the lobby of the Merchants’ National
Bank enabled me to take out a saving account and build up some money which I had
plans to use. Our troop was going to travel to Philmont Scout Ranch in Cimmaron, New
Mexico the summer of 1953, and I wanted to go. I was able to pay the amount and, in
August, went out to Camp Jayhawk to join the other scouts to board the bus. The vehicle
was an old one that had seen too many years of service in the school district, and, most of
us were convinced that it had square wheels and cast iron seats. Besides that, it was slow,
and all of the other vehicles passed us as we rumbled on, distressing the impatient
teenage passengers. After an over-night stay near the Koshare kiva built by Boy Scouts
in Pueblo, Colorado, we made it to the ranch and checked in.

At the ranch we received our equipment, had our orientation, and started out on a
sixty-mile trek, up and down mountains, through creeks, and over boulders. We set up
tents each night and cooked our meals over campfires, a great adventure. However, the
last day of the hike we stayed in a semi-permanent tent city. Exhausted from the difficult
hikes, grubby and hungry, we were told to assemble first for some instructions. Part of
these were that we were not to associate with anyone from the next campsite. When we
asked why, we were told that their group was quarantined. When we asked the counselor
what was wrong, we were told that he did not know.

We did as we were told, keeping together as a group to see the “Tooth of Time”
and some geological features nearby. Nor did we go over to the other camp. However,
what no one recognized was that we shared the bathhouse. So, for several days, we
pulled on the same door handles, sat on the same toilet seats, turned the same water
fixtures, placed our toothbrushes down on the same sinks, and stooped over to rinse our
mouths out from the same faucets. What no one knew in 1953 was that Poliomyelitis
was a virus that could live quite a while in water and sewage. It could infect by contact
with contaminated feces or contaminated droplets carried by the air, food, or water, and
enter the body by the nose or mouth to travel to the intestines where it incubated, and
then spread to the central nervous system. It was only after we returned home that we
were told that the reason for the quarantine of the next camp was that several of the
scouts had come down with polio.

School was to begin shortly, and, in preparation for inter-mural games, I was
playing football—I was too tall and skinny for varsity. The temperatures and humidity
were over one hundred degrees, and we worked hard. Occasionally I had some moments
of light-headedness, but I did not give these any heed. After all, I was fifteen years old,
trim and strong after a physically active summer, and I wanted to show my best.

I was also president of the Eastern District of my church youth group, the Luther
League, and, the Saturday before school we had a planning session at the church on Fifth
and Harrison Streets for an upcoming convention. After leading the morning sessions, I
was beginning not to feel very well. I instructed the group where to go for lunch and told
them that I was going home. I caught the bus and walked the half-block to the house.
My mother was in New York for a meeting of the national board of National Council of
Churches, and it was my duty to vacuum the house before she returned that evening. I
had not been able to do it yet, so I got out the machine and carried it up stairs to the
bedroom and plugged it in to use. However, I must not even have turned it on. The next
thing I recall was waking up with my father and mother peering down at me as I lay
across the bed. They found the thermometer that I had taken out of the medicine chest on
the ledge behind the sink, still in its container. Apparently, I had felt sick enough to think
to use it, but had staggered to bed instead.

I felt fine the next morning and went to church services, and started classes the
day after. Everything was all right until Wednesday, mid-morning, when I was sitting
half way back in a Latin language class. I began to have a severe headache, my neck and
back hurt, I had a sore throat, and, I’m sure, a temperature. Suddenly, the whole room
began to spin, and I rose and approached the teacher asking for a hall pass to go to the
bathroom. She turned around and wrote on the pad of paper, handed me the slip and I
opened the door and went into the hall. I didn’t get far. I recall collapsing and seeing the
floor from eye-level, wondering what to do. I was able to crawl down the hall some
thousand feet, descended two flights of stairs, and make another thousand feet back to the
nurses’ office. As I crawled in on all fours, the nurse rose and looked down over her
desk. I said: “I’m sick. I want to go home.”

THE EXAMINATIONS

Dr. Treger came that afternoon to our house. He asked me all sorts of questions,
and held my arms and legs, asking me alternately to push and pull. My strength had not
been affected. A critical test was that of bowing my head and putting my chin on my
chest. I couldn’t do it, but never had been able to do it with my long neck, so the results
of his examination were inconclusive. However, I was told that some more tests were to
be done at Stormont Hospital that evening. As I walked from the car in the parking lot,
I looked up to see the long, second floor ward that stretched north to south between the
main building and another, and was told that it was the polio ward. We went in the
doors, climbed up the stairs, opened another door and walked past the nurses’ station and
the doors along the hall. I could see people lying in beds, and realized that these were
polio patients, of whom I had heard only the most terrible rumors. I was surprised that
our path was directly through the ward. When the door to the little room was closed, I
was asked to take off my shoes, trousers and shirt and lay down on my left side. I had to
hold my knees very tightly and was instructed not to move at all while a needle was
inserted between the vertebrae of into my spine, that if I moved, the doctor might miss
and I would be paralyzed. I didn’t want that, so I mustered all my concentration to
remain still.

Always curious about everything, I asked the doctor many questions. I wanted to
know what fluid the “spinal tap” drew, and what they looked for in it. They were looking
for the number of white vs. red corpuscles. I also asked whether I might contract polio
by going through this ward. The doctor said no, only if I were to stay in one of the
rooms. I dressed and went home. The next morning, Thursday, I felt fine, and, again,
went to my classes. The doctor called to say that everything looked good in the spinal
fluid, that, as I recall, there were only about 1,500 white cells per cubic millimeter of
fluid. Friday, too, was all right. Saturday, however, I had the same dizzy spells,
headache and feeling of tiredness. Dr. Treger brought Dr. Van Trees with him to
examine me, and, once more, the pushing and pulling tests were fine, even if I could not
touch my chest with my chin.

Something was wrong, however, and, once more, I was asked to go to the
hospital. In the same room, while holding my knees as the sting of the needle was felt, I
looked up at the large clock on the wall: 10:23 p.m. This time, I was not allowed to go
home, but wheeled part of the way down the hall to a room and placed in a bed near the
door. In a space intended for two beds, four stood, all occupied. The ward was built for
a little over forty patients, but now held some ninety-five. I slept, but was periodically
awakened by a nurse with a thermometer. In the morning, Dr. Van Trees came in,
repeated the tests of my muscles, and sat down beside me. I asked him what the spinal tap
showed, and he said, as again I recall it, that there were some 24,000 white blood cells
now present. Then, in a solemn voice he said: “Fred, we think that you have polio.” I
responded matter-of-factly: “Yes, I thought so too.” He was a bit startled, so I explained
that I had surmised it from the answer to my question the previous Wednesday night, and,
that having been placed in a room in the ward meant that even if I did not have it, I would
catch it. The doctor then spoke to my parents, and they, too, replied in the same way. I
wonder what the doctor thought of these responses, since I am sure that not every family
held their emotions in check at the tragic news.

PARALYSIS

I adjusted to the hospital’s routine somewhat poorly, as I disliked holding my

mouth closed so long with a glass thermometer stuck into it, and the meals were not
particularly savory. I was very sick, however, and had little inclination to climb out of
the high, metal bed to explore the ward, as I would have done if well. Particularly
onerous was the requirement that I call a nurse with the little, black button on a cord
fastened to the upper right corner of the mattress, and wait and wait, until she brought a
cold, metal bedpan. I could help myself, thankyou! I alternately dozed and chatted with
my roommates. Sunday evening I fell asleep.
 I remember nothing until I woke up on a Tuesday morning a week later, not
knowing that such a long time had passed. I was very sick and very weak, and rested the
remainder of the day. However, when I woke up Wednesday morning, I recall that the
tip of my nose itched. I tried to lift my right hand up to scratch, and nothing happened. I
tried again and again, but my whole arm would not rise. Nor would my right leg move. I
tried to call for help, but could not get a sound out of my throat. When the nurse came in
with the thermometer she immediately noticed something wrong and called a doctor.
This one did the same tests, having me push and pull. I could make some motions with
my left arm and leg, but, with the right, nothing worked. It was also clear that I was
having trouble breathing.

I was immediately wheeled down the hall to the north room. In this large space
there were six “tank respirators,” commonly called “Iron Lungs,” and I was wheeled
alongside the one to the right of the door. However, a curtain was pulled between it and
me, perhaps so that I would not become alarmed. Several doctors hovered over me, but I
could tell that they were puzzled.

Poliomyelitis (“polio”) is a viral infection that kills the muscle-controlling nerves.

While there have been outbreaks on every occupied continent, earlier ones centered
mostly in Sweden. It was there that Karl Oskar Medin of the Karolinska Institutet first
identified the virus during the outbreak of 1887. In the United States, epidemics emerged
in every year since 1900, but the worst were during the years 1943 to 1953. The year
1952 also saw epidemics in Denmark, Belgium and Germany. Deaths in North America
occurred in about five percent of the patients, but, in Europe, up to thirty percent.

There appear to be two main types of polio. Bulbar polio attacks the nervous
system at the “bulb,” or brain stem, just above the spinal cord, particularly the nerves that
control swallowing and talking. Spinal polio infects the spinal cord, acting upon the
lower limbs more than the upper ones. The virus works by killing the sensitive motor
nerve cells in the spinal chord. In most cases, other nerves take over for the dead ones,
but where they do not, the muscles atrophy, thus, the “paralysis.” There might be a third
form, Encephalitic polio, like a “sleeping sickness,” where the patient drifts off into a
coma-like sleep. Apparently, I had gotten all three. During the earlier epidemics, it
seems that it was mostly children who contracted polio. Later, it shifted to more
teenagers and adults. Fortunately, only about one percent of those who contracted polio
developed the severe paralytic form. Some persons who appeared to be immune to the
virus probably had contracted a mild form of the disease earlier in their life, and the
antibodies remained in their bodies. Also, after the affliction, one was immune to that
strain of polio, but not to a different form of the disease.

My symptoms were not typical of the other patients, giving the medical doctors an
additional anxiety. While all of my limbs and lungs were affected, it was most acute on
my whole left side. I could not move either my right leg or arm, and my mouth drooped
on that side. The doctors were puzzled, and, as they told my parents later, they were
worried that I had contracted a new strain of the disease. Much later it was determined
that not only did I have polio, I had also suffered a stroke. The effects of both
compounded my recovery.

INTENSIVE CARE

I remained about a month in intensive care, a nurse always ready to assist if

needed. The five iron lungs and my bed were arranged three on each side of the large
room, with the nurse sitting with her back to the north wall facing the patients so she
could observe them all the time. Frequently she went from lung to lung, checking the
fittings and checking if the people needed anything. Regularly, our temperature was
taken to see if the fever had decreased. The virus has its way with you for about a week,
and, by then, the damage has been done.

My throat had closed, and eating and drinking became impossible. With polio,
fluid fills the air passage, and the patient can suffocate. The nurse had to be alert to
breathing difficulties, and when they occurred, bring a mechanical suction machine to the
bedside and stick a rubber, off-white hose down the throat to suck out the fluid. If the
throat had closed, the nurse could have performed an emergency “tracheotomy,” where
the throat is pierced just at the base of the neck, and held open so that the patient can
breathe. Many of the patients around me had the white gauze placed around these
openings, which prevented them from speaking—the air just rushed in and out of the
hole—but enabled the nurses to evacuate the built-up fluid more easily. I can remember
being frightened that I might need the operation, but, fortunately, I did not.

Since I could not take nutrition through the mouth, a wood board was taped under
my left arm to hold it immobile, and a needle was inserted into the vein to nourish and
hydrate me. As the weeks passed, the arm became black from blood escaping under the
skin. My veins seemed to get harder and harder to find, and the nurse would have to
make four or five jabs to get it in. Bathing and toilet functions were awkward, and I
could not help myself at all. For a teenager, this was extremely embarrassing, but the
professionalism and kindness of the nurses enabled me to retain some sense of self-
respect despite my helplessness.

Only once, after a particularly difficult time breathing was I placed in an iron
lung. During that early afternoon, the nurses and doctors rushed to my bed and made the
decision to use the respirator. The curtain on my right side was drawn away; I was lifted
onto a long, narrow “tray,” and shoved into the machine. As the rubber collar was fitted
around my neck, the whirring sound of the electric motor underneath and the “boom,
boom, boom” sound of the bellows at the other end of the tube began. The “lung” works
by alternately compressing and releasing the air pressure within the tank, forcing the
lungs to expel and then draw in air. It worked for a bit, but, then I felt too confined and
panicky, and, fought the “lung’s” attempt to make me breathe. After observing me for a
while, the doctors decided that I was going to expend too much energy combating the
operation of the machine and I was taken out.
 I lost a lot of weight, going down to ninety-six pounds according to the scales at
one point. I could almost place my thumb and forefinger around my thighs. Emaciated
and pale, I wondered what my father thought as he came to see me. Only six years before
this he had been a chaplain with the “Timberwolves,” the U.S. Army liberators of the
Nordhausen Concentration Camp in Germany after the Nazis had left it, and had seen the
“walking dead” come out of the bunkers and squint in the sunlight. He never mentioned
it, although it must have grieved him to see me and to recall this.

LIFE ON THE POLIO WARD

When I could be shifted to a “regular” room on the ward, I was cheered that it was
evidence that I was getting better, and, I could get more sleep without the constant sounds
of the respirators. As I was wheeled into my new room, I nodded to my new roommate
in the bed next to mine, not yet being able to speak above a breathless whisper. He was a
year older than I, and I recognized him as a student from my high school in Topeka. I
was still immobile, and had to be fed through my veins. Worse, I still had to use the
bedpan. I was still pretty “numb” to the whole experience, and mostly rested. Without
the sounds of the iron lungs as “background noise,” I could hear the breaths of my
roommate.

Several nights after I was in the room, I heard my roommate gag and stop
breathing. I waited in panic for him to resume. He did not. The button to call the nurse
was too high for me to reach, I could not get out of bed, and I had no voice to cry out. I
watched the door, and, each time a nurse would walk by, I would roll back and forth in
my bed. Once, a nurse looked in briefly, then walked away. Finally, another one came
and saw me trying to move. She asked over and over “What is wrong?” All I could do
was to roll my eyes over to the next bed again and again. At last she followed my eyes
and realized that I was trying to indicate something was not right with my roommate.
She went over to investigate. When she realized that he had stopped breathing, she ran
out of the room and came back with another nurse. A bit later a doctor appeared. They
tried to revive the fellow, but could not. After giving up, they pulled the sheet up over
his head and left the room. I was there alone with him the rest of the night. They came
and got him in the morning and cleaned up his bedding. I have often thought of him, and
wondered what he might have been like had he survived, recovered, and gone on to lead
his life. Later, after I became somewhat mobile, I was able to meet others in neighboring
rooms, several being acquaintances from high school. Several more patients died in the
ward, and it was alarming to go into their rooms to discover their beds empty.

After a few hours, two other patients, farmers from west of Topeka, were wheeled
into the room. One had brought a radio and placed it on a table between them. At six
a.m., when the nurse woke us for the first thermometer check, that radio was turned on
and tuned to Country Western music, and it was turned off only at bedtime at ten p.m. at
the last thermometer reading. Having been raised on classical music and having studied
piano and violin for several years, it was a trial of patience for me that next month. I
never did come to like Country music, and, indeed, consider that experience my
“inoculation” against such inhuman howling, screeching and twanging.

Pain was almost always present with the polio patients. As blood vessels
constricted, the muscles stiffened and cramps struck the legs and body. In order to
relieve it, a strange round machine was wheeled to the door of the room. Old, gray, wool
Army blankets that had been boiled in water were brought steaming in a hamper and
placed into the machine to be spun around fast to remove the water. Meanwhile, we were
rolled to one side of the bed, and a plastic sheet was unfolded and spread. One of the hot
blankets was placed on top of it and we were rolled back on to it. Then, we were folded
and pinned into the blanket to “cook” the muscles a while. That, too, was painful,
especially when the blankets were too hot. Often we got blisters along the outside of our
legs to compound the misery. After getting used to being an human “enchilada,” the
warmth did provide comfort. But, after about fifteen minutes the blanket got cold and
began to itch terribly. With so many patients to help, the nurses had to work furiously,
but would not return soon enough to remove the blanket. Unable to move to scratch, I
had to lie there and muster all of my resources not to cry out.

That was not the end of the torture. After the blankets were taken away, the
physical therapists would enter the room, working either one or two at a time, trying to
stretch the reluctant muscles. The most painful was the backstretch. The intent was to
enable me to sit up. I was, literally, “stiff as a board.” For many days, all the therapist
could do was to get her fingers under my shoulder blades and lift barely an inch before I
screamed with pain. Finally, after a while, the muscles began to relax, and I could rise up
a few more inches. Just as difficult were the leg stretches. Here they grasped the ankle
and knee, and flexed the leg, pushing it up. It was agonizing. I know that the therapists
were well trained and meant well, but we teenagers considered them torturers. More than
once they had to endure my shrieks. I am sure that all of this pulling and stretching was
the reason I gained my over six feet length! [Several years later I was glad to meet one of
the therapists and give her profound thanks.]

I don’t know if my progress was not good enough, or if it was just luck, but when
a newly invented “Hubbard” tank was built of plywood and installed in the physical
therapy room in the northwest corner of the hospital, I was the first patient to be wheeled
down to it. It had a “T” shape, much like the “angels” we used to make in the fresh
snow, and filled with very hot water. I was rolled onto a mesh litter and was gradually
lowered into the water, leaving only my head out of the water. It was hot, but wonderful,
and did the job of relaxing my muscles. Dried and rolled back to my room, the muscles
remained limber for hours, until the cooled sinews began to tighten again.

After several weeks I was able to resume eating, but only liquids. For a month
and a half, broth, milk toast and vegetables boiled to a mush were all I could handle.
Frequent choking brought worried nurses to my side. I looked with envy upon the meals
brought to my roommates. Things changed one night when they were given hamburgers.
While I was hardly a difficult patient, that night I demanded to have a hamburger too. I
didn’t get one, but, the following day, the doctor performed some tests and consented to
change the meal orders. It was with supreme delight that I tasted my first “real” food in
over two months. Later, I even prided myself that I could take a bite, chew and swallow
without having to grab a drink, and, to prove both to myself and to the nurses that I could
do it, I would eat my whole meal without fluids, and, then, gulp the milk or juice all at
once. Small triumphs like that revived hope.

Night was the worst time in the ward. The moans and, often, the cries of pain
punctuated the minutes. Some patients would scream in pain the whole night, until
silenced by exhaustion. To deal with it, the nurses would come by with trays of little
paper cups filled about an half inch with the narcotic, opium, that tasted like bitter, acidic
chocolate, and which had to be “chased” with a swallow or two of water. My parents had
spoken of the danger of being addicted to drugs, and this warning prevented me from
accepting the medicine for some time. I just suffered until I could stand it no more, and
then asked for the little paper cup.

In addition to the isolation of paralysis and pain, there was the separation from the
rest of the world. Teenagers are “group” beings, and feel most comfortable hanging out
with their peers. Polio disrupted this. As the mechanics of the virus were not yet
understood, everyone was kept away from visiting the ward except parents. Much later,
visitors were allowed, but could stay only a few minutes standing at the foot of the bed.
On one occasion, my parents brought my brother to the parking lot below the ward. I
pulled myself up to the window ledge and waved to him. At another time, a friend was
brought and we exchanged waves. Other than that, my new world consisted of patients,
nurses and doctors. Nothing was allowed to leave the floor, so that every paper,
magazine, book, card or object that I had touched was incinerated.

WALKING AGAIN

While the nurses told me that I had been one of the sicker patients, strangely, they
said that seemed to mean that I might recover with fewer effects. That gave me more
hope, and I resolved to follow the doctor’s and therapists’ instructions carefully. It was
still very difficult, but I began to get more movement with my arms and legs, although
my right side was still considerably weaker than my left. After I had regained my voice
somewhat, I asked the doctor some questions. In response to one, the doctor told me that
I should not expect to be able to walk again, but I might have some limited mobility.

However, nearly three months after entering the hospital I tried an experiment. I
took off the sheet, turned my body, and let a leg down to touch the floor. Unaccustomed
to gravity, the blood rushed down and the pain in the legs became intense. But I had
done it! I had touched the floor! Gradually I acclimatized myself, only at night when no
one could see me, practicing getting out of bed while holding on to the mattress. I could
not support myself on my feet, but was cheered by the returning strength. When I felt
confident enough, I demonstrated to the therapist what I could do. She brought a
“walker” with wheels and a little seat, and we began to promenade in the hall. However,
every few steps I would have to be helped to sit, and after a brief rest, helped up again.
But, I was still walking. I was assured that I could have braces fitted, and they would be
able to support my weak legs and straighten them enough to be able to get along well
enough. I looked forward to this “getting along,” but was unhappy with the thought of
wearing those metal vices strapped to my legs.

HOME, AT LAST!

Finally, after three and a half months in the hospital I was allowed to go home
earlier than I was expected. The prayers of the members of First Lutheran Church and of
many relatives and friends were answered. But, I was to stay another month in a hospital
bed moved upstairs in my bedroom at home. The ride from the hospital was again in an
ambulance, but, this time I remember the ride, especially that I persuaded the driver to
use the siren briefly. After being helped into bed, it was a great relief to be with my
mother, father and brother again. I had missed them. I was now more mobile, and able
to get to the nearby bathroom. Several times a week a physical therapist would lower me
into the huge, iron bathtub to work and stretch my limbs.

Walking was still a problem. While both legs were weak from the long
hospitalization and polio, the right leg was substantially less strong. The muscles that
elevated the foot did not return, and I had to learn how to use the big toe to lift it. This
was easier to do when I was strolling, as I could just “throw” the foot out and let it drop.
However, at a slower pace, it was awkward. Nor had the muscles on either side of the leg
recovered, so the leg acted just like a movie pirate’s “peg” leg. A full-length mirror on
the living room closet enabled me to analyze my gait, and to refine my stride. Some fifty
times a day I walked back and forth, examining my walk by that mirror to improve it.

Stairs were an obstacle and a source of fear. At first, almost every time I started
down the five wood steps and turned right to make the rest of them down to the living
room, my legs would give out under me and I would fall, bumping down each step on my
rear. I could not count the number of times I took a tumble, and, yes, it hurt! Finally,
just before Christmas, I was able to walk unassisted and gracefully down the stairs and to
the table for meals.

Returning to Topeka High School was an unachievable goal for most of the time
with polio. I had lost out on a semester of classes and was not able to study. However,
my parents arranged for a tutor to visit the house to enable me to catch me up on my
lessons in English, Latin, Mathematics and History, and the Registrar’s Office was
gracious enough to accept the credits. It was a week and a half into the spring semester
before I was able to walk into the school with the aid of a cane. In the principal’s office I
was given a key to the elevator, which I could use to impress my friends. Then I went to
my first class. I was carrying my violin and walked into the huge orchestra practice
room. As I entered, the teacher and entire class rose and clapped as I walked over to an
empty music desk and sat down. The surprising recognition and acceptance by them was
a wonderful thrill. Although my violin has remained dormant for many years, each time I
have handled even the instrument case, the cheers of my classmates have again echoed in
my ears.

I FEEL LUCKY

Through the aid of the “March of Dimes” to continue physical therapy, and the
kindness of my teachers in high school, I was able to catch up with my class and graduate
with them. At Midland College in Fremont, Nebraska, I joined the United States Navy
Reserves, entered Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island, and served three
years on active duty. Through my perseverance—some would say stubbornness—I have
climbed Mt. Hood in Oregon, twice almost gotten to the top of Mt. Whitney in
California, hiked trails in Death Valley and down and up the Grand Canyon, and led
students on study tours of eight countries in the Mediterranean area.

I still have some weakness, and get “blind-tired” many times after long days in
front of a classroom or physically exerting myself. My right leg is almost an inch shorter
than my left, and I stumble frequently, catching the “drop” foot on a crack in a walk or an
uneven surface. I have to concentrate when I walk, and, if my attention is diverted, I
limp or fall. My right leg and arm still do not last as long as the left, and, probably with
age and, perhaps, overuse of some muscles to compensate for the ones lost to the disease,
I am beginning to have more weakness. Standing for any length of time gives me a pain
for days, and walking a distance gives me cramps at night. Every time I approach a flight
of stairs from the top I freeze momentarily, involuntarily recalling my many falls, before
I am able to descend. I cannot wear out my left arm, but typing on a computer for half an
hour gives pain in my right shoulder and upper arm. I still have a “crawling sensation” in
my legs at night. My voice gets tired quickly, and its peculiar huskiness remains a sign
of the old polio.

But, I can walk, when some friends of mine are still confined to wheelchairs. I
can breathe easily, while others of my classmates still need respirators. I survived when
some of my friends did not. And, through my own experience with polio, I have been
made to be sensitive to the physical impairments of others and to be compassionate with
those who suffer silently, while some I know, or whose letters I read in the newspapers,
or who serve in some administrative offices, are insensitive to suffering, indifferent to
pleas for help, or are scornful of those who, because of their disabilities, they feel are not
worth bothering about. This is why I feel that I am lucky to say, “I had polio,” and for
that I thank God!

Ernst F. Tonsing
Thousand Oaks, California
January 18, 2004