MY SOW—HANDICAPPED?

Evening Star, Issue 22596, 13 March 1937, Page 29

MY SOW—HANDICAPPED?

In view of the recent epidemic the following article from the ‘ Saturday Evening Post ’ (New York) should prove of vital interest to many parents. The article will be published in two parts:— 1 tucked my five-year-old son into bed after a gay day of romping on the beach. He gave me a kiss, and I slipped away, full of the joy that his health gave to me. Infantile paralysis struck that night. For months his tortured limbs lay in cotton wool. Only fragments of memories of those days survive, happily. But there was one evening when my husband and I sat beside Larry’s bed and heard the doctor say that he would live. His little old man’s face lolled grotesquely from a neck powerless to support it on his wasted body. Could this be my glowing, frolicking son of the beach. . That was 16 years ago. Larry is still a cripple. But— Only a few weeks ago he walked into the living room and draped a sweater with its big varsity letter over alt easy chair. At the same time he brought the news that he had won another scholarship; one that will enable him to go omvard into medical school. _ This is the story of the how of it all. There was no miracle, and there will be none. My son’s right leg is still three inches shorter than the left, the thigh no bigger around that your wrist. Ho yanks it along with a powerful right arm when he walks or dances, and he always will have to dp this. But in spite of what is called his handicap, Larry’s record of achievement to-day classes him as an above-the-averago college senior. More important by far, Larry knows himself to be a whole man among men. No brooding introspection plagues hin>> Soon after that unforgettable night 16 years ago ray husband and I faced our problem. We would teach Larry to build a full, valuable- life. We told each other that to do this he must give all he could to the world, rather than take all that people rushed to hand him. We picked the hard way—for ourselves as well as for Larry. It would have been much easier to have babied him, shielded him. That Was what I longed to do. But I determined that I would not. . Of course, for months after infantile struck, all ray husband and I could do was to preserve life itself. Six months after the attack, however, Larry began to move his head a little. I began a regime calculated by doctors to give him the maximum opportunity for development; though there was no promise of any progress whatever. After Larry’s breakfast I gave him a bath in salt water imported from the sea. A thorough liniment rub, massaging of the legs and feet, and an endless hour of exorcising them by flexing followed. Then a rest period, lunch, and an hour outdoors in the wheel chair. Larry could not leave his chair, but he couid throw a rubber ball for Fritz, our police dog, to fetch. We managed to train Fritz not to release the ball until Larry leaned slightly from his chair and took it from the dog’s mouth. A trifling thing, but for all that a beginning in doing for himself. My husband had been a rather famous college athlete, and he saw to it that Larry used all that was not impaired in as much sport as possible. He bought Larry a small rifle. Together, as intense as any experts in Olympic competition, they sat on tho back porch and fired in turn at bottles. Scores were kept week by week, and no golfer ever was more jealous of his score than Larrv of his. This practice made Larry the best shot of all tho boys in the neighbourhood later. We also gave Larry duties as early as possible, and the first of them came naturally. Before infantile struck it was his pleasure to hold my chair and slide it beneath me at dinner, with comic courtliness. He could no longer do that. But he could reach out from his wheel chair and hand me a naplsn. Each evening he did so, with tho same comic courtliness. Once more a trifling thing, but a beginning in doing for others. My husband and I had to venture into tho unknown with our programme, and there were times when I trembled with the fear that I was being an unhuman mother. Tho summer after the stroke we decided to take Larry to our seaside cottage again—-the scene of the attack. I mentioned it casually. His eyes grew wide with terror. Mother, not there,” he begged. “ Something will happen to me again if we go there ” My heart simply dissolved inside me. Assurances that he need never again go to our beach cottage rushed to my lips. But I shut them tightly. _ If I had let Larry bo conquered by his fear of the place I would have betrayed him. When I could control my speech I said:—- “ Larry, you must come along with us this summer. Nothing will happen ever again, at the cottage. If you are not happy I will bring you straight hack home. But you must try it.” On tho way to the seaside Larry was so disturbed ho could not eat. We hustled him into his swimming suit when wo arrived, and my husband carried him into the sea, piggy back. He floated, supported by my husband s hand. He grinned. In less than an hour ho was as happy a beachcomber as ever he had been. Two entirely unnecessary operations, designed to transplant muscles and lengthen the Achilles tendon delayed any attempt to place Larry in school. If they were unnecessary why did we submit our tortured child to them ? Because of the word “ maybe ” —a word I have grown to hate. “ Maybe ” we were told the operations would restore independent locomotion to our son’s legs. We felt we dared not deny Larry the chance. Both operations—one when lie was six, another nine months later—did nothing but give him added pain and more mental hazards. (To be continued next Wednesday.)