The sting of mother’s fly swatter in her vigorous effort to cure me of my newly-discovered first-grade practice of cussing, had yielded a measure of fruit. Though I wasn’t wholly
The sting of mother’s fly swatter in her vigorous effort to cure me of my newly-discovered first-grade practice of cussing, had yielded a measure of fruit. Though I wasn’t wholly cured, I did grow selective on when and where to let fly the occasional bleep word. But my self-control in this arena hit a wall in Hillcrest Hospital’s therapy room.
“Hold his hips firm against the table. Steady now. Here we go – up with the right leg.”
Two people in white – a spindly man and a large-boned woman – stood opposite each another at the therapy bench. I lay face-up between them. The therapist’s job was to apply stretch treatments to the polio patient’s affected limbs in hopes of arresting the stiffening of muscles.
Lying still, I took in their faces, their voices. The room carried an antiseptic aroma.
The stretchings began. One leg, then the other. The limb was held straight as a board by pressure of a hand on my kneecap then, still straightened, brought upward. The stiffer the muscles the greater the strain. . . and pain. Up, up, up, ‘til a brutal sharpness shot through the length of my leg.
A single ‘dammit’ escaped my lips, not loudly but audible still.
The therapists shared knowing, but not unkind, smiles. Neither uttered a word, these disguised angels inflicting pain on helpless children. Surely they shared our hurt.
An Australian nurse, Sister Elizabeth Kenny, had devised an added treatment to limber up the muscle tissue of paralyzed limbs. Nurses at Hillcrest wrapped me – along with my polio peeps, each in turn – in tightly-confining, steaming hot packs. Shutting my eyes today I can smell the heavy, moist odor of sweltering chamois-like blankets. Mercifully the blankets held our afflicted bodies in their constricting grip only limited periods at a time. I never swore about the hot packs.
As I grew older I extended myself grace over the cuss-lapse that day. Though not wholly justified, a swear can slip through a set of teeth in a moment of severe, jolting hurt. Especially where understanding is missing.
About Jerry
Jerry Lout was schooled at Wilson Elementary, Preston High and O.S.U. Okmulgee, Jerry Lout writes Memoir and Life Reflections. He’s served twenty years in East Africa, another twenty at the University of Tulsa, Jerry is Author of Living With A Limp from which this piece is drawn. His web-based Blog features additional memoir narratives. www.jerrylout.com
