my shoulders to prove that l was getting better. The doctors knew it was just a stunt. but my father loved it.
I had two goals. One: get home fast. Two: earn enough money to buy a doll like the one another girl in my ward had. I’d never liked dolls particularly. but this one was different; you could wash her hair! My father sensed that purpose of any kind would give me a feeling of control. So he brought me a toy chewing gum machine. and l sold the chewing gum for a penny to anyone who passed my bed. to amass the funds to purchase that doll.
l couldn‘t walk out of the hospital. and l was mortified. My father apologized — it was his fault. Not mine. he said. But he didn‘t make me go in a wheelchair like the others. He carried me in his arms. I wore a new pink bathrobe my mother had made.
Doing My Job. l had studied piano since age five. The first day home. my father sat me on his lap at the piano. supporting my head against his chest. And placed my hands on the keyboard. My right hand slipped from the keys. “It's all right." He assured me firmly. “You‘ll be playing soon enough.“
Dr. Frederick Taylor. the osteopath. came every morning to work on my mllfldes. especially the neck. A tutor came every afternoon. My father promised I would return to school. My job was to walk. to write with my right hand and to hold my head up before the end of the school year.
Coming home front work many times a day. my father laid me across the piano bench and forced me to lift sandbags placed on my forehead. arm and legs. One mayor neck muscle had atrophied. so l worked to strengthen the others to compensate. Some of our neighbors wouldn't speak to my father. because they heard my cries as he helped me. They didn“t understand that he did it out of love. But l did.
l watched the seasons pass. propped up on a couch on our glassed-in front porch. l saw the other kids rake autumn leaves. Then build snowmen and soon roller skate past my window as trees turned green again. l never doubted that 1 would be right there with them next year.
After some time. Dr. Taylor came only three times a week. Then. Little by little. l began to hold my head up all by myself. l was now walking rather well. l could write slowly and had even plunked out a few piano notes.
Next came a mirror (my fathers idea. of course) at my place on the dinner table. Much of my swallowing mechanism had been paralyzed — it still is ~— and in order to eat. I had to turn my head all the way to the right to swallow. Viewing myself in the mirror. l practiced holding my head straight until I mastered eating without seeming to look out the window with every bite. To this day. I still tum my head…TO BE CONTINUED NEXT POST
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