What are the major experiences in your life that you consider “life changers”? Another way of asking the question is if certain events in your life had not happened, how would your life have been different. We all have formative experiences. It is part of the human condition. Your childhood, your parents, friends, mentors, relationships, marriages, schools, jobs and health all come to mind.

For me a major life changing event in my life was polio. I came down with polio in the summer of 1952 when I was ten years old, the last big epidemic year (58,000 cases) before the vaccine became available. I missed the fourth grade (though I did not fall behind because I had a “homebound teacher.”) That year I spent six months in Warm Springs, the famous rehabilitation center in Georgia that President Roosevelt started for polio victims. After the first year of being at Warm Springs and having homebound teaching, I was able to return to school for the fifth through seventh grades, only to be sidelined again for my eighth-grade year due to needing a spinal fusion to correct a severe curvature of the spine (a result of paralyzed stomach muscles). While not happy times, polio gave me a different perspective on life and set me on a path that may not have happened had I not been a polio kid.

I grew up in Nashville, Tennessee, the son and grandson of Nashville bankers, both of whom became bank presidents. While in those days bankers—even bank presidents—did not make a huge amount of money, my parents, younger brother and I lived in a comfortable house in a neighborhood called Belle Meade, Nashville’s most exclusive residential community, and my parents were part of the Nashville social set. I went to an elite private prep high school for boys (which I admit that I loved) in Nashville. It is hard to know if without my polio experience, I would have followed in my father’s footsteps and pursued a banking career in Nashville, joined a country club, and been part of Nashville society.

What did I learn from my polio experience?

First, it taught me that no matter how bad off you think you might be, there are people who are worse off than you. My three roommates at Warm Springs all had serious paralysis in their legs and were told they would never be able to walk again. My paralysis was mainly in my hands, arms, and stomach. And when I left Warm Springs after six months, all three roommates remained, their fate uncertain. Many at Warm Springs were in iron lungs, some I presume for the rest of their lives. I realized just how fortunate I was compared to the plights of so many fellow young patients. Plus, the spinal fusion that sidelined me for another year was successful, despite given only a 50-50 chance. Without it –a new procedure at the time—I was told I would not have lived into my 20s since most of my vital organs would have been affected.

Second, there was virtually no complaining or self-pity at Warm Springs, at least that I was aware of. We polio kids all soldiered on, trying to do the best we could in a challenging situation.

Third, my polio experience taught me the value of friendships. During both years of missing school and being homebound, my friends stuck with me. This made such a difference! I had visitors almost every afternoon, who came over to join me in a game of Monopoly or chess or to listen to  rhythm and blues songs I had recorded from listening to WLAC radio the night before. My best friend at the time, Allen, visited me several days each week. Even though he has lived in Atlanta for years we remain best friends to this day and still talk regularly by phone. Several others who stuck with me during those days also remain great friends.

Then, there is the bleeding heart part. Polio changed how I looked at the world. I plead guilty to having a place in my heart for the “little guy.” The polio experience made me acutely aware of what it is like to go through hard times. I identify with the underdog and those who have been dealt tough hands. I grew up in a Republican household but since 1960 have been an avid, progressive Democrat. The bleeding heart part was also responsible for my organizing and leading a civil rights march in Charlotte in 1964 when I was a senior at Davidson College and for my involvement in the Civil Rights Movement with my wife, Embry ,when we worked with SNCC in Southwest Georgia in 1966.

Who knows, maybe I would have followed this pathway without the polio experience. Many of my high school friends who grew up in the same elite neighborhood I did and remain good friends are Democrats and hate Trump as much as I do. But still, I give much credit to my polio experience for making me a hopeless bleeding heart.

Finally, after years of being sidelined as a polio victim, in my twenties I became obsessed with physical fitness. I never would have been a good athlete even if I had not had polio. But not being able to participate in sports made me realize how important physical fitness is and how much I was missing. I began serious long distance running in my late twenties when we were living in Chapel Hill and for over 25 years ran 15-20 miles a week—often with a running partner– averaging about three miles a run (8 to 9-minute/mile pace) and competing in 10-mile races almost every year. I finished one half-marathon and achieved my goal of reaching the 20-mile mark in the Marine Corps Marathon in the early 80s. Following knee surgery and old age limitations, I switched to power walking about 15 years ago, then just walking, and now am inching along, aided by a hiking stick or rollator for stability. But at 84 I am still trying and that is what counts.

But polio did have its painful moments. When I was about twelve, my mother took me to see a dermatologist for treatment for teenage acne. The doctor—and I still remember what he looked like—casually commented to my mother within ear shot of me, “Carroll, I feel so sorry for you. You have a son who is a cripple and who now has acne. How sad! How terribly sad! And how hard it must be for you.”

Do not ever “feel sorry” for someone who you think is inferior for whatever reason. And if you can’t help feeling sorry for them, certainly do not tell them that. Condescending pity is the most damaging insult of all. I am happy to report, however, that this was the only time that this happened to me.

Then there was the Boy’s State experience in Tennessee in 1959. At Boy’s State in segregated Tennessee one senior white boy from every white high school in the state was selected by his school for a week-long experience in civic engagement. I was selected from Montgomery Bell Academy. At the time it was considered an honor, and I was excited to be able to participate.

The site of Boy’s State that year was a military high school in Middle Tennessee. I was somewhat surprised when I arrived that retired military personnel–some in uniform–were responsible for conducting the event and that some of the leaders treated it like a boot camp. For me it was the first opportunity I had had since 1952 to be just a normal person without a serious disability. I had no intention of mentioning to anyone that I was a polio kid. Finally, I felt could relax and just be a normal kid.

On the second day of the event the entire group of over 100 teenage boys gathered on the field of the school’s football stadium. The first activity of the day was calisthenics. An order came out of the loudspeaker to do a bunch of exercises starting with pushups followed by sit ups. I struggled with the pushups but managed barely to get through them. Then came the sit ups. My stomach muscles were totally gone, so I watched while the other boys were doing the exercise. I noticed one of the leaders charging toward to me. He was frowning and had a microphone which was linked to the speakers on the field. Standing over me and observing that I was not doing a sit up, he shouted into the microphone, “Stop! Everyone stop!” All activity on the field stopped and all eyes were on me. The leader then stared down at me, asked me my name, and the name of my school, and then ordered me to do a sit up. There was an eerie silence on the field. I tried and failed. I tried again. No luck.

Over the loudspeaker came his snarling remark: “This kid, Joe Howell, from Montgomery Bell Academy in Nashville can’t even do a sit up. He is pathetic and an example of your generation going to hell, you wimps and pussies! He is a disgrace and should never have been allowed to come to Boy’s State in the first place….” and on he went using me as an example of everything that was wrong with “the younger generation.” If we did not shape up, we were doomed to failure and people like me did not belong at Boy’s State and should be sent home.

Not one of my happier moments, to be sure. Of course, I could have offered my excuse of being a polio kid, but this was the first time in my life that I had had the opportunity to leave that behind me and move on. So, I kept my silence.

After the exercises were over several boys that I did not know, one by one, came over and patted me on my back. “Idiot,” one boy whispered about the guy. “Total asshole. Ignore the bastard,” muttered another.

I managed to get through the remainder of the week, made some new friends, and gave the overall experience high marks. Besides I had to agree that a normal senior in high school probably should be able to do a sit up. There was no way the drill sergeant could have known about my being a polio kid.

When at Davidson College I had a few similar experiences since I was determined to put the polio behind me. In physical education, I finally got up my courage to tell the instructor that I did not believe I should be in his wrestling class due to having had polio. He sternly answered that the best wrestler he had ever coached had had polio and ordered me into the ring, a command which in less than a minute led to my shoulder being dislocated. I was then transferred into the trampoline class. When my turn came, the coach ordered me to do a somersault. “Not a good idea.” I shouted back while jumping up and down, “I don’t have any stomach muscles!” When he again ordered me to try one, I tried and landed about six feet off the trampoline, fortunately caught by my fellow classmates before I hit the hard concrete. I was then excused from PE classes for the rest of my freshman year.

And now at my advanced age of 84 and living in a continuing care retirement community, I see many people using canes, rollators, and wheelchairs, and I use a hiking stick and occasionally a rollator myself. I have had three falls, all resulting in mostly minor head injuries, though one fall led to my spending a week in Holy Cross Hospital.

But I am not throwing in the towel. Age is the great leveler. And in the end, we all die. That is the way it is on the planet Earth. But just as I was inspired at Warm Springs about how hard polio kids tried and how little anyone complained, I am inspired by fellow residents here. We are all trying to play the cards we have been dealt the best we can, squeezing the remaining drops out of the lemon without complaining or self-pity.

What else can we do?

And as I look back on my life, I remain grateful for my polio experience. It was a “life changer,” for me.

 

 

 

 

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