Infantile
Paralysis, known
as 'polio' devastated families for years. The
Chicaho epidemic
of 1949 caught me in August; the same as President Roosevelt
who contracted it at age 39 in 1921. Fortunately, a wonderful,
orthopedic surgeon did a series of three operations to lend use to an
arm that was lifeless after age four. Nevertheless, I had wonderful
experiences during each surgery. Below is the second one performed
and most memorable.
The operation completed
I awoke with my
right arm encased in a thick cast from shoulder to hand. It was
Christmas 1952. I had just undergone the second of three orthopedic
operations performed due to polio contracted when I
was
four. I cried quietly each night from pain, self-pity and
loneliness. I wanted to be partying. I was just a
junior
in high school.
Four days passed. A nurse informed me that
a nun, a
Sister Mary Josephine, also had surgery by my doctor and occupied the
room across from mine. Why not visit her? “Why,” I
thought, “would I want to visit a nun?” I was
not Catholic. With their starched, white mantles
binding
their faces, black robes, nuns appeared more like specters of death
than joyful, loving ‘brides of Christ.’
Wasn’t my stay in the hospital horrible
enough?
However, following a few more nights of pity and loneliness, I found
myself drifting towards her room. There, laying on
her
back in a white gown, head wrapped in the usual white mantle, lay not
a “specter of death, “ but Mrs. Santa Claus in the
flesh. She had rosy, shiny cheeks, a round face, and
bright, electric blue eyes. She beckoned me to come
closer. Her
radiant smile filled the room. I felt instantly warm and loved.
I told her my name is Joyce. ‘So darlin’,
what are you in for?” “ I learned from the
nurse we shared the same doctor,” I replied
feeling comforted
by her broad smile and interest. I continued, “Our mutual
doctor, Doctor Pisani, had transplanted muscles in my right arm to
other places to help it lift to a right angle. The entire arm
paralyzed by polio when I was four,” I added, “this
is my second of three.”
“Sister Jo,” as I came to call her
affectionately, “what is being done to you?” I
inquired with sincere interest. “Joyce, darlin’ “
turning her head to face me more directly, she continued, “several
disks surrounding my spine had disintegrated resulting in intense
pain and threatened paralysis. Our doctor was executing a series of
bone grafts from my leg to sculpture new disks
to surround
my spine.” She added that she had been on her back
for over a year. “I have another six months to go,”
she concluded with a great sigh turning her face upward as if in
silent prayer.
I could not imagine how she could lie
there, smile
and be joyous. I began to feel ashamed that I had cried each evening
to sleep, missing holiday parties and feeling sorry for
myself. Her
burden a thousand times greater than mine.
We became instant
friends. I visited her
daily, spoke of my family, asked her questions about her
life. Since
she was a little girl, she wanted to be a nun. She had wanted to
be a nun. It had been a choice, not an imposed
sentence.
My prejudices were fading fast.
New Year’s Eve
arrived. I was to go
home a few days later. “Joyce, darlin,” she said that
morning, “I have a little surprise for both of us tonight. Come
over after dinner.”
I did. We chatted gaily. My anticipation
grew. Around
11:30 p.m. Sister Jo suddenly lowered her voice. “ Joyce
darlin’, go out to the hall and tell me whether you see
anyone.” I did. “It was devoid of any activity,” I
reported. “Are you sure?” she asked with some urgency.
“Yes,” I whispered as I entered into the suspense of the
moment.
She gestured that I pull the chair closer
to her bed.
Her hand disappeared under her pillow pulling out a large, flat
bottle. “Joyce darlin’, it’s Blackberry Brandy and
we’re going to have us a whopping New Year’s Eve
celebration!” I was stunned. A nun drinking and offering it to
me. ‘Why,” I thought to myself, “didn’t
only priests drink this at service?” She unscrewed
the cap and poured hefty amounts of the dark, forbidden fluid into
two, plain hospital water glasses. We drank every
drop. I
had no recollection of making it across the hall to my
bed. I
slept very late. I awoke to a headache and a cold breakfast tray
beside my bed.
Sister Jo and I corresponded with one
another well
into my last year in college. One day I received a
note,
her picture, a prayer card. “Joyce darlin’”, the
familiar address always warmed me. “I write to tell you that
from this day on you will never hear from me again. I begin a vow of
perpetual silence. I will have no further contact with you, anyone,
nor from the outside world. You will be in my prayers, always. I love
you, as does God.” She had become one of the most
dearest, loving people in my life. I cried for several days. I never
heard from her again.
The ritual passages of human events,
births, deaths,
marriages, betrayals, sickness, financial struggles
have
passed taking their toll. Parties, fancy clothes once so important,
have long been forgotten, but not Sister Mary Josephine. Who, in her
own unimaginable suffering, having radiated limitless joy and
abundant love, had shared Blackberry Brandy with a lonely little girl
on a lonely night in a small, simple, lonely hospital room long ago.
