it’s 1947.
i am six years old lying in my little bed in an army barrack in winnipeg, manitoba. i am burning up and have a horrendous headache. what was wrong with me?
the next thing i remember is lying on a cold hard table in a hospital operating theatre peering into the faces of so many nurses. the doctor is holding what seems to be a gigantic sewing needle with a tube on the end of it — the team must have had to hold me down in order for him to stick that needle into my spine to confirm my illness. i can still conjure up the searing pain.
poliomyelitis — polio — is the verdict. i am now lying in a big white room, beds to the right and left occupied by children who are around my age. there are strangely large tin cans in the room, each with a small human head sticking out the end of it — it was iron lungs, the large metal ventilators that breathed for them.
most of what i can remember after that day is the twice daily applications of hot moist woollen rags called foments being wrapped around my arms and legs. that, and the disgusting texture of fish-eye tapioca that served as dessert for most meals (young readers will have to delve into a 1940’s cookbook to figure that one out).
during my time in my new “home,” a doctor would appear at my bedside every day asking me to stand at the end of the bed and to bend over to touch my toes, while he ran his hand down my spine. i understand now that he was checking for curvature in my back — scoliosis, or a curving of the spine, is one of the complications of polio.