Post Polio

When I was a little boy about four years old, there was an epidemic of Infantile Paralysis or Polio  sweeping areas of the nation.  Since I tended to catch everything from chicken pox to head lice simultaneously, naturally I caught it.  All the local hospitals were full.  Luckily I came to the attention of what we then called a jack-leg preacher, meaning one not associated with any recognized sect or religious persuasion other than Christianity.  Like a medical general practitioner; a general practice sky pilot.  In any case, he was a Mason at the local temple and a higher up like a 300th degree or something.  Regardless of what he appeared, he was a good, compassionate person and embodied the acts and personage of Jesus Himself.  I heard another such man say "don't tell me what you believe, tell me what you do and I will tell you what you believe."  To make a long story longer, with the assistance of this master string puller, I was with my father  armed with a handful of rationed gas coupons on my way to Dallas with the ultimate destination being Scottish Rite Hospital, the best polio specialists in the world there.  They worked with me sporadically for eight years through paralysis, braces, crutches, a drop foot problem and finally intricate muscle graft surgery to enable me to walk almost normally and play high school football.
  Years later, they found the true viciousness of polio.  Irreparable damage to the spinal cells that control muscle tone and strength.  In my golden years, the process I went through at four years old I experience again, except in reverse.  I have gone from a cane to a walker until finally to my wheelchair.  I can't really complain, though.  From an itinerant preacher to the groups of Masons and Shriners that opened their hearts and wallets to pay for my care, to a great innovative surgeon, Dr Carroll, to a young nurse named Ms. Tallant who sang at night to make us forget the pain from surgery; they gave me a wonderful life of 78 years now.  I am eternally grateful.