With Gratitude

My parents both grew up in a small town in South Central Iowa called Walnut, my father as a farm boy and my mother a “city” girl.  Walnut had a whopping 800+ residents at that time. It is now called “The Little Antique City” because of the number of antique dealers who live there.

One of the most important figures in that small town was Dr. Webber, who was everyone’s family physician.  My maternal grandmother, who was in many ways my primary nurturer, supporter, and role model in life, was his trusted assistant. Although she was not formally trained, medicine seemed to be her calling as much as his. Together they made house calls, delivered babies, distributed medicines and gave comfort to all in need.

My parents married just out of high school, as my father was leaving to serve in the Marines (World War II).  When he returned, I arrived. I quickly developed hepatitis as an infant and became very sick.  According to the town lore, Dr. Webber “miraculously” saved my life.  I have no memories of that time, but my parents held Dr. Webber in the highest esteem and he was frequently included with our family on Sunday events and at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Fourth of July celebrations.

My next few years were thankfully medically uneventful. We frequently moved to different cities as my father rose in leadership in the corporate world.  Although it was hard to leave my grandmother, whom I had lived with for several of my earliest years, I still had a relatively “normal”, happy childhood.  It was filled with fun, the love of learning and adventures like cutting off the left side of my sister’s hair, as I experimented with being a barber!  I also loved cowboys and Indians, but my favorite game was always playing “doctor/nurse/patient”.  Guess which role I favored?

At 8 years of age I had my next medical crisis. I became extremely ill and began to lose the ability to move my left arm and leg.  I still vividly remember the moment when my female pediatrician said to my parents, “She has polio and will never walk normally again”.  My father turned sheet white and my mother cried.  I remember thinking something like, “That’s not true. I wonder why she is saying that”.

Moving quickly through her shock and pain, my mother implored the doctor to allow me to stay home rather than go to the hospital, so that she could personally care for me.  Although this request would mean extra work for the physician in order to do house calls, she agreed.

There followed many months of feverish nights filled with conversations with “God” and days filled with fatigue, frustration and boredom for me, as I could not go to school or play with my friends.  Each day my father would carry me down the flight of stairs from our second floor apartment in order to give me a few minutes of fresh air.   My mother fed me, sang to me, read to me, gave me medicine, exercised my limbs and optimistically and tirelessly encouraged me to heal.

And heal I did.  I now walk normally, have full use of my left arm and have no residual effects at all except an endocrine issue that causes me to carry extra weight.  I am considered a “miracle” cure, but I know that my recovery was the result of the grace of God channeled through two very special women (my mother and my doctor) who were willing to go the distance to fully support my healing.  I have never forgotten the warmth, strength and competence of that doctor.