The man considered the question for some time. “It’s possible, Mr. Walton. On the other hand, every case is different.” He shook his head and smiled. “The only thing I can say for sure is that if determination and persistence are a factor in a person’s recovery, your wife’s got as good a chance as anybody I’ve ever seen.”
John nodded, but the doctor looked troubled, as if he had more on his mind.
“Mr. Walton, I realize how much you and your family hoped the Sister Kenny treatment might turn out to be a miracle cure for Mrs. Walton. And I can see that from your viewpoint I sounded very negative about it. But I think you are a realistic man. You know that nothing is ever pure white or pure black. So I’ll say this off the record—and with not a whole lot of scientific evidence to back it up. Personally, I don’t see how the Sister Kenny treatment can do any harm. And with your wife’s attitude, it just might be the right combination to bring off some kind of a miracle.”
John was surprised by the statement. He also appreciated how difficult it was for the man to make it. “But you don’t think I should tell Livvy.”
“No, I don’t. People react differently to doctors’ advice. Some become so dependent on it they make no effort on their own. Others—sometimes because they have no faith in doctors at all—bring about their own cures through sheer determination. They just say to themselves they’ll be damned if they’ll let any bug interfere with their lives. Your wife is a strong woman. I think she just might be better off making the decision on her own rather than depending on someone else’s opinion.”
“What if Dr. Vance recommends against the treatment?”
“If he does, I would consider his advice very seriously. But in the end it’s still her decision. And it’s possible that Dr. Vance might think the treatment has a great deal to offer. It wouldn’t surprise me if he endorsed it wholeheartedly.”
John nodded. “Yes, I reckon that’s possible.” It would certainly simplify things, he reflected.
The doctor suddenly smiled. “Mr. Walton, you’ve got a fine family. I can’t tell you how much I was impressed by that oldest boy of yours. And no matter how all this comes out, you’ve still got something very valuable in this house. Your wife’s illness isn’t going to change that.”
The statement was both flattering and mildly pessimistic. Before John could respond to it, the doctor waved and the car pulled away.
VI
Dr. Miller’s visit seemed to have settled nothing. If anything, John-Boy had the feeling the doctor thought his mother should try and make the best of spending her life in a wheelchair. And John-Boy got little encouragement when he delivered the pamphlets to Dr. Vance. The doctor had come out to his crowded waiting room for only a minute, and was puzzled by the literature.
“It’s about the Sister Kenny treatment,” John-Boy explained, “Dr. Miller at Boatwright College got the pamphlets for us, and he thought you might be interested in readin’ ’em.”
“Oh, I see. You mean for your mother.”
“Yes sir.”
The doctor nodded and slid the pamphlets into the pocket of his smock. “Is she having any discomfort from the splints?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s good. I’ll be over to see her tomorrow.”
“We’d appreciate it if you’d read the pamphlets, Dr. Vance.”
“I will.” He gave John-Boy a distracted smile and disappeared.
The next morning John-Boy had another surprise.
As far back as he could remember, the only occasions on which his father ever went to church were Christmas and sometimes Easter—or when some friend or relative died. But after the dishes were washed and dried and John-Boy headed up the stairs to get ready for church, he met his father coming down the hall wearing a suit and a necktie. He looked as casual about his appearance as if he dressed that way every day.
“You goin’ to church, Daddy?”
“Yep,” his father said and went on down the stairs.
Only Erin stayed home with Olivia, and until all the kids got in back of the truck and they drove off, no one said a word.
“How come Daddy’s goin’ to church?” Elizabeth finally asked.
“I reckon he just feels like it,” John-Boy shrugged, and the subject was dropped.
In the church nobody questioned his presence. It seemed like his singing voice boomed out louder than all the rest of the congregation put together, and his “Amens” at the end of prayers were emphatic and conclusive. When the service was over he politely answered questions about Olivia for five minutes, and then they all marched to the truck and returned home.
Until they had climbed out of the truck, none of the children noticed Dr. Vance’s car parked near the porch. Then, knowing they would soon hear the critical decision, they went quickly inside.
Dr. Vance was waiting for them in the kitchen. The pamphlets were on the table, and he smiled through the greetings. Still, John-Boy felt a stab of apprehension. Beneath the polite smile, Dr. Vance didn’t look too happy.
John pulled out a chair. “Sit down, Doc. Grandma, you want to make some coffee?”
John-Boy and Grandpa also eased into chairs, while the others stood near the sink. Dr. Vance fingered the pamphets for a minute and then pushed them aside.
“Your daughter told me you’d be home shortly,” he said, “So I haven’t discussed these with Mrs. Walton yet.”
“I take it you’re not in favor of the Sister Kenny treatment, Dr. Vance.”
It seemed to John-Boy that there was an odd note in his father’s voice. It was not impatience so much as a quiet determination—as if he had made some important decision and he was intent on carrying it through.
The doctor sighed heavily and shook his head. “It’s not only me, Mr. Walton. I talked to two other doctors last night after your son left the pamphlets. One of them is a physiotherapist and the other is an orthopedic surgeon in Richmond. Frankly, two of us were dead-set against it. The third felt that there was a possibility that the treatment might have some merit. However, even he felt that the risks might far outweigh the possible benefits.”
“What’s a physiotherapist?” Grandpa asked.
Dr. Vance smiled. “Oddly enough, it’s a man who does exactly the kind of treatment this Sister Kenny prescribes. Principally, he works with people who have had badly broken bones, or people who may have had physical defects from birth. Through massage and a combination of heat and water treatments he attempts to strengthen muscles to correct the defects.”
“Is he the one who thought the Kenny treatment might be good?” John asked.
“Yes. And he’s also the one who warned against the risks. You see, physiotherapy can be a very complicated procedure, and requires considerable knowledge of muscular balance. In most cases, therapists are working with only one limb and a limited number of muscles. In the case of polio there is a massive atrophication. An attempt to properly strengthen all the muscles would necessarily be a very lengthy and complicated procedure. It would require a great deal of equipment, and expert supervision.”
“Could it be done in a hospital in Richmond?”
Dr. Vance shook his head. “I asked Dr. Pierce the same question. He said he wouldn’t attempt it. Aside from the complexity of the problem, it is still highly doubtful that the muscles would respond to the treatment. You see, there’s still a fact we must face, Mr. Walton. The nerves are probably suffering from permanent damage. In the majority of polio patients that is the case. Under such circumstances no amount of massage or physiotherapy could ever revitalize them.”
“And you think Livvy’s nerves have been damaged that much?”
Dr. Vance nodded grimly. “I’ve tested and retested her reflexes right from the start. There’s no doubt in my mind. In her case I’d say the odds are overwhelmingly against any kind of recovery. That’s the principle reason I would advise against the Kenny treatment. In the long run, starting a treatment like that would do nothing more than postpone her adjus
tment.”
“Adjustment to what?”
Dr. Vance took another deep breath, as if hating what he had to say. “To being crippled, Mr. Walton. Sooner or later, your wife’s going to have to face the fact that she’ll never walk again. The longer she puts it off the more difficult it’s going to be for her. I’m sorry it’s necessary to be blunt, Mr. Walton. But Mrs. Walton has been crippled by a terrible disease. She must learn to accept that.”
Far more than the words, it was the grim expression of the doctor’s face that caused John-Boy’s heart to sink. Grandma had served coffee, but no one touched it. At the sink Elizabeth was staring at the doctor, almost in tears.
“It’s hard,” Dr. Vance went on, “but it’s true. She’s got to accept it. She’s got to get on with the job of shaping a life for herself with her new limitations.”
“You mean a wheelchair?” Grandpa asked.
“I’m afraid that’s precisely what I mean. Every single person who ever had polio probably believed sincerely that he was going to recover, and made some effort to use his legs and strengthen the muscles. And everyone of them would have been better off if he immediately accepted the fact that he was crippled and made the best of it. Believe me, Mr. Walton, your wife is no different. In the end, her efforts and her exercises will only prolong the adjustment.”
John-Boy glanced at his father. He seemed to have stiffened in the face of the harsh words. He nodded toward the pamphlets.
“This Sister Kenny treatment—what are the risks involved?”
“In the first place,” Dr. Vance said firmly, “the splints would have to be taken off in order to begin the treatment. This is extremely dangerous. Unsupported, the muscles are likely to pull the legs into gross deformity. Secondly, the treatments would be very painful. The motor nerves, which control leg movements, may be damaged, or totally destroyed. But the sensory nerves, which relay pain, can still be healthy enough to make the treatments unbearable.” He shook his head. “But probably the worst part of all is giving her false hope. Believe me, Mr. Walton, if you looked around enough you could probably find a hundred different people claiming to have a cure for polio. There are thousands of quacks in the world who make fortunes by promising cures for incurable diseases. And unfortunately, there are thousands of patients spending millions of dollars going from one of these quacks to another.”
“Doesn’t appear to me this Sister Kenny woman’s askin’ for any money,” Grandpa said.
“No, I’ll grant that. But it’s still a false hope. People can have other reasons for promoting quack cures.”
John gazed at the doctor for a long time. “Doc, would you come up and tell Livvy everythin’ you’ve told us? All about the risks, and about other people with polio thinkin’ the same way she does?”
The doctor hesitated. “Yes. I did intend to examine her today. But I think the decision is yours as much as hers, Mr. Walton. In her condition it’s hard for your wife to be objective.”
John nodded and rose. “I been thinkin’ about it.”
“I hate that man,” Elizabeth said as quickly as John and the doctor were gone.
Grandma poured herself coffee and sat down. “Now, that’s no way to talk. Particularly on the Sabbath.”
“He’s just doin’ what he thinks is right,” Grandpa added.
“Do you think Mama will want to do it?” Mary Ellen asked.
Grandma shook her head. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But that steam and massage—sounds to me like it’s just what Livvy needs.”
John-Boy didn’t know what to think. If someone had asked him an hour ago, he would have been one hundred percent in favor of the treatment. But Dr. Vance’s saying that everyone else who ever had polio was just as determined as his mother—that was a discouraging thought. And if the treatment didn’t work, she would be crippled even worse.
John-Boy guessed the same thoughts were on everybody’s mind as they waited. They all gazed silently at the table until Grandma finally got up.
“Well, I reckon I’d better fix us all some lunch.”
Mary Ellen rose. “I’ll help, Grandma.”
After twenty minutes the doctor and John came down. But they went out the front door, and another five minutes passed before the sound of the doctor’s car could be heard and John finally came in. He looked preoccupied. And still wearing his church clothes, he seemed more solemn than ever.
“Did he tell her, Daddy?” Jason asked.
He nodded and sat down to drink his cold coffee. “Yep, he told her everythin’.”
“What’d Mama say?”
John shook his head and gazed thoughtfully at the table. “She didn’t say nothin’. She’s thinkin’ about it.”
“What do you think, Daddy?” Mary Ellen asked.
He considered the question for some time. Grandma put her knife on the sink and came over to hear his answer.
“In the end,” he said, “it’s your mama’s decision. I told her what I thought. And the doctor told her what she can expect if the treatment doesn’t work. He also told her how painful the whole thing will be.” He glanced at Grandpa. “Up till now I don’t think Livvy understood all the risks a thing like this has.”
“I think it would work,” Grandma said. But her voice was not as confident as before.
John shook his head. “I reckon none of us can say anythin’ for sure. If Livvy wants to go ahead with it, we’ll give her all the help we can. But if she decides against it, none of us better say anythin’ against her decision. Like Doc Vance says, we’ll start right off helpin’ her make the adjustment.” He looked around the table at each of them. “And nobody’ll ever even think about what it might have been like if she had decided different.”
They all nodded.
“I think you’re right, John,” Grandpa said. He glanced significantly at Grandma.
“Whatever Livvy says goes with me,” she said emphatically. “Lord knows all the pain and sufferin’ she’s already had. I ain’t goin’ to add to it.”
“Daddy?”
Erin was standing near the end of the table. Apparently she had come into the room without anybody seeing her.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“Mama wants to see you. She wants all of us to come up.”
John-Boy felt his heart drop. Apparently she had come to some decision. But John-Boy had given up any hope of guessing what it might be. And there was no clue in Erin’s solemn expression.
They all rose. “Whatever she says,” John cautioned again, “it’s the right decision.”
John-Boy lagged to the rear and found Ben at his side.
“I wish that doctor from the college had just said to go ahead with it,” Ben whispered. “If he knew about the treatment when he first got sick, I’ll bet he’d have done it.”
John-Boy nodded. “I reckon we’d better not forget what Daddy said.”
Ben shrugged and dropped the matter.
She was wearing her blue bedjacket when they came in. From her propped-up pillows she smiled at each of them, watching as they found places to sit.
“How was church?” she finally asked.
“Real nice,” Grandma smiled, “and Reverend Fordwick delivered a real nice sermon. Don’t you think so, John?”
“Well, now, Mama, I don’t really have a lot to compare it to. But he sounded right sincere to me.”
“What’d he talk about?”
“He talked about makin’ a lot of noise,” Grandpa laughed. “And that husband of yours did just that.”
Olivia smiled. “Psalms, ninety-seven! I love that. ‘Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with singing’.”
“Daddy sang louder than anybody,” Elizabeth said.
John laughed and Olivia gazed at him with what seemed like more love than John-Boy had ever seen in anybody’s eyes. “I’m glad,” she said simply.
Suddenly John-Boy had a feeling that everything was going to be all r
ight. No matter what his mother decided, everybody was going to do his best to make it work.
“Well,” she said lightly and smoothed the new signature quilt over her lap. “I had a very nice talk with Dr. Vance. He said that if we tried somethin’ like the Sister Kenny treatment these splints would have to come off my legs. And if that was done there would be a chance of my legs gettin’—gettin’ worse. But I reckon he told you all this already. He also said the treatments might hurt a little bit. In fact, I guess he doesn’t want me to try the treatments, because he said it would hurt a whole lot.”
She paused, but nobody made a sound.
“I reckon the only thing that’s worryin’ me is that—I mean if I went ahead with the treatment—is that it might be a whole lot of trouble for all of you.”
“Don’t you even think about that, little girl,” Grandpa said quickly.
She gave an embarrassed laugh and looked around at all of them. “Then I’d like to do it.”
John-Boy wasn’t aware of the fact that he had quit breathing. A wave of relief suddenly flooded through him; his father and everyone else in the room were grinning, and Elizabeth made a dash into her mother’s arms.
“Mama, I know you’re gonna get better,” Elizabeth blurted out, “and we’re goin’ to help you. We’re goin’ to help you every day, and do all those things to make you get better no matter what we have to do.”
“That’s right, Mama,” Jason added, and Ben and the other children nodded agreement, none of them trusting their voices.
“Don’t see how anyone could help but see the good sense in puttin’ hot foments on a person’s ailin’ muscles.” Grandma grinned. “We shoulda been doin’ it right from the start.”
John-Boy guessed his father was the happiest of all of them. There seemed to be big portions of pride and love and determination all mixed into his smile as he gazed at Olivia. He was silent while the others expressed approval of the decision. Then he leaned forward in his chair.
“Well, Livvy, when would you like to get started?”
She shrugged and looked down at her legs. “Seein’ as how it’s everybody else who’ll be doin’ the work, it’s up to you.”
The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story Page 9
