Living One Handed In A Two Handed World (Introduction and Preface)

Preface

The purpose of the following essays and poems is to present the progression of growth, adjustments, and triumphs that I have made as an empowered physically handicapped woman of faith.

I contracted polio right before the age of four which left my right arm and hand partially paralyzed. Most people refer to me as one handed even though I have some use of my right hand and arm. This misconception of being one handed is what gave me the idea for the title. Hopefully others who have been mislabeled can relate to my experiences.

God Bless and Enjoy!

Introduction

I was born in the year 1955 into a German/English/Irish Catholic family. It was a difficult delivery. I had what was considered a caul over my nose and mouth. It is like a veil or membrane over a baby’s face, which happens rarely but supposedly means I had a special destiny. I guess God had a plan for me before I even started. Not only was I born with a caul, I was a C-section, which was not commonplace back then especially for Roman Catholics. My mother had to fight for my life as well as her own. Well, I obviously survived the first few hours because, thanks to God's grace and mercy, here I am 61 years later to tell my story.

When I look at all of my toddler pictures I seemed to be running somewhere. My father always had his arms out behind me making sure I didn’t fall or end up in the street. My goal when I was about 3 years old, was keeping the hula hoop up and twirling around my waist, and standing up on the swings in our yard swinging. I was a happy and very active child. Then towards the end of my third year of life, I got polio. I didn’t know what was happening. I couldn’t get up and run around and I couldn’t raise my arms. I was scared and very frustrated. I remember crying out of fear and mother thought I was in pain. I guess the yelling threw her off. I don’t remember any pain. I just remember being frustrated. I couldn’t move on my own. I remember being roughly carried out of the house by strangers who put me in a van and took me to a strange hospital where I stayed for about three months more or less. So, I suppose I was a bit traumatized.

My family was there every day to visit. I still remember the only food I ate came from home, even though some kind elderly lady with a gold tooth tried daily to get me to eat tasteless hospital food. Try as I might I couldn't eat hospital food, much less identify it. If it weren't for the Franco American Spaghetti  my Aunt Ella and Grandma Hosfeld brought almost every day in a thermos, I wouldn't have survived. Staying in the hospital also disrupted my bedtime routine. My father would come every night to tuck me in and say my prayers but what I really wanted was to be held and told everything was going to be alright. I would cry hysterically when he left. When the nurses told him about it he made sure I knew he would be back. Boy, was I learning how to wield power over my situation or what?