I had polio when I was one year old and had just started walking. We were living near the Air Force Base in Houma, Louisiana, where my dad was serving.

I have no memory of the early years of my fight against the effects of the polio. I have pictures of myself wearing a tiny leather and metal brace and learning to walk again. The March of Dimes paid for my physical therapy. I was a “poster child” for several March of Dimes fundraising events in Dallas. My parents were very grateful for the assistance, and my mom still collects for the March of Dimes in her neighborhood each year.

I recovered well, and eventually I was walking without the brace. But every summer, there was the dreaded trip to the orthopedic surgeon. I had 14 surgeries to keep my legs the same length. Each surgery meant 4 to 6 weeks of the summer spent in bed and slowly getting back on my feet. I remember my mom carrying me everywhere. She sometimes put me out on the front porch so I could watch the other neighborhood kids play. I was so glad when I finally stopped growing and could stop these surgeries.

I walk with a bad limp, and my feet (and thus, my shoes) are different sizes, so it was obvious that I was different. In the 60’s and 70’s, very few children with disabilities were integrated into the general student population. To overcome the stares, questions, and name-calling, I set out to be “special” for something other than my disability. I became an overachiever, and I graduated as the valedictorian of my high school class in 1976. I went on to Rice University in Houston, where I thought I would be able to manage well because the campus is small, but I couldn’t. My dad bought a golf cart for me to use. I became very popular—everyone wanted a ride! My college years went great, until my senior year when the school administration balked at installing a handrail for me so I could get to the second floor bathroom from my dorm room. This was my first serious accessibility issue. I remember the anger on my dad’s face. He walked to the administration building for a talk, and the handrail was installed within hours.

My parents are my heroes. They never expressed pity for me, which largely kept me from feeling sorry for myself. They never gave me any indication that I couldn’t achieve anything I put my mind to. They treated me just as they did my brothers. When I told my dad that I wanted to ride a two-wheel bicycle, he pushed me round and round the back yard, but my legs weren’t strong enough. So he bought me a tandem bicycle! And my sweet brother pedaled me around on it.

I graduated from Rice in 1980 with a bachelor's degree in material science (metallurgy). I married my college sweetheart and took a job at a refinery in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I could not have felt more “normal” inside, but it was not normal to be a female engineer with a physical disability in a refinery. The overachiever in me was in overdrive. I wanted to advance because I was good at what I did, not because I was disabled or female. I was insulted to find that I counted for two points on the tally of affirmative-action hires. So I put in lots of extra hours, and I excelled at my job.

We have three wonderful children. I always worried that my disability would embarrass or affect my kids in some way, but they never said so. When my youngest daughter was about 4, she started walking with a limp so she could be like me! I had to nip that in the bud, but it was one of the sweetest compliments that I ever received.

In 1989 I began to experience weakness and occasional pain in my right leg. I went to a neurologist, who told me I had post-polio syndrome and that there was no treatment. I began to fear going out into the operating units at the refinery—a necessity for my job. I took a position in the Quality Assurance Laboratory, a job that would keep me out of the units. But in 1991, I couldn’t walk the length of the hallways without stopping to rest. My leg wouldn’t “go.” It was terrifying. It was the beginning of my encounter with depression. I didn’t learn until later that depression frequently goes hand-in-hand with any chronic illness. I went to several doctors seeking help for my legs. I got conflicting advice from each one—exercise, don’t exercise, try medication, etc. Nothing helped.

In late 1991, I quit my job without disclosing my health issue. Maybe it wasn’t the best decision, but I didn’t feel I could perform up to my own standards. I was embarrassed to have this weakness. Denial became my coping strategy. I began walking with a crutch for stability. Eventually, in 1994 the pain and weakness were more than I could bear. In addition, I was experiencing great fatigue. I went to another neurologist. He confirmed the post-polio diagnosis and told me there was no treatment.

Not knowing where to turn for help, I essentially shut down. I did the least I could get away with to care for my family, and I just pretended everything was fine when I was around my parents. My pastor encouraged me to see a doctor who attended our church. Dr. Richard Reinking isn’t an expert on post-polio, but he is a caring, compassionate, and thorough doctor, and he has helped me through the last 15 years. He first signed the form for a Handicap Parking Tag. At the time, this was another tremendous setback and embarrassment for me. Even worse was receiving the tag with the word “Permanent” printed on it.

Dr. Reinking also sent me to an orthopedic specialist who prescribed braces for me. Wearing braces has its own set of issues, not the least of which was that my muscles grew weaker after relying on them, so I couldn’t walk at all when I wasn’t wearing them. I discovered that my grandmothers, both in their 80s, could walk faster than I could! Braces are uncomfortable, heavy, and hot, and caused my legs to swell after a few hours. Our health insurance wouldn’t cover the cost of a scooter, only an electric wheelchair, so I bought myself a scooter. I could not even imagine myself in a wheelchair.

Dr. Reinking and I spent years working through trial and error to find the right combination of pain medications and the right treatment for my depression. Pacing myself has been the best way to deal with the fatigue and one of the hardest things for me to learn. With the exception of discovering severe osteoporosis—another side-effect of polio—my health has been stable for several years. I even gave in to having an electric wheelchair for those times that my braces are off. It works much better than the scooter did in a house that wasn’t designed to be accessible. Now I even dream of myself in a wheelchair! My loving husband has had to take on all the shopping and lots of the housekeeping. It has been a long road, but I have been able to make peace with my disabilities and to find and enjoy my abilities.

Polio has given me one great gift—patience. But I know that now is the time to work urgently to finally eradicate this disease. There is already a new generation of youth who don’t know what polio is, including people trained for medical professions. I have had to explain polio and post-polio to several x-ray technicians and even physical therapists. The first time someone asked me what polio was, I was a bit insulted. But after thinking about it, I’m glad that I live in a part of the world where polio is so rare that many people haven’t even heard of it.

By sharing my story, my hope is that parents who may be resisting vaccination will understand that polio has a life-long effect on its victims—both physical and mental. Some of the effects of polio may not sound much different than those of other chronic illnesses, accidents, or even common aging—with this exception: polio is preventable.

Thank you to everyone who is working to end this disease. It will be a glorious day when we can say that polio has been eradicated!