Hazel

The Best Day - The Worst Day

 

            Before I get into that day, allow me to return to my schooling. I began school a year late, but I had a terrific home-bound teacher for the first two years. Thank you so very much, my friend, Mrs. Watson! I don’t know what we would have done without you. You were a great friend to not only me, but also my parents.

            I had a different home-bound teacher for the third grade. She suggested I try going to school, a real school, for half days! I was excited and nervous that first day, as you can imagine. She arranged for me to start in the fourth grade, my natural grade, because I was good in math. I stayed in fourth grade for math and went to third for English.

That summer, my mother taught me English so I would be ready for the fifth grade next year. Talk about a hard teacher! My mother was the roughest one I had so far. The next year, I started with my class again but only to lunch.

I was still confined to a wheelchair, but would get out of it and sit at a desk in the fifth grade. It also worked out well that there were no steps at this school.

Surprisingly, I got along very well at school and loved my classmates!

During that fall, I started pushing my wheelchair back from the water fountain. Occasionally, someone would sit in the chair and I would push! Talk about a reversal! Also, I was walking at home.

I went from this girl screaming in pain to someone who could walk! And it only took me four years, more or less.

Then on January 17, 1974, we were all outside. It must have been a beautiful, warm day in North Carolina because my dad and mom were working on a pretty steep hill beside the house.

I asked my mother if I could try walking down the hill and she said yes. I made it down! Now comes the hard part, going back up. I made it! I was so happy! I had just accomplished something I never dreamed of doing – walking up a hill! I wanted to be sure I could do it again, and I did. I was so elated! I could walk! Yes!

After we came in, my mom said Hazel had always said she couldn’t wait to see me walk down her hill. They lived in a valley close to my grandparents and walking there was pretty easy then. In my euphoria, I had forgotten. I wanted to go, but Mom said let’s wait until tomorrow when you are rested.

Sometimes best plans are never fulfilled.

Later that day, Mom got a call from Dean, Hazel’s husband. He called an ambulance and asked if mom would keep the kids. Mom was out the door like a shot. She came back with Tim and David, ages six and nine respectively. Deana, age twelve, who was my playmate and best friend, stayed with my uncle. Everyone knew it was bad. Even I knew it was bad because the boys were subdued and quiet.

Somewhere around 7:30 or maybe 8:30, we were watching The Walton’s when the phone rang. It was my grandmother calling to ask if mom had heard anything. While she was on the phone, my uncle came in and told my grandmother that Hazel had died. My mother later said my grandmother screamed the dreadful news. Tim was sitting next to mom, David next to Tim, and I was next to David.

My mom lost it. She didn’t say much and afterward she would deny even crying in front of Hazel’s kids. But she cried out, cried as quietly as possible, and dropped the phone. Dad crawled to the kitchen to get her something to help. She was shaking so hard, Dad had to hold the glass she drank from. I have never seen my mother lose it like that.

I was eleven and didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing. I kept watching TV. I was certain the worst had happened, but felt like the best I could do was watch TV and keep up appearances for my cousins. So, I tried to ignore everything and focus on TV as did my cousins. No one said anything. Maybe Hazel was still alive but in bad shape.

Later, mom gave my cousins a bath, and then they went to my aunt’s house. I had a bath and went to bed. It was only as I was in bed that I asked my father if Hazel was dead. When I started crying, so did my dad. I had never seen my dad cry, so I quit and stuffed it down. My dad went to the living room. I heard Mom come in and they cried together and whispered all night. I finally fell asleep.

        The next morning, the house was full of people. It wasn’t a nightmare. My favorite aunt, the one person we all relied on for years, my other mother, was gone at age 34. 

 My cousin, Deana, and myself at a picnic.

Our New Normal

 

            Following Dad’s surgery, I remember playing in the new house and Mom telling me not to talk to Dad. You see every movement he made, every time he spoke, he was in pain. I know he watched me playing, but I don’t think we said much, if anything.

            I remember Mom feeding us both and herself at dinner. My mother made a joke of feeding me first, dad second, and herself third. It was a weird little ritual that didn’t last long.

            I recall both me and my father lying on two couches, and we each had a stick we would use to alert mom when the phone rang, or when we needed something. From the basement, my mother worked for my uncles seaming together the toes of socks.

            Mom was the bread-winner now that my father could not work. She suddenly had all the responsibility thrust on her. It wasn’t anything she ever wanted, but without my father to consult with, (remember that it caused dad pain to talk) she had the whole family to look after and bills to pay. She was our support, our encourager, our comforter, and our everything. All this and more, and she didn’t complain.

            Mom often said she had to grow up fast and learn to talk not only for herself, but also for us.

            I realize now that my mother must have been depressed and worried at times, probably a lot of the time, but she hid it from me.

On Dale’s last day of high school, he went without crutches! That was a great day for us all!

            Dale had a dream of going to college and as with everything else, my mom found a way. She adapted two bags for Dale to carry with his crutches, (Dale still could not walk far without crutches) and my grandfather and Hazel’s husband paid for a typewriter. In the fall of 1971, we said goodbye to my brother.

So, from here on, it was basically just the three of us.

 (A photo of my cousin and my Dad)

Dad’s Decline

 

            Can you image the pressure on my father?

            Dad had to work full-time because he was the only one to work while I was in the hospital. He worked as a fixer in his brothers’ hosiery mill. A fixer is the person who kept the machines running. It was an important job and required steady hands, knowledge about the machines, and skill. Since Dad worked for his brothers, he rarely got a raise in pay and worked for next to nothing.

            Dad had a new house he was building. He had one full-time carpenter. Like I said, we aren’t rich! So, dad helped out in the afternoons and late into the evenings. He also had my uncle and a friend to help the carpenter; I think they were paid a dollar an hour because they had come from the Vietnam “Conflict” and just wanted time.

            Dad had to take care of Dale and try to provide some sort of a normal home life for him.

            Dad came to see me as much as he possibly could while I was in the hospital.

            Dad was also dealing with the certain knowledge that the dystonia came from him. He felt extremely guilty about what this disorder had done to Dale and myself. I was a daddy’s girl remember. I know I had rather go through something myself than to see a loved one in pain. And Dad was no exception. He loved us both so much that the idea of him causing us pain was unbearable.

            Of course, he had no idea he had dystonia. He thought it was polio. And neither Dale nor I ever blamed Dad. Mom never blamed Dad. Dad blamed himself.

            On top of everything, he had an accident going to work. It wasn’t his fault. I believe there was ice on the road. But the little things began to add up.

            By this time, his limp was more pronounced and his neck drew to the left more than it ever had. Looking at photos, you can see where his neck pulled a bit also.

            One day, Dad asked Mom about getting the same surgery as I had gotten. Mom was so exhausted; I think she said whatever you want.

            Six months after my last surgery, my father had his first cryothalamotomy in June 1970. He would never work, drive, or walk again. He had his second surgery in December of that year for the other side with the same results.

            Mom lost her best friend, and Dale and I lost a parent. The surgery didn’t kill my dad but it took something vital from him: his freedom and dignity.

           

 

A Slow Process

 

Remember the “old house” we were in when I began walking on my toe? Shortly after moving in, my parents wanted to remodel the house, but termites had eaten away almost everything, and a contractor said the house wasn’t worth saving. We were all disappointed. The living room was big enough to ride a tricycle in! And Dale had his room in his mind too. He was going to be in the attic. But some dreams aren’t meant to be.

My dad went to work on a new home where my parents would spend the rest of their days. It was my dad’s design. It has a wide hall and low to the ground for a wheelchair. I really don’t recall much about the new house going up. I was too ill at the time, and my mom said she rarely visited the new home either.

I do understand this though. It takes time, money, and effort to build a new house, much like the time, money, and effort Dale and I were putting into our progress.

I went to a physical therapist, Ms. Steel, a retired army therapist. She was tough, but she taught me to never give up on myself. Again, parts of this time are fuzzy, but I will try to relate what I can recall.

            I started scooting on the floor, not crawling. Crawling implies using two hands and both legs. Nope. I could use one side, the left, to do everything. My right arm was up and around my head. It would continue to be like that for years. I’m not certain when I finally got my right hand from doing that, likely after I started school.

            Back to scooting. I would use my left hand and my left leg and move myself. I suppose the closest thing I can think of is a worm and the way they move. An uncle made me an extremely low wooden cart, I guess you would call it. It had a whole in the center and he put strong leather in the center and casters underneath. This is just the beginning of the homemade inventions I would receive in my lifetime. But this way I didn’t have to clean the floor with my clothes! I could move freely!

            I learned how to pull myself up on the toilet, the bed, the couch, and the table.

            Dale was still walking on crutches but his legs were getting less stiff and fixed.  He used hand controls to drive when he was sixteen. They didn’t have the laws about putting them on then, so Dale and Dad figured out how to put them on themselves.

            While I was in the hospital, Dale stayed with our aunt Hazel. Hazel was the person who cleaned the house, washed clothes, and kept things as normal as possible for us all. I don’t know what we would have done without Hazel and Dean, her husband.

            We are not a rich family. Everything we did, we did the hard way.

            Until next time, my friends! I will connect the building a new home to what happened next.