Chapter Five of Jackie D'arce's memoir.

A ten year old child lives an ordinary life in an ordinary Canadian city. Or does she? Her path through childhood is not completely bright. It is shadowed here and there by strange dark events. 

Chapter Five

Ten was a big deal. I was finally in the double numbers and this was the year that Della was born.  (No, Mother didn’t forsake the starting with “J” thing.  Della’s full name was Joy Idella May. Idella after Auntie and May after Gram.)

            Della was a big beautiful baby with one major flaw:  She was bald.  Mother was horrified. She spent long periods of time massaging Della’s head trying to get her hair to grow.  It took a year to grow but it was worth the wait: Della was a natural platinum blonde.  She looked like a little movie star. And men responded. Even when she was a voluptuous small girl, men went out of their way to smile and chat with her. They didn’t even realize they were flirting with her.

            As soon as she began to walk she became an escape artist.  But first, she took off all her clothes and went outside completely naked.

            “Where’s Della?”  the cry rang out and the household scattered in search of her. Soon she’d be found, usually asleep on the front steps, the lawn, the sidewalk. Laughing, Mother scooped her up, directing me to gather her clothes, dropped in a trail from the house.  She began to keep her clothes on after she turned three.

Around this time, Jennifer (June Willow) was walking and running and playing with John Tracy, who was a year and a half older. Tracy delighted in her. He couldn’t say ‘Jennifer’ so he called her ‘Tu.’  The family thought this was really cute and started calling her ‘Tu-Tu’ and sometimes Tootsie.  The name stuck until she was in her teens.

It’s hard to concentrate to write.  I am very stressed about the upcoming doctor’s appointment:  Whether I live a full productive life or be a body in a mass of pain, the living dead.

            I decided I do not want to die! But neither can I function, living in pain. I pursued obtaining medical marijuana from an agency that does not require a doctor’s referral, just in case Dr. Naqi is against it. The people at this outlet, Body Stream, were wonderful. They understood the difference between addiction and dependence.  (I am dependant not addicted.) All they require are my medical records so their doctor can make an evaluation of me as a possible recipient.

            The wait is nearly unendurable. Live? Die. A productive individual with a good quality of life, or a vegetable, filled with pain.

So I was ten. I felt so grown up. To mark this special day Mother took me to a studio to have a portrait made of me. Carefully she brushed my hair into fat ringlets with a wave above my forehead. My hair was a rich, deep red. During my bath every so often Mother swabbed a smelly brownish substance onto my head. I later learned this was henna. She always cautioned me to sit still. So I sat, tub water cooling, shivering until she burst back into the bathroom and rinsed my hair clean. She was colouring my hair. I puzzled for years over this. Why? All I could figure out was that it was fading to blonde and she didn’t like that. All those compliments for my gorgeous red hair, never to be had again.

            In the studio the photographer sat me on a stool. Then he conferred with my mother. It was decided that an off-the-shoulders look was best. It would show off my gold locket. The photographer unbuttoned my blouse. I noticed that as he did this his breathing changed just like my father’s did. Instantly, I felt uncomfortable.  He pushed my blouse off my shoulders, breathing hard, his fingers brushing against my budding breasts. When he backed away to admire the effect, Mother approached and began to flirt with him. He ignored her. She moved closer to him, trying to get his attention, but it was all riveted on me. This situation did not feel good. I had trouble smiling for the picture. He smiled and fluttered around me, constantly adjusting my blouse, fingers always brushing my breasts. He took a few shots when Mother interrupted.

            “That’s enough. Jackie! Button your blouse! We’re going.”

The next big event during my tenth year was a visit to Dr. Brown’s office.  All I remember is standing in his office clad only in my panties, shivering, while Mother harangued Dr. Brown.

            “Look at her, Doctor! She’s fat! She needs to be put on a diet!”

There was a long pause. Finally, Dr. Brown spoke. “Mrs. Cryderman. I am looking and I don’t see any fat—just the normal development of a prepubescent girl.”

             I think he was talking about my new little breasts. Mother did not like this. She had always been the beauty queen that all men flirted with. Now suddenly a daughter with breasts! Couldn’t be. She must be fat.

            Mother kept up the pressure. While I shifted from one bare foot to the other, Dr. Brown pointed out that my weight was normal for my age and height. A tall green and chrome scale dominated this brown room: Brown wood walls, brown desk, brown floor, except for a few white cabinets displaying instruments. I stared down. Mother persisted, her soprano voice rising.

            Finally Dr. Brown let out a huge sigh.

            “All right, Mrs. Cryderman.” He walked to his desk and ripped a piece of paper from a pad. He handed it to Mother. “Here’s a diet she can follow. But I want her back here in two weeks. I don’t want to see her lose too much weight.”

            Mother snatched the paper from him and stuffed into her purse. Then they let me get dressed. I was so cold. Mother marched me home. I was a bad girl: I was guilty of being fat. Except I wasn’t fat, according to Dr. Brown.

            That night at supper the table was covered with platters of steaming food—pork chops in pan gravy, homemade apple sauce, mashed potatoes, carrots and peas, a cabbage salad and homemade dinner rolls straight from the oven and smelling that fresh-bread smell.  I saw three apple pies on the kitchen counter, prepared for dessert. Everyone helped themselves. Someone passed me the bowl of mashed potatoes. Mother swooped in and took the bowl, whisking it away from under my nose.

            “Jackie is getting fat,” Mother announced in a loud voice. “Dr. Brown has her on a diet.  She won’t be able to eat regular food and don’t any of you give her any.”

            Then she put a plate down in front of me. I stared, while inhaling the wonderful smells of the dinner everyone was enjoying. On the plate was a tiny boiled potato, blackened on one side, a spoonful of peas and a small piece of leathery, fat free meat. Reluctantly I picked up my knife and fork. I cut into the potato and put a piece into my mouth. It had no taste, just a gluey consistency as I chewed. I couldn’t stand to eat anything on the plate. Mother sent me to bed early. I lay there, hungry and hurt. I plotted how I would go to Grampa’s store the next day and I would eat two Sally Ann’s: The most expensive, delicious pastries he had. They were chocolate-covered little cakes with a cream center.

One day in the spring I couldn’t get out of bed. My head ached and I felt hot. Soon Dr. Brown came. I dimly recall him checking me over. Then Tom Perrons appeared and scooped me up in his arms and carried me to his waiting black Cadillac. He, Mother and Gram were absolutely silent as they walked me to the car. I drooped across his chest. We drove off, me half asleep in the back, my head resting on Mother’s lap.

            Then I was in a hospital bed and white-clad figures with white masks over their faces attended me. Mother was nowhere in sight and I wanted her desperately. I recognized an all-in-white Dr. Brown by his kind brown eyes. White figures rolled me onto my side and placed me in a fetal position. Dr. Brown was now behind me. I felt him pat my hip.

            “Now, Jackie, this is going to sting a little, but I need you to lie absolutely still no matter what. Can you do that?”

            I nodded.

            “Jackie,” he continued. “This is called a lumbar puncture. It will draw fluid off your spine so we can test it and find out for sure what’s wrong with you. Okay?”

            I nodded.

            Then I yelled. The pain was paralyzing. At least I didn’t move. It seemed to take forever.  Dr. Brown kept murmuring to me as he worked. I yelled anyway. I couldn’t help it.

Then: “All done, Jackie. Good girl. You didn’t move.”

I dozed off. Much later Dr. Brown was in the room and again dressed all in white.

“Jackie,” he petted my leg. “You have polio.”

The next day I learned I couldn’t have visitors because of the danger of infection. Polio, apparently, is very catchy. I cried. I missed my brother and my three sisters. It was a polio epidemic. I heard children crying out in other wards, but I couldn’t see any of them, except when a stretcher passed my open door carrying the small, inert figure of a child, dressed in white.  

One day a nurse brought me a bunch of huge black-purple grapes. When I bit into one, juice flooded my mouth. I had never had anything like this. Where had Mother gotten them from? I ate with voracious joy. When I looked out my window I saw, way down below, my family: Mother and Father.  Jeffrey, Tracy, Jennifer and Della.  Mother looked pregnant again. I waved frantically, overjoyed to see them. They waved back. Tears slid down my cheeks. I missed them.

One morning a man, again covered in white, came into my room carrying a piece of plywood. He greeted me cheerily, then raised the covers at the foot of the bed. Dr. Brown appeared. The man placed the plywood at the foot of my bed and Dr. Brown had me scoot down and put my feet flat against the board.

“Good, Jackie, that’s good. Now press your feet against the wood as hard as you can.”

I pushed with both my bare feet. I didn’t realize it but this was 1953 physiotherapy. It didn’t hurt. Dr. Brown told me to do this several times each day and that was it.

The meals that arrived were in either paper or plastic disposable containers that could be incinerated, to avoid spreading the disease. I ate and listened to children crying out in pain all over the ward. I felt so helpless. I couldn’t help them. I was lucky: I had hardly any pain but maybe I was on pain killers.

One day a nurse brought me the newspaper along with a stack of comic books. Joy! I loved comic books, especially Little Lulu and there were three of those. I’d never had so many before. I would have plenty to trade with Billy when I got home. The nurse set them aside and drew my attention to a small article in the newspaper.

I read: “Another Polio Victim.  Jacqueline Dace Cryderman, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. John Raymond Cryderman was struck ill with polio. She is now recovering in McKellar Hospital in Fort William. She is ten years old and attends Drew Street Public school. Her grandfather, Frederick Montgomery, owns the Excel Cheese Store on Syndicate Avenue.”

I was famous but it was not fame for something I was proud of. 

One day, on his regular visit, Dr. Brown asked me sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I had difficulty ‘swinging’ so he helped pull them around. Then he stood in front of me and took both my hands.

“Okay, Jackie, now I want you to slide out of bed onto your feet and just stand for a minute.”

I slid and my feet touched the floor. Then I just kept on going down, down, down till I was sprawled on the floor. I lay there totally shocked. My legs didn’t hold me! They had collapsed! I stared up at Dr. Brown in disbelief.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I just fell down.”

“Don’t worry. That’s natural. Here,” and he took me under my arms, and lifted me up to a standing position. But he didn’t let go. He held me upright. “Try to put some weight on your legs. Only your right leg has polio, your left one is okay, it’s just weak from being in bed for so long.”

I put weight on both legs. My left leg trembled but held, but my right wobbled and would have let me down if Dr. Brown hadn’t been holding me up.

He held me for a minute or so then lifted me back into bed.

“That’s fine, Jackie,” and he petted my knee. “You did very well for your first time standing. From now on a nurse will help you to stand and even to take a few steps. Three times a day. Okay?”

“Okay, Dr. Brown.” I wanted to hug him. But nobody in our family ever hugged. I felt so lucky to have such a kind doctor.

I had been skipped from the fourth grade to the sixth grade. Apparently this was a good thing, only I would miss studying Marco Polo and I had been looking forward to that in the fifth grade. I was also about to miss the first two months of school which put my skipping in peril.

I went home from the hospital and was installed in my grandparent’s bedroom. I have no idea why unless Mother was worried about the risk of infection to the other children. I also had no idea where my grandparents slept.

It was pretty lonely upstairs in that bedroom. I lay there, without my stack of comic books. The nurses wouldn’t let me take them home because of the risk of infection. Such riches of comic books—and I had to give them all up.

Nobody except UncaBill visited me. Mother was probably keeping the kids away. UncaBill was safe to visit because he’d had had polio too, when he was four years old. It deformed one of his legs and he walked with a permanent limp. Other than that he had a perfect body. In a swimsuit he looked like a statue of a Greek god. The limp did not hold him back. He did everything—skied in winter, hunted, (but stopped that because he could no longer bear to kill the partridges) and—water skied in summer. He was expert on one ski. He came to me with the newspaper and a couple of comic books: Donald Duck, Huey, Dewey and Louie and his favourite, Scrooge McDuck.  He chuckled delightedly over scenes that illustrated Scrooge McDuck’s stinginess. 

“Just like me,” he chortled, pointing out the heaps of money piled up in McDuck’s house. “Save your money, Jackie, and you’ll have heaps, too.”

He settled in beside me on the bed, and even though I was perfectly capable of reading myself, he read the comics to me. When he was finished the comic books, he opened the newspaper with a snap and went to the funnies section. There, he read Dick Tracy, a detective, and L’il Abner, a hillbilly in the town of Dogpatch, whose girlfriend was Daisy Mae. I delighted in Joe Btfspik, a little, drooping sad sack of a man with a perpetual black cloud over his head. It followed him everywhere he went, raining down grief. I had a black cloud, too, and it was my father. I had a feeling of sick dread in my belly that sometimes went, but always came back. 

Before I got polio, UncaBill came home with comic books he’d just bought.

“Look what I’ve got!” he’d exclaim, waving them triumphantly over us kids’ heads. Then he sat on the chesterfield and we gathered round, lying against his arms and chest, leaning forward so we could see the pictures. UncaBill was covered in children.

I believe I taught myself to walk again. Gramma’s bedroom had a set of furniture of blond wood. There was a vanity with a matching bench. One day I had to go to the bathroom.  Usually someone would come and help me. I called and called and called but no one came. I was desperate. I didn’t want to wet the bed! Leaning over, I could just reach the little bench. I pulled it closer to the bed and rose up to a sitting position. I took hold of each end of the bench with my hands, then slumped forward, my body flopped across the bench. I heaved myself off the bed. Then I pushed. The bench slid forward a little bit. I pushed again. The bench moved further. My feet touched the hardwood floor and I pushed against the floor, moving the bench still further. Continuing to lie across the bench, I slowly propelled myself to the bathroom. Once there I sort of rolled onto the toilet and struggled to a sitting position. I raised my nightie, pulling it out from under my thighs and, sighing with relief, peed. A triumph. Now I could go to the bathroom anytime I wanted to. I didn’t think about it at the time, but I was also strengthening my legs for future walking.

One morning I was awakened by terrible screams coming up the stairs from the living room. Adult voices were yelling. Nobody made any sense. By now I was quite proficient with the bench. I rolled on to it and pushed myself to the top of the stairs. The screaming didn’t stop. One of my siblings was hurt. But who? I grabbed hold of one of the columns that held up the bannister and pulled myself forward. I dragged my feet along, ahead, ahead until they slid off the floor onto the first step. I grabbed another column and pulled more, again I slid down a step. I kept this up until I could see down into the living room. A small child was lying on the chesterfield kicking and wailing. Willow!  Mother and Gram hovered over her. Dr. Brown must be on his way.

Later I learned she had meningitis which came with terrible headaches. This caused her screaming. She was only two. They rushed her off to the hospital. My poor little Willow.

I couldn’t pull myself back upstairs so I had a long wait till someone found me and got me back into bed.

So I missed the first two months of Grade Six. But the good news was I could walk perfectly normally. The school wanted to put me back to Grade Five. Mother got her dander up and, with me in tow, a veritable warrior woman, she charged into the principal’s office.

Mr. Buckley was a small man and Mother, all five foot five of her—plus heels—towered over him. She looked like a model. 

“You must not hold Jackie back. She is very smart. (I am?) She will make up the time she has missed. She shouldn’t be punished just because she had polio.”

Mr. Buckley smoothed his moustache and straightened his glasses. “Mrs. Cryderman. It is just impossible for a student to miss not only a year of school, but a year and two months and still be able to pass.”

“Mr. Buckley. Jackie is very very smart. Give her a chance to prove it. Let her start in Grade Six. Give her a month. If she is not caught up with the others in that time then we can discuss her situation. What’s one month? It could mean a whole year of Jackie’s life. Let her try.  I will personally see that she does the catch-up work. We can pick up the assignments today and she can get started immediately.”

There was a long silence. Mr. Buckley stared straight ahead, past Mother’s shoulder. He stroked his moustache again. I did want to try Grade Six even though I would miss Marco Polo.  After all, I could read a book about him.

“Mr. Buckley?”

Mr. Buckley let out a long sigh. He gave me a stern look. “Will you promise to work very hard, Jackie?”

I nodded in the affirmative. Mother nudged me.

“Yes, Mr. Buckley. I promise to work very hard.”

Another pause. Then: “Okay. Let’s give it a try.” 

I wanted to yell “Yea!’ but kept mum.

“Since I will be her teacher, I can give you the make-up work right now. Jackie. Come to me if you have any questions. Okay?”

We went home, happy, clutching a sheaf of papers. I would start Grade Six tomorrow.

How Mother managed with all those kids is amazing. And she did it all herself. The babies were her special domain: She never asked anyone to help with changing or feeding. We had to beg to hold a baby.

But once the babies started talking back, she lost that keen interest, and the rest of us got our chance, we moved in and helped take care of the toddler.

Yesterday I experienced a miracle. Dr. Naqi changed her mind. In the past I studied A Course in Miracles where, among other things, I learned a miracle is, simply, a change of mind. This change of mind further meant that I’d have a life.

Dr. Naqi and I were immediately happy to see one another, such a contrast to our previous appointment.

 She entered the room smiling, her beautiful black hair streaming down over her white lab coat. The poster of a gold Buddha on her wall glowed beneficently. The feeling in the room was the exact opposite of what it had been on the last appointment, when we were just not getting along. This had never happened before. She’d been my doctor for about six years and we’ve always had a happy association. She was wonderful to me when my daughter died. I apologized for my hysterical behaviour. We smiled at one another; happy to be back to our old, good association. I brought my laptop and it sat on her desk open to the Literary Thunder Bay website that showed a picture of me with the announcement that I was writing a memoir. This was followed by an intro by Joan Baril, the creator of the website, then the prologue and Chapter One. Dr. Naqi read a bit of it then questioned me about how much I’d done since our last appointment. I told her I’d written twenty thousand words—something I didn’t believe an “addict” could do. She nodded in agreement, wrote this down and quite matter of factly began talking about renewing my prescription. I stayed calm and cool like a non-addict would while meanwhile I was screaming for joy inside. I would write my book! I would have happy conversations with people. I would enjoy Netflix and James Bond. My wonderful life was restored to me—I was looking at a future of near pain-free living. Dr. Naqi had changed her mind: A miracle. I was so grateful to her. I told her I wanted to dedicate the book to her and she smiled, acted pleased, but said no, I should dedicate to myself. Of course that is not the done thing. I still want very much to dedicate it to her. Because without her help the book wouldn’t be written. I further asked about medical marijuana—if she thought that would help me when the pain pills did wear off and I had that gap of pain before I could take the next dose. She said ‘definitely’ and recommended Body Stream, a medical marijuana clinic.

Could what my Father was doing influence me as an adult? How? Would it be something bad?  I had heard of doctors who were concerned with people’s minds. Was my mind in need of such a doctor? Would I come to hate all men? Could it make me crazy? I began to watch for signs of craziness. Whatever they might be: What? Talking to myself out loud like UncaBill? I certainly wasn’t doing that! I became utterly determined not to be crazy. That was a terrifying idea. Or, I might be fearful of men. I couldn’t let him ruin my attitude to my future boyfriend, fiancé, husband. Not that I particularly wanted to get married. My girlfriends dreamed of a white wedding. Not me. I dreamed of a black stallion. Of being, maybe, an artist. But of course my little dark cloud stayed with me, maintaining a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.