All the Broken Bodies (eBook)

Chapter One
From Katz’s to Kysoc

The inner workings of the human body have always fascinated me. As a little girl, I quickly outgrew playing with dolls in favor of playing sports with my brothers. I was on a girls’ softball team. I climbed trees, roller-skated, and spent most of my summers at the local pool and swimming with the Dorchester swim team. When I wanted to do something by myself, I enjoyed tinkering around with a chemistry set and my “invisible” man and woman—plastic, see-through human forms that revealed all the bones and organs inside. Perhaps my love of sports fueled my interest in such things. Yet deep down inside, I knew I wanted to have an occupation where I could have a chance to make a difference in people’s lives.

Could that have been because I’d grown up in an unstable family due to my father’s alcoholism? The seeds of my tendency toward caretaking were likely sown in childhood. My parents were unhappy. Constantly worried about them, feeling sad for them, I did whatever I could to help them in ways beyond the scope of a young person’s knowledge and experience. On many a morning, I tried to help my father sober up so he could go to work. I did laundry and other household chores beyond my capacity in hopes of smoothing things over and making life easier for my mother.

Grandma Ada also needed my help as I grew into my teen years. Since Mom and Dad worked full time, I drove my grandmother around town, taking her shopping and to her medical appointments. Sliding into that caregiving role felt natural to me. However, whenever the tension in our home threatened to boil over, I knew I had to take care of myself and get out of there. Many a peaceful evening was spent at friends’ homes, in which alcohol played a minor or non-existent role.

My mother encouraged me to aim for college and escape the confines of our unhappy home. She wanted me to have an education and a good career, and although she realized the unhealthy environment of our household wasn’t good for me, it was probably painful for her to think about letting me go. I’d been her helper for many years; I ran interference between her and Dad and tried to pick up the pieces after explosive arguments by doing practical chores my mother was in no condition to tackle. Still, she insisted on college for me, in an era when many girls considered high school graduation to be the end of their formal education.

I almost blew it! Not taking my high school studies seriously, I preferred to throw my energies into sports and social life. I’d always been somewhat of a tomboy growing up. I enjoyed being with my friends and plunged myself into the middle of every activity and event. I taught swimming lessons and relished performing in school plays.

Over time, and without fully realizing what was happening, I drifted into the role of an average student. Then one day, I had an epiphany. My part-time job at Katz’s Department Store in downtown Belleville had me working in the women’s wear department with several older ladies in their fifties and sixties. They hobbled around all day wearing high heels, their knees hurting, folding clothes, and ringing up purchases. One day, I stood there at the cash register, watching them. It dawned on me that this could be my future if I didn’t buckle down and pay attention to my studies. Did I really want to be walking around on sore feet, doing the mindless work of folding blouses and pants for decades to come?

Absolutely not! Shaken at the prospect, I vowed to apply myself from that day forward. At sixteen and nearing the end of my junior year, I’d let a lot of water flow under the bridge. Now, I was determined to make up for lost time. I worked hard, brought my grades up, and applied for community college.

I’d already decided on physical therapy, and as I pursued the science courses I needed at Southwestern Illinois College, I blossomed academically. I hired a tutor to help me get up to speed in math, physics, and chemistry. I worked my behind off to earn top grades so I could get into the University of Kentucky’s heavily science-based physical therapy program. The thought of learning more about the human body thrilled me, for by this time, I was enamored with the idea of becoming a healer.

When the acceptance letter came in the mail, I screamed, jumped up and down, and ran to show it to my parents. All that summer, I basked in a job well done. My essay on how Grandma Ada’s predicament influenced me to help people suffering from physical pain must have helped sway the admissions committee, as well as the fact that I’d been blessed with glowing references.

Before I could show up for school, however, the University of Kentucky required me to give a week of my time to Camp Kysoc, a summer camp for handicapped children. In this, I was not alone; all of the university’s new PT students had to report to the camp during that August of 1970. Set in a beautiful countryside property and operated by the Easter Seals Society, Camp Kysoc hosted 27,000 disabled children and adults in overnight programs from 1960 to 2010.

My week at Camp Kysoc launched me from the frying pan of academic rigor into the fire of reality. My fellow PT students and I survived only because we were young and idealistic. What an eye-opening experience to live in a cabin, surrounded by handicapped children from ages five to eighteen! All of them were in various stages of disability. Some couldn’t speak. Some couldn’t walk. Some had to be fed, and some were in diapers, needing to be toileted and bathed.

Mr. MacDougal, the director of the physical therapy program at the University of Kentucky, was adamant about giving us a well-rounded PT education. He wanted us to arrive with a little experience under our belts, and putting naïve, idealistic twenty-year-olds into cabins with handicapped children did the trick nicely. Nothing in my life had prepared me for that week at camp. It overwhelmed me completely!

Many of the children at Camp Kysoc had cerebral palsy. They were intelligent, with normally functioning brains, but with bodies that didn’t work. Some could ambulate with jerky movements, while others were wheelchair-bound. A few of the campers had Down’s syndrome. Thankfully, we weren’t expected to care for them alone, but were each paired with a senior counselor who could instruct and guide us in meeting the children’s needs:

“Watch carefully, Martha. This is how you get Suzy in and out of bed.”

“Johnny can’t feed himself. Watch how I do this; he’ll look you in the eye when he’s ready for another bite.”

“Stephen can’t speak, but he’ll tilt his head a certain way when he has to go to the toilet. This is how you transfer him from his wheelchair to the commode.”

It was up to me to pay close attention and put it all into practice. That week became baptism by fire for a girl who dreamed of a heroic career helping the hurting. There I was—tall, slim, athletic, and healthy—confronted with the stark reality of people living with serious handicaps. Would I have the fortitude to deal with conditions like these throughout a long career of physical therapy? I couldn’t imagine how parents and other caregivers managed to handle the needs of these children day in and day out, and I felt great admiration for them.

I was never so glad to get out of a place! Yet, Camp Kysoc taught me things I couldn’t have learned anywhere else. It also awakened in me memories of childhood and growing up in a home where we children were forbidden to say unkind things about those who were different from us. When my brother Robbie once called someone “fat,” he received a stern talking-to! We knew from a young age never to stare at or ask rude questions about people with disabilities. Words like “retarded,” “weird,” or “ugly” were not to be used.

My mother’s friend Pat, who’d had polio as a child, wore a leg brace. Mom was protective of her friend, whose leg had atrophied, causing her to walk with a terrible limp. Perhaps inspired by this friendship, Mom told me, “People with disabilities are no different from us. They have to live with something very hard, and we need to be sympathetic to their struggles.”

Looking back from the perspective of Camp Kysoc, I realized my parents had sown the seeds of compassion in me very early in life. Because of it, I had always gravitated toward the “different” kids to befriend them and show them kindness. I stuck up for them when they were teased. One friend named Diane had a learning disability of some kind. She had poor vision and wore thick glasses. One day in gym class, we were told to buy gym suits and have our mothers embroider our names on them. With sadness, Diane confided in me that her mother couldn’t sew. I took her uniform home with me, and Grandma Ada embroidered Diane’s name on it.

Camp Kysoc was and is a tremendous blessing to thousands, giving disabled youth a beautiful, unforgettable experience. Those who were able sat around a campfire each night, roasting marshmallows and singing songs. These kids knew no other way of life than to be completely dependent upon others for everything. They were used to being cared for. Sometimes I wondered whether they ever looked at able-bodied people and felt envy. If they did, it wasn’t apparent. They all seemed to smile most of the time. They were so happy to be at the camp! They radiated joy and formed friendships with other children whom they saw summer after summer.

By the time I left Camp Kysoc, I had a completely new perspective. For the first time in my life, the fact that I could walk, run,...