1956: My year of grace filled with beautiful, imperfect children

I know the World Series is over, but I am still reflecting on a series long ago, during a year I will never forget. This October showplace occurred 51 years ago. It didn't show off the professional baseball players as much as it did the children where my family and I worked in Pennsylvania. I suppose these handicapped children are now in their 60s.

Part of my specialty required spending a year with children's orthopedics. This was one of the most rewarding years in our lives, as I had a wife and three beautiful children. After having spent two years in New Orleans, we packed up and moved to Elizabeth, Pa. to help care for 200 orthopedically challenged children, ages three months to 18-year-old young adults. We received a slight increase in pay; the dollar amount remained the same as it was in New Orleans — $150 a month — but we had housing on the wooded grounds, and the energetic, yet disabled children filled our hearts with love and encouragement.

This was a most unusual hospital, owned and run by the state. To be as fair as possible, when a child entered the hospital, for even prolonged orthopedic treatment, their parents could only visit them on two Sundays a month. The reasoning was, Pennsylvania was about the same size as Louisiana. Some of the parents might live 15 minutes away while others might spend a whole day just to visit their three-year-old for an hour twice a month. In essence, the three of us doctors almost became surrogate parents. All three of us were available Sunday afternoons when the children's parents would come for a visit. Usually, they were glad to see us, and we in turn loved to see them. The patients loved to introduce us to their parents. If we had operated on Cathy on a Tuesday, we could send her parents a letter notifying them that the surgery went well, if it had. Every parent had feedback and knew the medical staff, nurses, and even the maids all loved their children.

There were a few tears but they were cared for almost immediately.

During the boring portions of the recent World Series, I was rummaging through some of my old notes and ran across several pages of patients, their names, ages and treatment plans. Understand, we had many patients with residuals of polio. The polio vaccine was introduced in January 1956. It wasn't until the summer of 1956 that I saw the havoc that polio had played in the lives of children. We sure did our best to help them walk, eat, and care for their needs. We straightened bones, lengthened tendons, stabilized joints and helped them walk. Most of the time the goal of running was a wishful thought. But just a little improvement was a therapeutic triumph.

We cared for congenital deformities, scoliosis and arthogryposis (stiff joints). Each child felt special. Many times a child needed multiple procedures. I was impressed when one of the kids was awakening from an anesthetic, and upon opening his eyes he would ask, "When are you going to do the next stage or operation?" Most of their post op care was minimal because they were making progress. I especially remember Billy Lupold, a seven-year-old, small for his age because he had an unusual form of cerebral palsy whereby he couldn't control his arms. We had to put a spoon between his toes so he could feed himself.

October 1956 came and the hospital was alive with children rooting for either the Yankees or the Bums to win the World Series. There were probably five or six TVs with small screens for the whole hospital. The children couldn't run but they were boisterous when rooting for their team. When we walked about the hospital during gametime they tried to recruit each of us doctors to be on their side. It was hilarious, contagious, and these disabled kids loved it. It has been my favorite series out of the 104 times it was played. No one got hurt but each thought they were trying to make a difference. Vicariously, they were part of their favorite group of players.

October passed, as did Thanksgiving time, and Christmas was at hand. Our family was blessed by Santa who brought us a Polaroid camera. On Christmas morning, Kevin, our son who was almost six years old, and I walked about three blocks through the woods up to the hospital to try out our new toy. We walked into the hospital auditorium and we met a patient, Terry Deardorf, a 16-year-old patient who was practicing his walking. We talked with him and asked if I could take his picture. He was standing there with long leg braces on each leg and holding on to his crutches.

I showed him the miracle of the day. He took a good look at it, then looked at us and asked if he could have the picture. My answer was sure! Does it have a special meaning for you, Terry? "This is the first picture that I have ever seen of myself standing!"

If Terry is still alive, he would have been 68 years old this month. I hope he has had many more pictures in his album.

Dr. Jack Leary of Lodi is a retired orthopedic surgeon.

Reader Feedback

Reader wrote on Nov 16, 2007 7:41 PM:

" This article brought tears to my eyes. Thank you so much for your work with these special people. You surely made a difference. "

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