The Little Red Chair

The Little Red Chair

By

Alan A. Malizia

© 2005 Alan A. Malizia.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/14/04

ISBN: 1-4140-2837-7 (e)

ISBN: 1-4140-2836-9 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2003098497

Contents

Chapter 1 So young to shoulder a cross The Summer of1954.

Chapter 2 Learning to Sit Again

Chapter 3 Home and Rehabilitation

Chapter 4 Mainstreamed-September 1955

Chapter 5 Adolescent Ups and Downs

Chapter 6 High School Increased Independence

Chapter 7 College First Rung of a New Ladder

Chapter 8 Return From The Darkness

Chapter 9 The Gift Discovered: Coaching Leads To A New Profession

Chapter 10 First Experiences In Education

Chapter 11 The Lady Crusaders (From Welcome Mat To Well Respected)

Chapter 12 Teaching and Coaching: The High School Level

Chapter 13 The Unthinkable, A three-peat Bonus

Chapter 14 Back To Familiar Ground

Chapter 15 One Last Rush

Chapter 16 Sometimes It Comes Back

Chapter 17 Mom’s Gift: Selfless Courage

Chapter 18 Why?

Dedicated to: My parents and brothers-Anthony, Antoinette, John, and Larry Malizia, and all family and friends who are so near, dear and supportive.

With special love and thanks to Sue Malizia, Todd Malizia and Craig Pucci who aided in this book’s production.

In the darkest night of the year when the stars have all gone out, courage is better than fear. Faith is truer than doubt.

(Anonymous)

Chapter 1

So young to shoulder a cross The Summer of1954.

So it began. I have remembrances of running. I remember, power and speed, even though I was just four and a half years old. My oldest brother, John, a lover of golf, had me hitting a golf ball 100 yards. At my age!

After this summer all those things we take for granted would be gone forever and be just a memory.

I came in from playing outside and was very tired, unusually tired for a kid my age, possessing all that energy. I lay down on the couch to rest, never to get up under my own power again.

I was very warm with fever. Mom and Dad immediately took me to our doctor. I was then, admitted to the hospital. After tests, my parents received the devastating news. It was polio, the most feared disease of its era, and the number one killer and crippler of young adults and children.

The historical irony is that I would miss the Salk vaccine by just months. So my path was set.

Needless to say, you can imagine what my parents were going through. Not only their concern over whether I would live at that point or not, but also what of my two older brothers, John, 12, and Larry, 8, Polio could be contracted by siblings as well. At least, God, in His mercy, would spare them that.

During the early stages of my illness, my parents were relieved to find out it was not life-threatening to me. However, one night as the nurses were monitoring me, it was observed by the nurse on duty that my breathing was erratic. She immediately called the doctor who gave instructions to have the Iron Lung readied. It was feared the poliovirus was of the Balbus strain, which attacks the brain part that controls breathing. My fate was to be in the iron lung and assisted breathing for life! God, through His mercy again would spare me that. When the doctor arrived, he found me to be breathing normally, not labored at all. He became very angry with the nurses, questioning their observation ability, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

The extent of the damage to my body would not be determined until the disease had passed like the remnants left after a hurricane or tornado runs its course. Initially, I was paralyzed from the neck down. In time, I would have limited use of my extremities. Use of my arms and legs would never return completely.

We’ve often heard, Why do bad things happen to good people?

My dad was born in Settefrati, Italy. He came to the United States in his early 20’s, met my mom and married her in 1940.

He began as a laborer and eventually was employed as a pressman with Conde Nast in Stamford, Connecticut, where we lived. Dad, Anthony Malizia, was a fun-loving, committed person, committed to his family. He epitomized the ideal: a fair day’s work for a fair day’s wage. He never looked for something, for nothing. All he ever wanted was what he needed, to raise a family to be proud of and be loved by, and own his own home. He did achieve all he ever wanted.

My mom, Antoinette, was born in New York City and would move to Stamford, CT. with her family at a young age. She would not go to high school because times were hard during the Depression. She had to work to do her part in the family finances. She worked as a seamstress, and during wartime would sew uniforms for the WAC’s.

My mom always dreamed of finishing high school. As a young girl, she was very active in school sports. She wanted to go to college to become a physical education teacher/coach. But times being what they were, would never let that happen. But she did get back to high school, through adult education, with some of her friends. She completed the requirements for her high school diploma. The night my mom and others in her class were to receive their diplomas, my dad, John, Larry, and I were all sitting in the front row of the auditorium, and proudest of all was dad.

Mom would work 30 years for Bloomingdale’s Department Store, being considered one of the original founders in Stamford, both in sales and computer work (in the receiving room), before her retirement. She would also become very active in Stamford recreational sports for girls and remain an avid golfer until her passing. She managed to fulfill her dream by being active in sports, along with being a loving and loved wife and mother.

My parents were good people in every way. So, Why do bad things happen to good people? I can’t answer that question, because I don’t subscribe to it. At the time, many family members and friends poured out their hearts to us, because of my circumstances. I feel that the most difficult situations are given to those who will make the most of them. Bad things to good people? Good people will turn bad events into something positive down the road. Thank God, for the parents and brothers I had.

When I was out of danger, and polio had run its course, my hospital stay was over. I would be transferred to a convalescent home in Greenwich, CT. where, I would undergo months of supervised rehabilitation, until it was felt that I would be able to return home.

Throughout our lives we cross paths with many people. Each has an impact, one way or another. At the convalescent home I would meet Dr. Edward Winant, an orthopedic specialist and polio expert. In time, I would regard him as a second father.

Initially, my parents were told, based upon my condition, that if I could comb my hair, it would be a major achievement. The irony is today there isn’t much hair left to comb. Dr. Winant’s expertise, concern for my progress and very positive attitude conveyed to me the confidence that anything was possible.

I would go through daily sessions of rehabilitation therapy with nurses and physical therapists. Dr. Winant prescribed the therapy and on a weekly basis, would update my parents on my progress. Before I could return home, as much as possible had to be determined at the convalescent home regarding recovery extent and future potential with continued rehabilitation at home and as an out patient. Hospital time for polio survivors could be anywhere from a few months to over a year, sometimes two a long time away from home, and burdensome for patient and family alike.

My stay, in length, was 9 months. My days were filled with exercise routines, interrupted only by meal times and visiting hours, mainly at night.

My legs and arms, for all intents and purposes, were nonfunctional. I could only raise my head under my own power. Nurses and therapists would work my legs and arms throughout all motion ranges. I would have to make a mirrored effort with them, as though I was making the movement possible. My brain was sending signals to areas where there were no responses.

I was fortunate to be in this convalescent home with the nurses and doctors assigned to me. During the polio epidemics, hospitals and their staffs were overwhelmed with large numbers of polio cases. Nurses and doctors were overworked and stressed out. I have read horror stories of physical, even sexual, abuse of helpless polio victims at the hands of those healthcare professionals who were supposed to aid them. Even parents of these victims neglected to visit their children at the hospital because they couldn’t deal with the tragedy that had befallen them. When I read of these events, I was saddened and shocked, to say the least. Yes, I was thankful. The burdens of being handicapped would be challenge enough, let alone living in a loveless environment.

Mom and or Dad visited me daily. I can’t remember a day during my stay that I didn’t see them. They even helped where they could with my exercises because when I returned home, they would have to continue the routine indefinitely. I remember being in the convalescent home during Christmas. Each of the children received gifts from charitable organizations. However, Mom and Dad made sure that I was given the gifts Santa had left at home in my absence. It really brightened my holiday. Nurses told the parents to bring home the toys and gifts because they weren’t responsible for any personal items that may be missing or damaged. It has been known to happen that those patients who were able to get along on crutches and wheelchairs would take the personal possessions of those who were immobile. This is sad, but a fact.

It was great having Mom and Dad visit. But it was so difficult to have them leave. I cried at times. I know they did too. I wouldn’t see my brothers until I returned home.

Chapter 2

Learning to Sit Again

The extent of the effect that polio had on me was so great, as I have mentioned before, that I could only raise and move my head under my own power. Sitting up, turning over, use of my arms and legs was impossible without assistance. Walking, or even standing, was out of the question.

After some time, when I was able to sit up away from the bed, it had to be in a special chair that was state of the art of its time. I can distinctly remember design, color, characteristics and purpose. It was a red, sturdily built wooden chair that had wooden, ski-like attachments at the bottom of the left and right legs, front to rear. The purpose of these attachments was to keep the chair from toppling over due to my dead weight. The chair had arms, where my forearms would rest and had to be attached by straps, because I didn’t have the strength to keep them there on my own. Also, a strap was fastened around my chest and legs to keep me in an upright position, or I would slump over.

Suspended behind the chair was an attachment that would extend above my head, with two branches, that would extend over each arm. Slings would extend down in which my arms would be placed. This way, my arms could hover in the air against gravity and I would then be able to move my arms forward, backward and laterally, under my own power. Comically, I would look like a puppet.

Ironically, sometime in the future, friends would say I resembled Howdy Doody, one-time famous puppet. Anyone from my era will understand. What a sense of freedom, however temporary it was, and yet, maybe someday!

Eventually, when I was released to go home, the chair would be my major piece of furniture for some time, while I rehabbed. But even after it outlived its usefulness, we kept it. From time to time, I would open the basement door where it was stored, take a glimpse, and be reminded.

Chapter 3

Home and Rehabilitation

A diary that my Mom kept, unknown to us, was found after her passing. Based upon its contents, my hospital stay spanned nine months, from October 18, 1954 through July 11, 1955. On March 25th I began weekend visits at home.

Mom’s July 11, 1955 entry reads, Alan home for always. Supreme happiness ours. For me, July 11, 1955 was a wish come true, to be home again for good, to be with my brothers, and to re-experience Mom and Dad without the surroundings of the hospital. Another change, another adjustment, but then, I will come to understand, in time, this will be my lot in life. Try to limit the fight against it. Accept and do my best to draw something positive from it. Like a sculptor, who takes a shapeless