Iron Lung

In 1952, at the age of twelve, my father fell into a delirious state. Doctors came and went, so many that they became a blur to him. It was determined that he had a brain tumour, and preparations were made to consider surgery. He was rushed to the hospital, and at the last moment, another doctor suggested that they should perform a spinal tap.

The spinal tap indicated that he had polio. Another ambulance ride brought him to the Hamilton General Hospital, where all the polio cases were being treated. At this point, my dad was now in a coma.

Polio is a disabling and life-threatening disease caused by the poliovirus. The virus spreads from person to person and affects range from 72% not having any visible symptoms to a smaller proportion that will develop Meningitis or paralysis. The virus usually attacked muscles in the legs but also could damage the muscles of the head, neck, and diaphragm. An infected person may spread the virus to others immediately before for weeks after symptoms appear. Major outbreaks occurred in the late 19th century in Europe and the United States. The virus especially hit children hard, and a vaccine was finally developed in the 1950s.

My dad remained in the coma for six weeks. Three doctors were caring for him, and two of them wanted to place him into an iron lung. A mostly obsolete mechanical respirator, an iron lung enabled a person to breathe on their own in a normal manner, when muscle control was lost, or the work of breathing exceeded their ability. The decision these medical professionals had to make was a difficult one, and one they probably had to make on a regular basis. The iron lung could have potentially saved my dad’s life, but once you went into one of those things, there was no coming out.

My dad wrote about a vivid recollection of when he was in the coma. He remembered the dimly lit room and the sparse furniture. He travelled from his body and above everyone in the room. Above his parents and the doctors standing in a semi-circle around his hospital bed. Floating near the ceiling, he watched as a priest entered the room. Listened as the priest gave him last rites. He watched his parents in mourning.

The one doctor who was against placing my dad into the iron lung persisted. I wish I knew his name. My dad emerged from the coma, but the right half of his throat was paralyzed, as well as his right arm and leg.

The hospital room was overcrowded with other children, and every morning and evening came the treatments. The nurses were incredible, understanding how difficult it was for all the children, and played games after the treatment. My dad even instigated wheelchair races down the hallway. As my dad said, “The nurses and doctors simply wouldn’t allow us to think of ourselves as sick, but as loyal young soldiers on the road to someplace better.”

There were gruesome realities. Across the hall from my dad, a football player from the Hamilton Tiger-Cats was placed into an iron lung. If my dad behaved, they wheeled him across the hall to talk with him. One morning, my dad asked a nurse if he could be wheeled over to speak with the football player. But he was gone along with the iron lung. Death had come early to his young life, and he developed a strong determination to survive.

Six months later, my dad was released from the hospital. He required a wheelchair, his voice affected by the throat paralysis, and the muscles in his right leg had been diminished and stagnated. Anyone that knew my dad wouldn’t be surprised to know that even at twelve years of age if there was a possibility he could walk again, he simply wouldn’t except not being able to walk. The doctors suggested skating as an aid to learning how to walk again.

My grandmother brought my dad to a skating club in St. Catherines. A skating coach, Wally Distelmeyer, took one look at him and saw the desire in his eyes. My dad pulled himself along the side of the boards with Mr. Distelmeyer helping him along and insisting he could do it. After two days, he was gliding by himself.

This began a lifelong career in the sport of figure skating. From there, my dad became a competitive skater. He judged at several World Championships and at the Olympic Games. He was voted in as the President of the Canadian Figure Skating Association (now Skate Canada) and afterwards hired as the Director General (CEO). Over the next twenty years, he created some of the most influential programming, marketing, and event organization initiatives in amateur sport. After he retired, my dad went on to become the Vice President of the International Skating Union, a position he held until he passed away.

My point in sharing this story is that we must endure. There is a life after this. I am not being flippant about this or attempting in any way to downplay the very real scary financial and social implications of our current position. We are quite literally in a life or death situation. Speaking only about myself, I am just trying to take things one day at a time. Trying not to panic. Sure, about once a day, I stop whatever I’m doing and think: WHAT IN THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?! But, I have a hope that by taking things a day at a day, those days will accumulate. If things get worse, they will get worse, and we will deal with it. I am one cynical bastard, but even I have a hope that if we all work together on this, we will come out on the other side. We will endure.

To become a successful leader, my dad knew that he had to inspire others to join him. To do this, he had an understanding that he needed to learn how to be a successful public speaker. The paralysis of his throat from polio affected his voice, and he was always self-conscious of it. So, he just did the same thing as when he was learning how to walk again. He challenged himself to learn how to work on his voice and use it to inspire others. After he passed away, I had people tell me how they remembered speeches of his from over twenty years ago.

A while back, Skate Canada found a stack of my dad’s old type-written speeches. Even though this was spoken in a completely different context, it’s still somewhat relevant, even decades later, especially in these times of isolation:

Rather than looking back or to the side in depression, perhaps we should see this as the time to rise up in action and connect our community of motivational systems.

I would like to see a concept of excellence, success, and trust in one another established and promoted at every level. In reality, it is little more than good old common sense, the setting of standards and goals together. None of us can accomplish these goals individually or in small unconnected groups. We must see the excellence in others, join together, set the stage, show the direction, and encourage and acknowledge the collective result.

We shall meet again soon to marvel anew at our wondrous abilities to transcend language and politics. Let us not say goodbye, but instead, we part until we meet again.