A temple in the Himalayas

YESTERDAY a friend emailed a photograph (above). It shows a worn boot and old-fashioned caliper under a bench in India. The photographer Virginia Richardson*, said it was taken outside a temple in the Himalayas. Feel free to use, she added.

Virginia recently went on a pilgrimage in India, as did we 35 years ago. Her photograph became more moving the longer I mulled over it.

As aforementioned (Life Stage Matters blog 15/9) the situation of people with polio in countries like India, Africa, affects me deeply. But this photograph with its worn boot and old caliper, triggered thoughts not only of their owner inside at worship, but of my own polio story and pilgrimage.

Polio we assert, does not define us. We are much more than an enterovirus 30 nanometres in diameter paralysing our childhoods. Those of us who survived it (many didn’t) went on to experience diverse lives, families, jobs. Ok, the nano-rat hit back 40 years later with late effects but billions of people exist with amputation, adversity, scoliosis, some go on to win gold medals in the Paralympics (bravo!).

Polio does forge remarkable people however. Almost every polio survivor I have met has a stubborn streak, wicked sense of humour, determination to succeed no matter what, making significant contributions, never complaining. There was one exception – ironically given this thread – he joined the Hari Krisnas, bitter about his disability.

Society wasn’t interested in a megabunch of cripples when we were kids. We were ordered to get on with life. Some were told never to mention polio again and didn’t to honour their parents’ shame – years later excruciated to come forward as new undiagnosable symptoms emerged.

My childhood however, is a total blank, a black hole. ‘Childhood Amnesia Trauma’, a health professional told me recently. Sigmund Freud talked about defense mechanisms that block a child’s painful memories.

So once tortuous school days were over, polio was easily forgotten as commanded.

Backing up: school was a torture, couldn’t achieve in sport or scholarship, apart from English. Realise now concentration levels were impaired, polio brain even then.

Couldn’t dance either but could sing. Had ‘a voice’. Went to Melbourne Conservatorium for singing lessons, without any idea of what to do with the soprano reed – opera? Too short. Loved folk songs – sang in cafes, loved musicals.

My first taste of freedom after a childhood of close supervision, led me to Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology to be a journalist – learned touch typing( ✓)shorthand (✗) and bookkeeping (✗). The drama society and the RMIT newspaper were more fun, had THE best time!

Loved being on stage, even auditioned for a children’s role in The Sound of Music at Her Majesty’s Theatre. Figured being short must be useful sometime. Presented in smart ankle length boots. Dance steps were required. You have a limp, they noted. Limp! What limp! But I can sing…

Life on the stage was sunk by mum, another extremely painful story.

Eventually a cadetship was found for me via a friend of dad’s at the Border Morning Mail, Albury, a fine rural daily newspaper. The owner/editor Cliff Mott asked if I could manage the staircase to the newsroom. Why? I ran everywhere to prove stairs were nothing, wearing inappropriate shoes acorse. Fell over a lot, ruining stockings. Learned later my nickname there was Minnie Mouse on account of the footwear. Realise now, Mr Mott had been warned about the polio.

Polio failed to feature in my life through a progression of jobs increasing the grading and expertise from Albury, to the Gold Coast, Canberra then London in the Fairfax bureau.

A lack of tertiary education burned a hole in my confidence always. I’d read about the artistic Lindsay family of Creswick, their father had a library and those amazing painters to-be read reportedly read everything. Being wartime, my mum and dad used a public library. We owned four books. An adult education officer at Surfers Paradise gave me a reading list from Aeschylus to Zola, read the lot, begged for more. At each newspaper I wrote about art, theatre, ballet, television, film, meeting amazing people. Wanted to write a history of Australia’s impressionists. Wrote to key Australian art academics and gallery directors for guidance. They wrote back. No mention of polio in this world.

London was my university. A family friend walked me round every great garden. With ‘foreign correspondent’ status the favours were returned with theatre outings. A better camera was acquired. Went to the Chelsea Workingman’s College to learn photographic production. Press calls gave me access with the new Canon to ballet and theatre, even Princess Anne’s wedding.

Walking was never my best subject but the London fashion of the day for lace up platform shoes offered safer potential for distance (and another couple of inches in height). The more gardens and historic houses we did the stronger my walking abilities became. There were fewer falls – fewer lovely people helping me up. Was I gracious to them? Hope so. Suspect they were brushed off. Mum said my motto was (still is) ‘I will do it mineself’.

Returning to Australia, tired of the UK electricity strike, running out of friends with gas hot water heaters, a sub editing job was offered at The National Times in Sydney. Someone wanted to marry me. We bought a house, was encouraged to begin writing gardening books, became a critic and columnist. But we found Sydney’s pace destructive and began looking for peace. We learned peace wasn’t on a beach or remote desert but within.

Like Virginia, we toured India learning more about the sympathetic nervous system and meditation. Why didn’t you tell us you had polio, someone asked. “Forgot”.

Until that is: our target for the day to climb to the Saptashrungi Devi Temple in Maharashtra. We set off up the rocky path, an hour of toil passed. Needed to hold Ian’s hand for support. This was culturally improper. He pulled the polio card when disapproval was voiced. Almost in tears at one stage being passed by fitter Indians I joked pointing at a distant peak: ‘funny if that was it up there’. “Oh yes, that’s it”, they smiled with the agreeable head shake common in those parts.

As India has eroded relentlessly over its ancient history, the temple became stranded on a crag, reached by 400 high and uneven stone steps. We made it somehow, celebrated the achievement, less so the pungent temple with its monkey population. Worth it to see the perfect hole in the mountain across the valley, apparently created by Sri Krisna’s arrow.

Descent was the next challenge: you know how knees to go jelly? Went down each step like a child on my tail to perceive a golden vision. A yellow taxi had brought wealthy pilgrims to the village base. A fellow yogi suffering from ‘Delhi belly’ willingly would have bought it but offered 100 rupees (about $10 – a fortune) for the driver to return us to the bus. We climbed over the richer pilgrims sandals gratefully.

Now when I beat myself up for not having walked the Camino in Spain to revel in the sight and fragrance of the swinging incensier at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, my darling husband of 41 years reminds me about Saptashrungi.

This year marks for me 70 years of life with polio and its after effects. The legacy is an old age featuring chronic fatigue, hip pain, cramp, heat and cold intolerance, memory blanks, loss of words, muscle spasms, interrupted sleep. But through polio I have honed an accommodating determination, focus, met extraordinary fellow polios, used 50 years of communication skills to advocate for polios whatever their country and status.

And, I have climbed a mountain in India.

*Virginia Richardson is Mornington Peninsula Shire’s Metro Access officer (disability community inclusion). We have worked together in my role as Shire Mobility Scooter Ambassador and now on the All Abilities Consultative Committee.

Picture: Fran's boot and calliper under our Indian carved table (with ill fitting legs) at Hastings today.

Left: Fran in boots, Leongatha Victoria, 1946?

Below: the dreaded pram. a long pram to accommodate the Double Thomas, a full length splint. Some children, prone to escape, were padlocked in. Fran managed an escape on night one of course.