The Colour of Fear

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As I held a picture I drew of my family, I recalled making it. I was seven. I worked at a table beside a window. I don’t remember much from that time, but I clearly remember that table, that window, that picture.  

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    A short time before I was playing in the backyard. I held my Barbie, wearing a swimsuit and I pretended the sandbox was a beach, like the one we visited years before. I could hear screams and laughter coming from a nearby park. How I wished I could join them, but mom told me not to leave the yard.

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    I couldn’t resist any longer. Opening the back gate I fled my backyard prison, but at the edge of the park my mom caught me and dragged me back to the house.

 

    Back inside, I started the picture of my family. Something was missing. To finish the picture, I searched through my Crayola box for the right shade of red. I chose the deep red for my mother’s dress. I tinted the clouds with the same colour. Then I drew little red dots in the air for the germs I couldn’t see, but everyone talked about. Next, I put a little red in mom’s cheeks, because she was really angry.

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    There were germs in the air and kids were getting sick, some even died. I saw pictures of them trapped in ugly boxes that helped them breathe.

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    That fall I heard my parents arguing in the next room. Mom wanted to keep me home. Dad wanted me to go to school. He won. After being stuck at home for so long it seemed strange to be able to play with other kids. The world was supposed to be safe then. But that’s when I got sick.

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    That period is all behind me now, but I still think about it often. I was luckier than many. Polio damaged the nerves and muscles in my right leg. I remember the pain of surgeries, the months of recuperation, physical therapy and counselling.

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    I set the picture down and take another sip of coffee.  Stop stalling, I tell myself. But I have the Monday blues. To top it off, there is a blizzard happening outside. It is so cold that the snow crystals pelting my window sound like sand. The wind is howling and moaning around the apartment balcony. 

I consider calling in sick, but don’t want them to think I can’t do the job as well as any able-bodied person.

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    My boyfriend, Ken, had already left for work. I teased him at the door as he donned his parka and called him Nanook of the North as he bundled up to face the cold. He spends most nights at my place, but still keeps his apartment on the second floor. I’d like him to move in, but he says he’s just not ready. He says he’s commitment-shy. He keeps a duffel bag of his things in the closet.

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    I glance at the clock and chide myself. I can’t stall any longer. My taxi will be here soon. I shuffle to the front door closet, bundle up and wrap myself with a scarf for good measure.  I have to push hard on the front door of the building. The snow had already drifted against it.  I struggle out on the snow-covered walk, watching for slippery patches. It’s not easy with crutches and a brace. I’ve wiped out way too many times lately and I still have bruises on my hip from the last time.

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    The taxi pulls up just as I get to the curb. Somethings going right for me today. The driver gets out and opens the door for me. I almost gag from the smell of pungent body spray that wafts to the back seat.

The driver seems eager to engage in conversation, but I fend him off with one-word answers. As we cross the University Bridge, I look out the window. There is a mist rising from the open water by the weir. The trees along the river are glazed with a pure white halo of hoarfrost.

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    I arrive at work with plenty of time to settle in. I shed my winter armour and go in search of coffee. My head is starting to throb. I’m pretty sensitive to scents, could be the taxi driver’s cologne I’m reacting to. I take two Advil with my coffee.

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    The morning passes slowly, and I’ve only made a small dent in the pile of paper on my desk. These statistics: crop yields, planted acres, forecasts. I remind myself they’re all important.

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    Finally, it’s noon and I meet my friend, Elaine, in the cafeteria. As usual, she picks up a tray for us and we each order a drink and dessert to go with our brown bag lunches. We sit down at an empty table.

“I can’t wait ‘till Friday,” Elaine said, pulling out her sandwich. 

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    “But it’s only Monday,” I reply, and take a sip of my Coke.

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    We talk about our plans for the weekend. After we finish our lunch, Elaine goes outside for a smoke. I go back to my cubicle, ready to attack the spreadsheet again. I have to get this work done before I leave for my medical appointment.

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    At 2:30 I get ready, drop off the printouts on my supervisor’s desk, and take a cab to the doctor’s office.

In the waiting room, I feel self-conscious. I notice a man across from me staring at me. He looks away when we make eye contact. I try to ignore the other people by thumbing through a fashion magazine, but I find those languorous pictures of health annoying. Looking around the room I think ‘None of us look like that.

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    At last, the nurse calls out, “Joan” and I go down the hall to the examination room. The doctor is waiting, reading something from my file.

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    After a routine examination, he asks a bunch of questions. Did I often experience fatigue? Unsteadiness? Chills? Muscle pain? When he finishes, he pauses. I see concern on his face.

“I’ve been looking at your history and recent health issues,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I suspect you have Post Polio Syndrome. There is no way to predict how this will affect you. It is possible that the symptoms will become severe enough to interfere with normal life. There are some treatments that will help you maintain muscle strength. Not much can be done about the fatigue, except limiting activity. I’ll make some referrals. Then we need to come up with a treatment plan.”

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    Post Polio Syndrome. I knew about the possibility but always hoped it wouldn’t affect me. I leave the doctor's office in shock.

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    Back at work the rest of the afternoon is a blur. Anger replaces numbness. I have been through so much. It’s so unfair. But then I remember the words of my mother, “Who says life is fair?”

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    As I take the bus home., I look out the window toward the west as we cross the University Bridge. The sky is a deep red. Usually, I appreciate the beauty, but today it reminds me of that picture I drew so long ago.

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    When I arrive home, I find Ken preparing supper. As we eat, I tell him about my day and, feeling anxious, I tell him, about the medical appointment. He listens in silence.

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    “The doctor said I’m developing Post Polio Syndrome,” I say, a slight quiver in my voice. “It’s not like the virus returns, but the damage done doesn’t age well. There are problems with nerves and muscles.”

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    'What does this mean?” he said, looking down at his half-eaten steak. “Will it go away?”

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    “Each case is unique,” I say, my feeling of dread growing. “I have to see some specialists to get a better idea of what to expect. I have to face the possibility that I may become more handicapped.”

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    He is silent during the rest of the meal. That night we made love. It’ll be fine, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep.

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    The next day I leave for work before him. He gives me a lingering kiss as I go out the door. All day I feel happy, relieved that I don’t have to face my health issues alone.

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    When I arrive home after work, the apartment was silent, darkening. Ken must be working late, or maybe he’s at the gym. On the table is my drawing. I look at it again, then out of the apartment window towards the last red hues of the setting sun. It’s the colour of fear, I think. For most people, the fear of poliovirus is forgotten. For me, it never left.

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    I go to the bedroom to change from my work clothes. From the closet, I grab a comfortable shift.

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    Looking down, I see that Ken’s duffle bag is gone.

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