Our Story: A Polio Survivor

Kim Kerby Dickman, Kip Kerby, Kitridge Kerby

• December 4, 1946, was the day our dad thought he had
  the flu.
• December 6th was the day their doctor confirmed it
  was polio.
• December 8th was the day he was taken to the West Texas Hospital.

In less than a week, our father’s whole life had changed. His family, school, friends, dreams, and future were altered. He was 15 years old, and everything he knew was gone.

At the time, there was no shot, no vaccine, no cure, only treatment. He was among the 5% of those under 21 years of age who contracted polio. Within that group, cases varied widely; some patients’ symptoms were mild, others more severe, and death remained a serious risk.

The treatments were many: draining, steaming, woolen towels, whirlpools, exercises, weights, massage, manipulation, wheelchairs, crutches, braces, and canes. The list was endless and the results varied.

He was eventually transferred to Carrie Tingley Hospital in Hot Springs, New Mexico, where they administered the “Sister Kenny treatments.” It was far away from home, so every three to four months he would return home for a week or so—once to see family, once to graduate from high school, once to decide what his future would be.

Can you imagine how this affected his parents (our grandparents)? How his siblings (he was the youngest of six) felt? How his friends felt?

It was a small rural town, a small school, a small community. In an instant, his and his family’s choices were no longer theirs to make.

Polio takes away from and defines you. You have to readjust to everything, adjust to what they call “a new normal.”

Polio does not simply make you sick. It steals strength, independence, and ordinary moments most people never have to think about. It can turn a healthy child into someone who struggles to stand, walk, or breathe without help. It reshapes futures in a matter of days, leaving families to adjust to a lifetime of physical challenges and emotional weight.

Those who lived through polio, including survivors, their families, and the health-care professionals who cared for them, understand this reality better than anyone. They know what this disease looked like before vaccines existed.

Because of that lived experience, many in the polio community carry an important responsibility: to make sure these stories are not forgotten.

The voices of survivors and their families still matter greatly. Sharing these stories with local media, community groups, schools, or younger generations helps remind the public of the impact polio has had on real people and families. Healthcare professionals who treat(ed) polio patients and the survivors who lived through it carry a perspective that statistics alone could never convey.

For my dad, that understanding shaped how he approached vaccines when they finally became available. He had his three kids first in line at our high school cafeteria when they administered the first vaccines in our small town. He was elated that there would be no way we would experience what he had and that he and our mom would not suffer the way his parents had.

Vaccines changed everything. They transformed a disease that once filled hospitals and rehabilitation centers into an illness that many people today have never seen. But for those who survived polio, the effects of the disease did not the rest of their lives.

Unfortunately, we lost our dad twenty years ago. He was far too young. He had persevered for so long. Post-polio syndrome caught up with him despite all he had been able to overcome.

When he passed, we lost a brother, an uncle, a dad, a granddad, and a great granddad. Not to mention a friend so many people cherished.

We were very lucky and blessed to have had him for our dad. He deserved a better, longer physical life and we deserved more time to have him with us, but he left us with so much: perseverance, adaptability, a can-do attitude, hard work, positivity, empathy, kindness, and so much love.

There was no whining. No complaining.

Just quiet strength.

And that is his legacy.