Articles by David Graham
( polio stories )
“God, Why Do I Hurt?”
“Man’s Self-Worth Misconstrued”
“My best Advocate”
“Birds of a Feather…”
“Super-natural Strength”
“The Sedentary Sportsman”
“Life is Different, But Life Is Good”
“Taking a Beating”
“Identity and the Disabled Perspective”
“To Blame or Not to Blame, That is the Question”
“The Woods”
“The Statistics of Being Human”
“Independent Decisions”
Dave would be glad for any response you might have to the following stories. E-mail him:
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God, Why Do I Hurt?
July, 1994
Feeling pain plays an important role in our existence. When our bodies experience danger, pain alerts us to the threat. Children learn their basic behaviors within boundaries established by pain.
For those of us suffering from the effects of Polio and Post Polio Syndrome, pain serves more than as a guidance tool. Ever present pain reminds us of our very unique set of circumstances. It causes us to adhere to a pattern of learned skills and life style techniques that we individually design to minimize pain’s intensity.
When I overdo or go beyond my normal activity limits, I experience increased pain. I am responsible for that pain because I am in charge of my behavior. Apparently I have chosen to over-do, so I can expect the consequences. In my own mind, I deserve it.
Some times, however, I don’t deserve it! Those are the times when I have been careful to stay within my activity limits, yet I still have increased pain. It makes me angry! Who is to blame? It would seem easy, almost natural to blame God.
What kind of power does God exert over our lives? For me, the scriptures have answered this universal question: “And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose” (Rom. 8:28).
Does God desire for me to hurt? Of course not. Did the Lord cause my disease? No. I believe He gave me a life where I am free and have an ability to make personal choices. To do that, I must live with the natural laws which He set up in this created world. Within the boundaries of those laws exists a certain amount of chance.
God’s intentional, perfect will stands eternal. His circumstantial, permissive will reaches beyond my ability to understand, at least in this life. My faith calls me to trust in God’s ultimate will and purpose and to love Him simply as a small child trusts and loves his earthly father. As the baby, when he falls is comforted by his Daddy, I must take comfort in my Heavenly Father. In my moments of pain, I know it is only temporary.
List of Dave’s stories || Main Index, “Our Own Stories”
Man’s Self-Worth Misconstrued
September, 1994
Our culture dictated and defined my masculine role. As a man, much of my self-worth depended on my ability to make a living and to provide for my family. I was good at it. Twenty-eight years in business paid off in our comfortable lifestyle. I possessed most of what society held as symbols of prosperity. These gave certain testimony to my value as a man and as a father.
I confess to you that a little voice constantly reminded me of my polio, but these trappings proved too the world that I had risen above it.
As I sat in the doctors office that day, complaining about pain and fatigue, my physician asked about the caveator that had appeared in my thigh. Where once lived a strong active part of my anatomy now appeared an ominous vacancy.
During the next few weeks, it became increasingly evident that my body was changing. Subsequent tests proved the suspicions. It was Post Polio Syndrome and I had a classic case.
There were many struggles. I went through physical therapy, occupational therapy, and mental therapy. Through it all, my feeling of personal worth was being bashed and damaged from all sides. My employer and I struggled to deny the inevitable. Then it was over. I was disabled.
It is hard to describe the mental calisthenics that I went through. It was impossible to deny the truth any longer. I felt like half a man and half a father since my role as a provider narrowed to a government agency and my ability to complete their written forms.
I felt depressed so my perspective was distorted and confused.
I have heard it said that some folks have to hit bottom before they turn to the Lord for help. Actually, I had been praying for God’s help all along but had not recognized it when he gave it. The help was all around me.
During my treatment, I had come in contact with other people with P.P.S. Since I still remained in a state of denial, I wouldn’t even talk to them. Here was a natural resource that God had given me and I didn’t appreciate it. I had the phone number of the Polio Outreach group and I wouldn’t call.
Well, God had another answer for me — time. Time is a great healer. It finally caused me to accept reality. As I did, I began looking for help where ever I could find it.
I found help for my self-worth problem in a scripture that goes, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14). If God would go to such lengths to create me, then my self-worth is grounded in Him and His acceptance of me through His Son Jesus.
I found help in accepting my new lifestyle from my friends in the Polio Outreach group. Every problem that I endured had been experienced by someone else in the group. What a blessing this has been!
A couple of years have passed since then and I am happy to report that life is good. As a fifty year old retiree I enjoy opportunities that I never even considered in my working days. Occasionally I feel a tug of conscience about pulling my own weight in society. However, I’d rather be pulling in a big trout or pulling up my easy chair.
The Bible says, “Many are the afflictions of the righteous: but the Lord delivers him out of them all” (Psalm 34:19).
I believe that! Spiritually, God has delivered me from this affliction. When I finally dealt with the issue of self-worth, I realized I have a whole new life ahead of me.
List of Dave’s stories || Main Index, “Our Own Stories”
My Best Advocate
November, 1994
If there is something that I learned from having Post Polio Syndrome, it is a new understanding and awareness of the medical profession. My experience has served to define how I must be diligent, participating in each step of my treatment in order to achieve the best results.
During those epidemic years of the ’40s and early ’50s, wee were so traumatized by Polio that we grabbed on to any ray of hope. We took refuge in anyone who claimed to have expertise. Doctors were considered gods. They walked about dispensing their knowledge with impunity — and we bought it, we bought it all! The fact was that no one knew very much about polio and that included the doctors.
The word, “advocate,” means “to plead in favor of . . . ” At our Polio Outreach meetings, you hear this word used all the time, being our own “advocate.” During treatment we recommend pleading in favor of ourselves.
To me, this means speaking out, stating my position on how I feel, my pain, my fears, and when appropriate, my lack of confidence in what a physician recommends. I require adequate explanations and give little thought to how I may be perceived by demonstrating my ignorance.
Most physicians prefer a patient that speaks out. They need feedback to personalize the treatment.
I learned to take the position of a customer, not a patient. I consider the medical community a purveyor of goods and services. From this perspective, all participants in my treatment are better served, especially me.
The successful merchant takes time discussing his customers needs, likes, and preferences. He distinguishes himself by providing specialized service or product. His success depends on results. We are familiar with this drill. We deal with merchants regularly when we buy clothing, appliances, gifts, cars, etc. If we feel unhappy about any aspect of a transaction, we voice or displeasure.
Is the medical profession so far removed that it does not fall under such scrutiny? I think not.
My confidence lies in the scripture: “For God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of power and love and discipline.” (2 Tim. 1:7).
This verse also points out that my assertiveness must be tempered by a spirit of love.
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Birds of a Feather . . . 
January, 1995
As I look back over my life I see periods in which I ran with different groups of people. Each of those groups had a profound effect on me.
I stand in amazement over just how close I came to losing my way.
Do you remember that old song “That Old Gang of Mine?” Well, as a teen there was just such a group of fellows that I hung around with.
Now today the word gang has a real negative connotation. It reminds us of the wild behavior of people when they run in packs. Even in those early years the collective power that I felt from being with the group was undeniable.
I have too admit, our gang did some things that today I am not proud of. At the time they did not seem so bad because we did them as a group. Somehow our individual responsibility for our actions seemed to vanish in the heat of the moment.
As a young man, there were a few years where I made my living as a night-club entertainer. Now this arena is sure to bring out the seedy side of anyone’s character. Going to work five nights a week in such an establishment causes a gradual, but sure decay of one’s moral fiber.
As I grew in age and wisdom I realized the affect that others were having on me. Upon this realization, I purposely began to associate with people that I wanted to be like. The people I respected became models for my behavior. Their morality and values became the issue. I soon realized that these people usually had something in common. They were Christians.
I did not become a Christian because I liked hanging out with other Christians, but their positive fellowship was a strong influence in bringing me to a saving knowledge of Christ.
————
I will close my column with a favorite memory from my childhood.
My brother and I both had polio. We regularly had to go for hydro-therapy at a pool across town. Neither of us were very strong, so our play with the normal kids seemed rather restricted. It was at these pool sessions that we played with lots of other polio kids. These were good times because we fit right in. I cherish those memories.
Maybe that’s part of why I enjoy going to our Polio Outreach meetings.
List of Dave’s stories || Main Index, “Our Own Stories”
Super-natural Strength
March, 1995
The year was 1950 — the Polio epidemic held Southeast Portland in it’s death grip. The body of the five year old boy hung limp from his mother’s arms as she struggled up the long walk to Isolation Hospital. This institution, like none other, struck horror in the minds and hearts of parents throughout the region. For it was here, in this building of quarantine, that many had lost their children.
The young mother gave him up to the attendant, laying his frailness on the adult-sized cart that would take him away, out of her sight and grasp, perhaps forever.
As the youngster, gasping for breath, was rolled away, she prayed aloud, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall …..”
Later, as she maintained her vigil outside the small hospital lobby, a young lady appeared. She was dressed in white and had a look of tender authority. The news was not good. The youngster’s only chance seemed to be the iron-lung. As they spoke, they were busy preparing the grotesque machine to receive his tiny frame.
The mother turned and knelt a moment, praying. When she arose, she wore a peaceful smile. In astonishment, the nurse inquired of her demeanor. With calm boldness, the mother shared a beloved scripture: “For this reason I also suffer these things, but I am not ashamed; for I know who I have believed and I am convinced that He is able to guard what I have entrusted to Him until that day.” (2 Tim. 1:12)
A few miles away, friends and relatives gathered to pray. They would implore the Creator to intercede for the boy. “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” (Matt. 18:20) They knew that they would be heard.
The next morning the sun shown bright as the young mother returned to the hospital and took up her vigil in the lobby. In time, a medical man, his shoulders bent and hair mussed, appeared at the door. Obviously tired, yet a wide grin adorned his face. “It was a miracle if I ever saw one,” he proclaimed. “Your boy, he’s a good one. I never saw such a fighter. He’s got strength like –, like I’ve never seen! He’s one that old wind barrel never got.”
Today the mother is a great-grandmother, the boy, a man. After these many years, they still look to God for strength and guidance.
In those days of early technology and primitive medical treatment, we either put our faith in God or we perished in our own despair.
In the last forty years, I have seen the changes. I have watched medicine advance and technology soar. But, I have also watched men turn their faith to temporary things and momentary pleasures. From where will this contemporary man receive his super-natural strength when he really needs it?
“The LORD is my light and my salvation — whom shall I fear? The LORD is the strength of my life — of whom shall I be afraid?” (Psa 27:1)
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The Sedentary Sportsman
November, 1995
This last weekend I participated in a ritual, something I have done every October since I can remember. I went deer hunting.
Sunday afternoon as I was riding home from the hunt, I reflected on my years as a Nimrod. It seems that recent physical changes, which limit my mobility, have had little affect on my rewards in the field or my enjoyment of the sport.
As an excitable teen, in the prime of my physical condition, I would barge through the woods, gun in hand, daring some unsuspecting buck to cross my path. Occasionally one would and that is where maturity set in as I learned not only to kill, but to dress, butcher, wrap, store, cook and eat the venison.
One year I actually got lucky and shot a nice matched four point (called an 8 point in the East) which I had mounted. Today he hangs above our hearth. We call him Rudolf and we decorate his antlers at Christmas time.
As a father, I sat with my boys through their days of hunter training. My vigor for the hunt had mellowed, but I still walked the forest, trying to keep up with my sons. At the end of the day I would soak my aching feet and promise myself to never push quite that hard again. Promises, promises.
More recently, my hunts have become more of an exercise in sitting than walking. My rifle rarely leaves my lap. I have realized that sitting is a much better way to hunt as it reveals a multitude of pleasures not previously enjoyed. My sons beat the brush for that fleeting moment when they scare up an animal and it scurries from their sight. I sit back and wait for the animal to parade past my viewing stand.
In my solitary, much is revealed. From my point of vantage it seems that God has displayed His forest tapestry for my exclusive pleasure. The reality of autumn is realized in the flame of Aspen leaves as they articulate on a field of evergreen. With the breeze comes their wash, a sound like no other. My olfactories remind me of the deciduous cycle. The rotting of discarded leaves smells like walnut shells. As the sun reaches it’s apex, it warms dusty pine needles, tainting the air with fragrance.
Ahh, such beauty. Should I be more able-bodied, would I pause to appreciate this aspect of the hunt? This is truly a reward for the sedentary sportsman.
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Life Is Different… But Life Is Good
May, 1996
To know me was to know my disability. Unless you were blind, it was obvious that polio was not very kind to me.
I had only known it one way. Polio came when I was ten months old. It left it’s scar for a lifetime. Because I was a baby, it seemed natural.
As an adult, the ethics of my social strata required me to make my way, to get a job, earn a living and be a tax-paying contributor. I worked hard every business day for twenty-eight years. I paid my way.
As a business man, I cussed the 30% tax that was wrenched from my pay check. I railed at the one dollar the government gave back in services for every three they extracted. I saw the government’s social programs as wasteful, rife with fraud and spawning dependency. I was politically conservative, a right-winger.
Post-polio syndrome tends to change one’s perspective. In the very peak of my earning curve I was suddenly and most profoundly unable to work. Everything changed. I was forced to file for Social Security Disability!
My wife had to go to work. I was officially retired at age 48.
Four years have passed since that transition, and I can report that life is good, but life is different. It took me some time to appreciate the finer things of this life style, but they were there nevertheless.
I no longer wear a watch, a fixture that seemed to rule my past. From a lifestyle that seemed driven by dollars and time, I now appreciate a nicely kept yard and an afternoon nap.
I have more real friends. At least I have time for them now.
My political philosophy is built on a new perspective. I no longer look at all of the government’s social programs as being the scourge of the working man.
I truly appreciate my wife and the contribution she makes in the support of our family. I have learned to cook.
I can’t golf any more, but I’ve become an exceptional fisherman. I’m also an avid arm-chair sports fan and I know the players by name.
I have a spiritual life now. Oh, I was a believer before, but somehow I never devoted the time to cherish my Creator and to worship Him.
Life is different… but life is good.
List of Dave’s stories || Main Index, “Our Own Stories”
Taking a Beating
January, 1997
Few things in life hit harder than a profound change in one’s physical self. Whether its cause arrives by accident or disease, the loss of one’s mechanics can wield a devastating blow.
In my case, psycho-social issues ruptured first. I use that “two-bit” word to express the damage to my whole sense of self-worth. I could no longer do what I used to do, even what I was expected to do.
My mind dwelled on specific tasks. Amazingly, these tasks did not immediately involve my occupation. My golf swing and the fellows I played with every Wednesday, my trekking through the woods with my sons during hunting season, my ability to launch my boat for trout weekends with my buddies — all were affected. What about my wife? What devastating issues!
I wept. I mourned. I denied. I pictured myself stumbling with crutches, then hunched over in a wheelchair. What vivid images, what depression, what stress! During that dark time my self-confidence took a real beating.
Perhaps a person like me has to be driven to his knees before he finally asks God for help. I have always been strong willed, independent, perhaps belligerent or defiant.
As I look back at those days, I realize how very narrow-minded I was. My disability had become my wife’s disability as she had put it on herself. My kids, my folks, my friends –all were experiencing my disability each in his own way. They each dealt with a bit of denial, guilt, and then isolation. I feel bad that I didn’t appreciate their perspectives.
In my case having post-polio syndrome posed another dilemma. Doctors knew little about PPS. They demonstrated their lack of knowledge by their defensive posture and patronizing attitudes.
An exception, my primary-care physician cares deeply for his patients. He referred me in the right direction. He prayed with me. His focus on God demonstrated for me an attitude that saved my very life. I learned to look up to the Source of all my strength.
When I prayed for help, God was there with His amazing grace. That day a succession of events were put into place. As I look back, it becomes astonishingly clear. Where little could be done for my physical condition, much was done to improve my daily mechanics, my thought patterns, and my availability of resources.
A specialist got me into physical therapy, occupational therapy and mental therapy. Things began to improve one day at a time, one step at a time.
I was referred to a psychiatrist. I felt the most defiant when my mental condition came into question. However, he helped me take hold, concentrate and frame my thinking. In programming my thoughts, I could work on my social interactions. That sounds a bit heavy, but it sure improved my personal relationships.
Focusing on the here-and-now, I tried to shun thoughts about the issues I couldn’t change.
I admit I had some problems with personal hygiene, dressing appropriately, and isolating myself. I found that God has a great remedy for such problems — time. With His help, I slowly crawled back into social involvement.
Discovering real value in belonging to a support group, I’ve met some wonderful friends there. I don’t have to discuss my problems. They already know them.
Now I realize how important for those around me that I keep a good appearance. So much of our emotional stability depends on keeping a up a visual image. Oh, people now expect me to walk with a cane. They find it entirely appropriate that I sit when I talk to them. It’s that clean shaven, smiling face that helps them through my disability.
At first I cursed God for my affliction, “How could He do this to me?” However, with clear mind and purposeful thought, I now realize that God did not bring on my problem. In fact He does not even want me to suffer. God set up our natural existence, and gave us the ability to make choices. He set in place the laws of nature which include diseases and adverse circumstances. Yet, through it all, God promised to be by my side.
“Many are the afflictions of the righteous: but the Lord delivers him out of them all.” (Psalm 34:19).
List of Dave’s stories || Main Index, “Our Own Stories”
Identity and the Disabled Perspective
March, 1997
In the bitter cold weather I walked to my van which was parked close by, in the area reserved for disabled people. Just then a small group of people passed by me, walking in from the outer lot. Immediately I felt guilty about my parking advantage so I began to limp more than usual as if to justify or demonstrate to these people that I really did deserve the preferential treatment.
As I went through the check-out counter at the local super-market, the clerk bagged my two sacks of groceries and left them for me to carry. An able-bodied person could easily carry twice as much. I was saddled with a decision. Do I struggle with the two bags in an effort to look normal or do I interrupt the clerk and ask for a basket?
The third day of every month, as I collect my Social Security disability check, I rehash my mind’s scheme of justifying the money. “Didn’t I work and pay my way? Every month wasn’t there a F.I.C.A. deduction in my pay check?” I rhetorically contemplate.
I plucked these three instances from my vast library of experiences that make up my disabled perspective. I suppose an able-bodied person reading them would have a hard time understanding just how compromising such occurrences are to my manhood.
There was a time that such mind-games would drive me into depression. With the passage of time and an appreciation of a much bigger picture, I have learned to view them as mild annoyances.
Regularly I feel certain pressure to perform polite gestures for a lady. You know the ones: opening a door, carrying packages, offering my arm of escort.
Far more than these niceties, I feel pressured to comply to the demanding rules of our culture, the rules of the road, rules of business, the rules of sport, rules of etiquette – – all designed around the able bodied.
The reality, however, is that my physical ability to open a door for a lady or to comply with other physical demands of society does not make me any less a gentleman.
People often take their very identity from the things they do, their work, their successes or awards, their material achievements. Our culture has created a world of competition. It was here that I too competed.
Living life as a polio survivor, my body put certain limits on me. But I just pushed a bit harder, cut a few corners, and made a few adjustments – – all to compete in this world of the able-bodied.
I actually had myself believing I was just like the next guy. My identity seemed to be formed in the way I could compete in the rigors of citizenship, striving to be a successful man.
When post-polio syndrome hit, my ability to fit the cultural mold vanished. My identity became threatened, so it caused me to dig down inside. In my earliest memories, I found a morsel of truth, a reality that was initiated and nurtured in my childhood Sunday-school. God loves me and offers me His strength and comfort in my time of need.
I returned to my Bible and found a truth that helped me to see an eternal perspective.
Physical reminders of my disability still bother me. God never said that life on this temporary earth would be easy, but He did guarantee to walk beside me.
If the Creator of the universe took the time to put me here, then He cares about me, and my identity resides in Him.
List of Dave’s stories || Main Index, “Our Own Stories”
To Blame or Not to Blame, That is the Question
September, 1997
Tears gushed as television cameras panned the faces of the tragic scene. The evening news broadcast a grievous situation where some children had lost their lives in a house fire. The insensitive reporter thrust a microphone in the face of the distraught mother. Between sobs she uttered, “How could God let this happen?”
Grief and loss often cause us to strike out in an effort to affix some blame for such a tragedy. When circumstances reach beyond my human ability to explain and justify, often God gets the blame.
It seems impossible not to empathize with the young mother at a moment like this. As I gazed into her eyes, I wished that I could come to her aid in some meaningful way. I also wanted to come to the defense of God who stands there in the midst of the scene, wanting to begin a long, difficult healing process — loving and comforting, not causing hurt and despair.
It is my belief that our God does not desire cruel circumstances to befall me. He has given each of us an opportunity at a very special life. Unlike the life of an insect, mine is a thinking, reasoning kind of life. I am given the gift of making choices for myself.
When God created this world, He created some natural laws. We live in a grand scheme of cause and effect. If I step in front of a moving car – – if I jump off a cliff – – if my children are caught in a burning building – – all carry predictable results. We are given the responsibility of making choices.
Unexplainable things befall us in a seemingly random manor. I made no conscious choice which resulted in my having polio or post-polio syndrome. The chances are that the young mother made no circumstantial choice which caused the fiery death of her children. God is here in these occurrences as well. Yet for now He has not revealed to me how they fit into the whole picture. God did promise to be with me in those times when His grace and comfort are the only answers.
As I reminisce about my childhood as a ‘polio kid’, I am reminded of the role that my own father played in my upbringing. Realizing that his boy was more susceptible to failure and discouragement due to weakness and balance deficiencies, he could have hovered over me, overprotecting, doing the difficult for me. It must have hurt him when I would test my wings, time after time.
When my daddy let go of the bicycle, I struggled to maintain my balance. When I failed, falling and barking my knee, he stood by to console my cries and to help the healing process by cleaning my wound.
My heavenly Father does the same.
List of Dave’s stories || Main Index, “Our Own Stories”
The Woods 
January, 1998
For years I have lived on the edge of my disability, post-polio syndrome. One day I am restricted by physical limitation and pain, while the next, I feel like my old self again, ready to take on the world.
It was one of those good days, October 23, 1997. I went deer hunting with my son, Shawn. He is a big healthy guy, so I felt confident that my own limited physicality could not get me into too much trouble. It felt so good to be doing once again an activity that held so many good memories.
The evening hunt began shortly after Shawn got off work at 4:00 PM. Earlier I had come upon a new hunting area and I was eager to show it to Shawn. We had a doe tag and only one day left before the season was to close.
After driving into the area, we spotted three deer heading up a far bank to our right. Shawn exited my van and stealthily followed their path. I proceeded on, up hill to a wide spot in the logging road. I parked atop an open knoll.
I exited the van and walked in a South-Easterly direction for another 50 yards. Suddenly I heard Shawn’s gun bark out it’s loud report. Focusing my attention in his direction, to my right I could see through an open area only about 75 yards. There was movement, then a large animal came scurrying through the brush.
Now, I’ve been hunting for exactly 36 years. During that time I have harvested 13 deer. There was a time that I could recount each triumph, but now I need to be huddled around a camp fire to rekindle those memories. So when I spied this animal and it’s awkward gate, I knew Shawn’s bullet had met its mark. The deer had been hit in the hind leg and was now looking for a place to hide.
In an effort to finalize the kill, I raised my rifle to my shoulder, aimed at the animal’s neck and fired. My aim was true. The animal was hit, but it’s adrenaline pushed it onward. Experience told me that it would go down hill and that it would not go too far if unprovoked.
As I pondered my next move, I surveyed my position which was by then about 100 yards down into the forest from the van. I knew we had only a half hour of daylight left so I could not wait. I had to pursue. I figured Shawn to be another 100 yards to my right and the deer another 100 yards straight East, down into the deepest part of the forest. I was right.
Struggling downhill through the forest, it took me at least ten minutes to come upon the big animal. I made sure she was dead, then called out for Shawn. Moments later he came bounding through the underbrush wearing a smile ear to ear. There would be meat in the freezer this year.
After tagging the animal, the first thing we mentioned was the diminishing light. We had to get moving. As Shawn gutted the deer, I took both rifles and headed back up to the van intending to drive it closer to the kill. An animal this size would be hard to move.
As I trudged back through the forest, up hill toward the knoll, I was walking West into the fading sunset.
My disability makes walking under normal conditions a bit tenuous. But here in the tangles of underbrush and downed limbs I felt like a fish out of water. Carrying 20 pounds of rifles, it seemed like it took forever to climb back up that hill. When I reached the summit, the light of day was gone. In the slight glow of reflected light, I realized a grim reality. I could not see my van. I could not even see the road.
Now this becomes very hard to write. What, moments ago, was a lifetime of confidence in my abilities in the forest, suddenly became a questioning bewilderment. I staggered East, back up the hill, thinking perhaps the road had ended at the place where I left the van. Minutes passed. I ran into dense thicket. I fell. Picking myself up, my legs felt like Jell-O. With heart pounding, I headed West again, thinking I had not come far enough, but then I was going downhill. Again, I walked into dense forest and darkness. It was dark all around. I could barely make out the features of the land.
With a bit of fear showing in my voice I called out to Shawn. Thankfully he heard me as I explained my plight. His voice was barely audible despite the quiet of the forest. His only option was to drag the deer down hill. He called out for me to find an opening atop the hill for a reference point.
I headed back to the opening above me. I fell a second time, then a third. With deep gasping breaths, I had to rest.
The evening temperature had fallen to the low thirties. I had left my jacket in the van and I was getting cold as I perched on a wet stump. Without thinking, I pressed on to the East again, then South, then West, falling and failing. I called out again for some lick of confidence in hearing Shawn’s voice, but nothing. I whistled my loud piercing shriek. No reply.
I was lost. My physical resources wasted, my options were gone. There in pitch darkness, I fell to my knees.
For years I have openly claimed that I could rely on God to get me through my worst times. This was truly one of those times, so I prayed.
Little did I know that at that very moment Shawn was also praying. He had pulled the deer down to a logging road far below and had been calling out to me for what seemed like hours.
My plea to God was short and to the point. I sat there in the dark, blind, helpless, contemplating. If God was to lead me out of these woods, I was going to have to be upright and moving. I struggled to regain my feet. It was then that a strange confidence came over me. Without much effort at all I proceeded North. That made no sense. There was nothing out there but more dense forest, but somehow my feet carried me in that direction.
Minutes passed. A few stars shone overhead. Perhaps it was their brightness that revealed to me a loggers’ skid trail, a path of darker dirt in a dark surrounding. That was good. Experience told me that log skids usually lead down to roads. Moments later that single log skid became two dark lines- – tire tracks! I followed upward only another few feet and there, hardly more than an arm’s length in front of my face, stood our van. I laughed out loud, praising and thanking God.
As I started the vehicle, I honked the horn and turned on the brights. Far below me Shawn saw the beams through the trees. He left the deer lying in the road and fumbled his way up through the forest toward the light.
Well, you know the rest of the story. We picked up the deer and, as we followed the road back out of the forest, we recounted our experience.
What a blessing to be able to talk freely with my son about the wonders of God’s grace.
God has helped me through many tight spots, but for some reason I seem to remember them for only a short while. Well, not this time. I wrote it on my calendar, “Today God led me out of the woods”.
List of Dave’s stories || Main Index, “Our Own Stories”
The Statistics of Being Human
November, 1998
I sat down to write a piece about the statistics of being disabled. Armed with some new data from a 1998 Louie Harris poll there was much to tell. I had downloaded some findings that I was sure would be of interest to you, our readers.
There is a large gap between the disabled and the able bodied in regard to employment, education, income and other “indicator” areas of life.
Could this be? I pressed on.
Only three in ten disabled are employed full time as compared with eight in ten non-disabled.
Is this really true? I became annoyed by what I was reading.
Twenty percent of disabled adults have not completed high school. Only fifty-four percent go to church once a month and a third go to a restaurant once a week.
On it went.
The data was painting a picture that was not at all familiar to me. Our typical post-polio support group meeting would certainly not support such findings. But, then again those of us who have survived polio, as a class, are somewhat different. As I postured and rationalized I became increasingly bothered by the broad generalities that are inherant in such a report.
At the very moment that I held the Harris poll in my hand, skimming through mind-numbing data, the phone rang. “Good evening Mr. Graham, …how are you tonight? Sir, would you mind answering a few questions about your preference of candidates.”
Perhaps it is the time of the year that causes my feelings to surface, making this process seem so detestable. With the November election upon us, one is increasingly subjected to the surveying of meddlesome pollsters.
As I begged off, I knew. My very existence as a thinking, feeling, living individual was being denigrated by my acknowledgment of the value of this data. I am not simply a white, married, disabled man with a wife, three grown children, two old cars and no dog. Like you, I am an individual with unique characteristics, with a very special history and most definitely a potential for the future.
When the world turns me into a statistic it numbs my feelings, blurring my very sense of identity. It is then that I turn to my Creator and He refocuses the picture. He reminds me that I am His, and He loves me just the way I am.
I take great comfort in knowing that God loves me intimately.
“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” Matt 10:29
List of Dave’s stories || Main Index, “Our Own Stories”
Independent Decisions
August, 1999
Some decisions are harder to make than others. As I get older I am faced with some tough ones. Sometimes I wish these decisions could just be made for me.
“I am sorry Mr. Graham. You can’t read those directions, you missed that stop sign and you are squinting too much. We are fitting you for glasses.”
“I am sorry Mr. Graham. You missed an important discussion, you misunderstood a verbal communication and your family is worrying about you, all because your hearing is not what it used to be. We are fitting you for hearing aids.”
“I am sorry Mr. Graham. You look unsteady on your feet, you seem to loose your balance and we are worried that you might fall. You must use a cane from now on.”
“I am sorry Mr. Graham. You tripped, stumbled and fell down three times last month so we are prescribing a wheelchair for you. You must use it.”
No one wants to acknowledge getting older, but it is a fact that 
cannot be ignored. There are certain decisions that we must make for ourselves. Unfortunately we usually make them too late.
We may endanger others if we drive without necessary corrective lenses. We may suffer a fall because we are too vain to use a cane. Or, we wait until our relationships with friends and family suffer before we start using hearing aids.
I write about this topic because I recently made an important decision about using a wheelchair. I found myself missing out on many outings and activities. It came on slowly. But before long, I had lost a great deal of my mobility. I hadn’t gone to the County Fair for a couple of years. I quit going shopping at the mall. Friends and family quit inviting me to events because they realized my limitations.
We have all heard the words “Pride goeth before a fall.” That comes from Proverbs 16:18. It has unique application in these personal matters of decision.
In fact, the thing that was restricting me was my stupid pride. I was afraid of what other people might think of me in that chair. I couldn’t see beyond that perception to see what opportunities and life I was missing.
I am happy to say that I have eased into using the chair. I am just as much a man as I ever was, not someone to be pitied or ignored just because I am sitting down. And I found that people are very gracious and accepting of my new toy. The chair has given me a new reality, one that demonstrates a new independence.
§
It was July 4th, 1999, Independence Day. The beach lawn area is a perfect place to watch the annual fireworks, which were about to erupt over Liberty Lake. Our family’s traditional outing to cap off the day of celebration had never included Brianna. My four-year-old granddaughter had always been too afraid of the noisy explosions to venture out. This night was no different until she realized that she could sit on Grampa’s lap. Off we went in my new chair.
We had each made a tough decision for ourselves that had enriched our lives.
List of Dave’s stories || Main Index, “Our Own Stories”
Who Is David Graham?
In Dave’s own words: “I was born 10/26/43 in Portland,Oregon, the oldest of six kids. I had spinal polio at the age of 10 months. I had a younger brother who had bulbar polio about eight years later. I had numerous surgeries as a child and young teen, primarily at Emanuel Hospital in Portland. I spent 28 years in the music business, both as a performer and in retail sales. In 1975 I moved my family to Liberty Lake, Washington, just outside of Spokane. I have been married for almost 30 years to Susan who is my strength and companion. We have two sons and one daughter, all adults (and three granddaughters).
At 48 years old post-polio syndrome forced my retirement. Now I am active as a grampa, the editor of P.E.N. & ink, on the Board of Directors at the Union Gospel Mission, and am a writer, singer and player of music and a child of the Lord.”
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