Encephalitis International contacted me about sharing my measles encephalitis survival story to help advocate for the MMR (Measles, Mumps, Rubella) Vaccine. Lena Sun, who is with The Washington Post, interviewed me, and the story came out today, July 7, 2024. She’s written other Washington Post articles about measles, and I find her research to be spot on.
This is the link she sent me, and I hope it works. There are five stories, and mine is the last one. The comments that follow the story are powerful and made me tear up. So much suffering can be prevented if people would get vaccinated. When I contracted measles in 1958, the MMR Vaccine had not come out yet.
I’ve written poems about my surviving measles encephalitis. They can be found in my book, Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir, which is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online venues.
Below is one of the poems, “My Memoir as a Doll”. Encephalitis paralyzed me. Because I had to be carried around, I was moved to the living room couch, where I was closer to family. Although I understood what people were saying, I was unable to speak. I was only able to eat baby food. I wasn’t able to stretch out my arms. I went into a coma for a month. When I came out of the coma, I could speak but not walk. I was only 6 going on 7 years old at that point.
The doctor declared I would never walk again, but I proved him wrong. Because I didn’t like being in a wheelchair, I taught myself how to walk again. It was an arduous task. In those days (the late 50s), there were no physical therapy services available. I recall pulling myself out of the wheelchair and clinging to furniture. I dragged myself from one piece of furniture to another over and over until I could move my legs. I don’t remember how many days it took. My parents were out of town for a period of time. When they arrived home, I was able to run up to them.
A Miracle
My paternal grandfather had fallen ill with brain cancer, and we both happened to be in the same hospital in Miles City, Montana. Dad, an only child, had moved Granddad from Michigan so that he could help his father.
When I was rushed to the hospital, I thought I was going to there to visit Granddad. I have a very vivid memory of standing by his bed and visiting with him. Surrounding the bed were five tall figures. I recall being annoyed by them because they said I couldn’t go with Granddad although I begged to go.
I believe the memory was a near-death experience. Because I was unable to walk and talk, how could I have stood beside Granddad’s bed and visited with him? The figures were angels, I believe. And I think a deal was struck to spare me. My father had lost his mother the year before and was facing the loss of both his father and oldest child. I truly believe encephalitis was killing me that night when I was rushed to the hospital. Both Granddad and I were in a coma meeting with our spiritual councils. After the angels told me to return to my room, I awake from the coma to a searing bright overhead light and a doctor hovering over me saying, “The bear went over the mountain. Say it, dear.” When I repeated the sentence, he said I was fine but “would never walk again”.
My Memoir as a Doll
I.
Memories, bubbles burst by encephalitis.
Neurons, drowned by viral swell.
I cling to these scenes. Minnesota.
A baby, touching snow for the first time.
A toddler, rocking in a chair.
My pet dog no one else can see.
Kindergarten, the little kitchen.
Pots, pans, dishes, an oven.
Bossing the boys. Our heckled husbands.
Kool-Aid and cookies.
Story time in a circle.
Nap time on braided rugs.
II.
The move to Montana.
Grandma Hattie’s stroke.
Her room off the kitchen.
Mom, her caregiver.
Our finding Grandma
passed away on my first day of school.
My panic attack while entering
the First Grade classroom that day.
The teacher’s desk, looming up
Like a grizzly. Its hot breath
burns my lungs, molten grief.
One day, Mom sends me upstairs.
Another errand. My legs
give out. My Mount Everest,
the stairs. I descend with a slide.
Call to Mom. Unable to walk,
to reach for hugs, to speak, to eat solids.
Mom feeds me baby food. I’m her doll to haul.
The couch, my new bed. Convenient.
Joyous sounds from the kitchen. People pass by
my dusty porcelain shell.
Loneliness. Helplessness. My sister
tries to visit. My words, clear in my mind,
befuddled squawks to her. I grow mute.
My parents rushing home one night.
My siblings’ eyes frighten me.
The cold car. Mom’s lap. The blackness.
III.
I get to see Grandad, who’s in the same hospital.
I’m standing by his bed. We visit
and laugh. I want to go with him.
The people there say, “No.”
I argue. They insist I return to my room.
I scold them with my eyes.
I don’t know that these tall figures in white.
are angels. My soul is spared
for Grandpa’s by this holy counsel.
IV.
I awaken to the cold blast
of a burning heaven. White figures hover.
I repeat their prayers. They rejoice
about pulling the strings
and pose this Paralyzed Barbie
under a sheet.
V.
The return home in a wheelchair.
The people waiting for me. The party.
The gifts. A tea set I’ve always wanted.
They speak over me. I’m invisible.
Still carried, washed and dressed.
My parents’ gratitude
and grief. My friends outside. I miss
the breeze and tease. The running.
Hide and Seek. Hot sunny days.
VI.
Late back to school. Second grade.
Diseased Barbie. Forced to sit in the hall.
Kids run past me quickly.
Slow Learner Barbie. Lack of focus.
Poor memory. Constant crying.
Effects of encephalitis.
Now I’m “other”. Friendless.
An easy target for teasing. Cruel remarks.
For me, not this life. Not now.
Too young to suffer as Fragile Barbie. Too young
to be cast into an empty plastic shell,
posed in this wheel chair.
Where’s my soul? My voice?
My strength? My will?
I call them back to their ghost.
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 
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