Another Path to My Garden: My Life as a Quadriplegic

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Chapter One

My First Life

Everything stopped and started all over again for me, at noon on the third official day of summer in 1949.

June 23rd often finds me at work in my garden. I live very close to the geographical centre of Toronto, Canada’s largest and most cosmopolitan city. My anniversary is almost always a sunny day, filled with vitality and the promise of a carefree summer: a perfect day for fine-tuning nature’s gifts in my specially built flower garden. This I do from my wheelchair. Although my hands are paralysed, my shoulders and arms are strong; physically, that’s the extent of my mechanics, but I’m very proud of what moving around I can somehow manage to do.

In my garden, on a crescent in the quiet green enclave of Don Mills, I’m regularly disturbed by the aerodynamic beat of the air ambulances, Bandage One and Bandage Two. Their flight path takes them over my house and on about three blocks to the intensive care unit at Sunnybrook, formerly a veterans’ hospital, now a general hospital specializing in neurological problems.

When it happens that on June 23 I hear that WOP, WOP, WOP of urgently pounding helicopter blades, I am instantly lost in thoughts of the injured person passing above my garden to the emergency operating room. Who will share my anniversary this year? Is it a husband, whose return to the cottage turned disastrous? Or a fun-loving teenager who went out to test the limits of his daring in night games with his peers and found instead the closer limit of his vulnerability? Or a swimmer whose carefree dive into dark deceptive water suddenly snapped the communication link between brain and body?

It could be any of those. If the person survives the flight, modern medicine will respond; teams of specialists will put the physical pieces back together as best they can. But what of the spirit of the broken body? How does it muster the courage to live again, to work and play with such devastating physical disabilities?

In my case, the metamorphosis was instantaneous. I was an active first-year university student and then I was a prostrate bundle of biological systems. My malfunctioning body healed, and has continually learned and adapted over the years. I have spent my life confronting social forces that, until my accident, were entirely alien to me: pity, fear, and paternalism.

I was first confronted with those attitudes more than forty years ago in the New Brunswick coastal resort town of St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, a picturesque town well known to the rich and famous who sought its natural glories. What better place to have a summer job when one was nineteen and vibrant with life?

This was my second working summer at an enchanting Canadian Pacific Railway summer hotel, and it was shaping up as promised. The previous year, I had held the lowly position of beanery girl, serving employees in the canteen of the Banff Springs Hotel in the Canadian Rockies. This year I was a real waitress, serving the guests at the majestic Tudor-styled Algonquin Hotel.

For the past week, we had been overrun by a media convention. It was the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s first opportunity to show off the marvels of a new medium — television. Media representatives from across the country swarmed to the quaint resort town to witness the first demonstration of closed-circuit electronic pictures in Canada.

My father, the quiet strength of the small Noell family of four, was often taken away from home by his job as chief engineer for the Board of Transport Commissioners of Canada. Always, he came back unscathed by the world. That week, he happened to be passing through St. Andrews on business. It was an unexpected pleasure for me. At home, in far-away Ottawa, I would have bid him farewell from the front steps of our house; it seemed right, although somewhat exotic, to be saying our goodbyes on the front porch of the Algonquin.

Take care, and behave yourself, he said in his Virginian drawl with a customary twinkle in his eye. And as usual, I had to try to avoid the cigar protruding from his mouth when I kissed him goodbye.

Consumed by the joy of life, I skipped the entire length of the wooden, cloistered porch, then hesitated at the main entrance of the hotel through which Father and I had just come. I felt a pang of apprehension. Employees were not supposed to pass freely through the hotel lobby, and I was wearing my colonial-style uniform. No matter, I thought, I could slip through discreetly. Trying to look inconspicuous, I walked in as quietly as I could.

Inside the lobby, applause startled me. The convention delegates had watched my farewell with Father, my joyful skipping, and my cautious re-entry on a black-and-white television monitor set up in the lobby. I was stunned and embarrassed, but then delighted to realize, from the smiles all around me, that I had done something right, although I still did not know what.

A little later, two other waitresses and I were asked to perform again for the cameras. We were directed to stand by the so-called television screen, smile and wave at the box. I still didn’t know where the camera was. All I could see was a large wooden box with a heavy glass window set into it. We stared at ourselves on the screen in spellbound amazement. It seemed magical! That was the beginning of the television phenomenon, which the whole world discovered three years later, when the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth was televised.

During that convention, Peggy Alston, a cheerful fellow waitress, had been assigned to serve the table of Commander Briggs, head of the federal agency regulating broadcasting in Canada. At Friday lunch, Peggy announced to the Commander’s table that, by hook or by crook, she was setting off to explore the Maritimes that weekend. Unable to resist her infectious enthusiasm, the Commander offered Peggy a lift in his auto-mobile all the way to Halifax. In the kitchen, when Peggy announced his offer to the dining room staff, I eagerly suggested that she needed a companion. She agreed. We had just enough time to run back to the dormitory, change out of our uniforms, and stuff our pyjamas and toothbrushes into our packs.

When we returned, the Commander introduced us to our chauffeur, a handsome, worldly looking gentleman who was a broadcaster from Halifax. They appeared delighted to have us with them for the long ride home, and appointed themselves our hosts and guides in the Maritimes. On our first stop we took a fascinating tour of the Sackville, New Brunswick, short-wave radio station. Next came a marvellous meal at the famous Marshlands Inn.

Many miles later, in the heart of impoverished Acadian farmland, we suddenly came upon smoke billowing from an old wooden house by the roadside. Commander Briggs came to a halt in a cloud of dust, upwind of the house. All four of us leapt out of the car, and without consultation or hesitation, we ran into the building, feeling secure that the flames at the back would not spread too quickly.

On the ground floor, we found a man, drunk, a six-year-old girl and an overwhelmed mother who was trying to rescue her house plants from the fire and smoke. I flew up the stairs to evacuate that floor. No one was there so I tried to salvage the double mattress and ended up being swept down the stairs on top of it. Meanwhile, Peggy, the Commander, and the broadcaster managed to get the family outside, and then the rest of their sparse furnishings. We became aware of a gathering of local people standing idly by as the fire consumed the house. It puzzled me that they depended on strangers to save their neighbours from further grief. It didn’t make any sense. My innocence was shaken by this blatant display of apathy, and the absence of a sense of a caring community. It wasn’t... well, it just wasn’t Canadian.

Having done what we could, we fetched the little girl from the car, where she had been taken for safekeeping, to reunite her with her parents’ misery. I felt a sense of sorrow and hopelessness for that child and for what life would have in store for her. It hurt to drive away.

Hours later, as we drove through Bedford Basin along the pitch-black shores of the Atlantic, the fire still troubled me. Finally, about three o’clock in the morning, we pulled into the driveway of a comfortable-looking home. Commander Briggs’s wife was startled to be awakened from a sound sleep and asked to prepare sleeping arrangements for two young women. We slept well and awoke to the smell of breakfast. On the broad, rambling porch, Peggy and I found it unsettling, although delightful, that just as she had served the Commander a day earlier, the Briggses now served us.

After a quick tour of the Halifax sights that morning, we went aboard a splendid sailing yacht for a twenty-one-mile regatta. That night, we attended a soirée with the rest of the regatta crews at the Northwest Arms Yacht Club.

On Sunday morning, the Commander attempted to dissuade us from hitchhiking the 300 miles back to St. Andrews. Proper young ladies don’t do that sort of thing, he said.

We’re not proper young ladies, Peggy quipped, devilishly. The last two days of excitement had made us confident and cocky. We knew there might be risks in this mode of travel, but we hadn’t thought of the possibility that we might be late for Monday morning duty at seven o’clock. I had a railway pass, compliments of Father’s job, but I wouldn’t abandon Peggy — besides, hitchhiking was bound to be fun.

By late that afternoon, we had been in and out of several local cars, but had covered relatively few miles. Interprovincial traffic in 1949, especially in the Maritimes, was light and the roads left much to be desired. After several hours at one crossroad, we were becoming anxious; I was convinced we were stranded, and destined to spend days at this forlorn spot. Eventually we were rescued by a half-ton pickup truck carrying a load of swine. The driver had no room in the cab. Peggy and I glanced at each other, searching for courage — it was clear we didn’t have a choice. We climbed in. Four rotund pigs stared back at us with incredulous eyes. That ride took us as far as Saint John, forty or so miles short of our destination, so it was after three on Monday morning when a motorist, with lipstick smears all over his cheeks, finally pulled over to give us a lift. With mutual nods, Peggy and I silently agreed: he passed our security check. He looked harmless enough and somebody obviously adored him. Two hours later, just as the sun peeked over the horizon, we bid our moonstruck chauffeur farewell. We snuck back into our residence and by seven a.m. we were ready to present ourselves for duty in the dining room.

Eagerly, I anticipated getting off duty to chronicle our wonderful weekend in a letter to my mother, at home in Ottawa. Like most mothers, she revelled in every detail of her daughter’s life, and although she had had bouts of manic-depression, I knew I could share all my experiences with her. With her recently added anxiety about my brother’s episode of the same illness, she would worry needlessly about me if she didn’t get a letter from me soon.

Mother would receive that letter four days later, on June 23rd, and on the same day she would receive a telephone call about her daughter from the Algonquin hotel management.

The following week saw the end of the last scheduled convention of the summer. We were all delighted to see the last delegates leave after breakfast. No midday meal to serve! A free lunchtime was an opportunity to have a picnic at Katy’s Cove, with its divided beach: one area for guests and, adjoining it, a narrower one for staff. Similar to a lagoon, Katy’s Cove was completely enclosed by land except for a hidden, underwater sluice gate on the far side. Every couple of weeks, those gates were opened to flush out the stagnant seawater with the low tide. The dramatic tides of the Bay of Fundy were eliminated and concealed by a grassy berm breakwater that held the sluice gates fast.

That morning, the Algonquin Hotel maintenance staff had opened the sluice gates. Signs posted in the main lobby had advised the guests that there would be no swimming while the water in the Cove was being exchanged. Staff, meanwhile, using their entrance at the back of the hotel, the shortcut to our residences, were unaware of those signs. Our route from the residences to Katy’s Cove took us around the back of the hotel and down a dusty lane. Employees shared the lane with guests, but not the beach, which for us was a strip of sand edging the pine forest that flanked the main beach. However, we were allowed access to a floating jetty on the main beach.

Betty Gunter, like me a new recruit, was clearly down in the dumps when she came off breakfast duty at 11 a.m. I wanted some company on the beach and she obviously needed cheering up.

A picnic? Oh, O.K. she said.

Staking out our claim on the beach with our towels, I thought it curious so few guests were taking advantage of such a beautiful day. So much the better, I thought. Except for a few strollers, and Jeff, the hotel’s blond lifeguard inside his hut, we had the whole beach to ourselves.

I stretched out luxuriously as the sun reached its zenith in a brilliant blue sky. Ah, life!... It seemed so idyllic. Even with three more years of Queen’s University looming on the horizon, all my cares drifted out to sea. Betty, however, wouldn’t let go of hers. This was her first extended stay away from home and she yearned for her boyfriend back in Montreal. I groaned inside to think she was still homesick, in spite of such a glorious day. To distract her attention, I suggested a swim.

You go ahead, Marilyn, she said mournfully.

The thought of the cool ocean water was exhilarating — I couldn’t resist. Clad in my favourite black one-piece bathing suit, I crossed over to the guest beach and stepped onto the floating jetty. Again, I couldn’t help marvelling at the beauty of the sky, so typically a Canadian June morning of clear, luminescent blue. The sun, suspended directly overhead, beamed its warm joy.

The jetty, a long floating boardwalk, buoyed by empty oil drums, rocked gently, absorbing my exuberant walk. When I came to the end, I tested the temperature of the water with my toes. They recoiled instantly, as if saying, No thanks! The water was colder than it had ever been before.

Don’t be a chicken, Marilyn, I scolded myself. Get going before you talk yourself out of it.

With my toes gripping the edge of the jetty, calves together, I rose onto the balls of my feet, then bent my knees and swung my arms above my head in my amateur version of a neat standing dive.

The same instant that my taut body entered the water I must have hit the hard, muck-covered bottom, and crumpled. I was fully conscious, although I had felt none of the impact. All I could feel was water lapping at the back of my neck. Then I realized that my body was ignoring my urgent command to turn over to get air. My mind was crystal clear but totally void of emotion, except for some sense of urgency.

Oh no, I’m going to drown, my mind told me. Mum and Dad will be upset, I thought. Then I thought, they say your whole life passes in review when you’re drowning. Mine didn’t. I won’t be able to tell anyone that it isn’t so.

Jeff, the lifeguard at the guest beach house, must have heard my splash. Before I could swallow any water, he had scooped me up and laid me on the jetty He could stand, waist-deep, in the murky water where I had just plunged. To reach me in time, he must have raced across the beach and down the jetty.

I was terrified, but couldn’t scream my fear. I could barely breathe. Talking didn’t seem to come out of my chest even though I was desperate to speak to Jeff. Not aware that my whole body lay flat on the jetty, I tried to ask him to pull my legs out of the bone-chilling water. Still no sound came out of my lips. Jeff thought I was suffocating. He prepared to sit me upright, thinking my lungs were full of sea water but when, thank goodness, he saw my face reacting with horror, he stopped.

A man, who announced himself as a chiropractor, appeared out of nowhere, towering above me. His diagnosis was that my neck needed straightening, and he offered to do the job. Again my eyes screamed the fear that my voice could not utter. Jeff wouldn’t let the chiropractor touch me, but the man continued to hover over me like a buzzard circling its prey.

Finally, a doctor arrived and took control. He undid his tie pin and stuck it into my arms and legs; I didn’t feel anything, so did not react. To the doctor, it was clear what was wrong. I would have to be moved to a hospital immediately, he told the others. To ensure that my spinal column wouldn’t be jarred, he organized Jeff and three other men into a team to carry me in a blanket — a means not in keeping with today’s first aid standards — and insisted that they keep it taut and steady. They each took a corner and carried me to a waiting delivery van that had been summoned to the jetty. Thinking I would be more comfortable, they laid me half on, half off a thin mattress.

No, no, no! Flat out on her back. Get rid of that thing, he said in a panic, indicating the mattress. And mind you, drive slowly and don’t hit any pot holes, he warned the driver.

Moments later, I was carried into the hotel where my bathing suit became the next victim. The doctor cut it to pieces to get it off me without turning me.

I don’t remember the fifteen-mile journey to St. Stephen’s Hospital. When we got there, I do remember hoping that the chiropractor and the atmosphere of panic of the hotel hadn’t followed. Of that, I was only partly spared — some of the dining room staff, including Peggy and Betty, were with me in the X-ray department. After a doctor had examined my X-rays, he went to report to the girls in the waiting area. Through the open door I could faintly make out what he was saying about my condition.

Finally, I heard him say, Who should tell her?

I couldn’t believe my ears. I was at the mercy of a doctor who didn’t have the nerve to tell his patient the situation. As a biochemistry major at Queen’s, I had a pretty good idea what had happened to me.

When he came back to the room, I pumped my diaphragm as hard as I could, expelling enough air to faintly whisper, I know. I wanted to pass out but the fear of never waking up again kept me alert. Who can I trust? I thought, as the fire raged in my neck.

The doctor’s silence continued even after my words but I could see that he had heard me. He was obviously overwhelmed by the task of having to relate what he had seen in my X-rays. Eventually, he managed to say that the Montreal Neurological Institute was the only place that could help me.

The question of who should go with me became an issue. I could hear the hotel staff arguing about it, and Betty’s voice was the most insistent. She won her case, though on what grounds she qualified, I didn’t know. I didn’t care, either. Somebody please, I just wanted to scream, put out the fire in my neck!

I heard months later that a fully booked Air Canada flight from Halifax to Montreal was ordered to land at Saint John Airport. To make room for my stretcher in the plane, some passengers near the door had to give up their seats and catch the next flight.

Throughout the flight, fear and fire-like pain kept me conscious. I sensed that my life depended on a conscious effort to breathe. Awareness was my only defence in my critical state. Whether this was true or not, I believed I had to stay awake. For two terrible hours, I waged this battle alone. I wasn’t aware of a doctor or nurse on board the flight and I don’t remember seeing Betty.

Minutes after we touched down at Montreal’s Dorval Airport, Dad’s white face appeared over the backrest of the adjacent seats, searching my eyes for signs of recognition. Shock waves of horror surged through me as I saw the anguish and pain in Dad’s face. Then my fear for myself surfaced again as I silently pleaded, Dad, please help me.

Then, delivering me from the emotional devastation on Father’s face and from the fear that bombarded me, came the cool, soothing hands of a neurological intern