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Paul Hovell

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When I was about eight years old, I went to a birthday party where the boy’s father refused to let me in because he “didn’t want people catching that.” At the time, very little was known about polio.

I was born in December 1954 at Victoria Hospital in Mansfield. When I was eight months old, I contracted polio and was admitted to Heathfield Isolation Hospital in Nottingham in August 1955. I was later transferred to the City Hospital. My parents were not allowed to stay with me.

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I was discharged at 15 months old. Although I was meant to return regularly for physiotherapy, this didn’t happen because my mother was pregnant again. I was transferred to the outpatient’s department at Mansfield General Hospital, but I still wasn’t taken for treatment.

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Around 1959, I was sent to the Royal Infirmary in Sheffield. After examination, the orthopaedic surgeon decided to leave things as they were at the time. My right arm, right shoulder, and possibly my right lung were affected. My GP, Dr Williams, agreed that my lung had been slightly damaged, but this was never followed up.

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When I was about eight years old, I went to a birthday party where the boy’s father refused to let me in because he “didn’t want people catching that.” At the time, very little was known about polio. I didn’t learn until much later that it was airborne.

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In 1966, an orthopaedic surgeon in Sheffield told my father that my condition would not improve and suggested that my right arm might need to be removed. My father replied, “He hates us now. I can’t make that decision for him. He’ll have to decide for himself when he’s older.” I ran off and hid in the car park, terrified that they were going to do it immediately.

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When I was about twelve, a man named Mr Hallam—who had taught my father to drive and had sustained war injuries—offered to help me use my right arm more. He introduced me to isometric exercises. I started by pulling on an old car fan belt tied to a stair door handle, then progressed to a Charles Atlas exerciser with two strings removed. Gradually I worked back up to three springs and later moved on to a bullworker. These exercises eventually enabled me to hold spanners and other tools.

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I continued attending annual check-ups at Sheffield Children’s Hospital until 1969, after which the visits stopped.

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School

My infant school years were fairly normal, but problems began when I moved to junior school. I was bullied not only by older pupils but also by the headmaster. The boys would spin my arm around like an aeroplane propeller and shout, “He’s looking for you,” followed by, “Richard Kimble, the fugitive — he’s looking for the one-armed man.”

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The headmaster used to make me sit in his office and try to write with my right hand. He would say, “You’ve got enough stigma having polio without being left-handed as well.” As I was naturally right-handed, when I wrote with my left hand I started in the middle of the book and wrote outwards to the edge of the page. I spent very little time in school after this, often running away and hiding.

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The only teacher who showed me any kindness at junior school was Mr Bundy, who allowed me to sit in his classroom during breaks, away from others. I also wore thick cardigans throughout the summer so people wouldn’t see my arm.

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Things became even worse at comprehensive school. Because I had missed so much education, I couldn’t read or write when I started. I hid whenever I could. My English teacher told me I was wasting both his time and my own and said I was the kind of person who would end up in a dead-end job.

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By then, my left arm had become very strong, and I began fighting anyone who would fight me. I was caned on stage for being a bully. I left school at fifteen with no qualifications. Despite this, I was still offered three jobs.

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I chose to work at a local sock factory, where I stayed for thirty years. I began as a trainee mechanic, worked my way up to supervisor, and for the final five years was head mechanic.

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After being promoted, I decided to learn to read and write properly and was accepted by the Mansfield Dyslexic Association. While I was learning, my wife helped by writing my reports, and a woman in the office wrote out any orders I needed until I was able to do them myself.

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When my mother was giving birth to my younger brother, a midwife told her that if she had breastfed me, I wouldn’t have caught polio. I hated my mother for many years after hearing this. When we argued about it years later, she explained that she had mastitis and couldn’t continue breastfeeding. After that conversation, our relationship improved.

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I am now 70 years old, and I felt it was time to tell my story.

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