A classmate of mine in elementary school, a boy named Billy, had been a victim of the 1950s polio epidemic. His legs were in braces and he used crutches. I was in the same class with him from third through sixth grades and knew him very well. He sat next to me and used to pass notes to me in class, and he shared his 48-color Crayola box with me when everyone else was stuck with the standard-issue eight crayons.
Kids regarded his condition as a curiosity at first, but pretty quickly it was simply seen as the way he was, just as some kids are short and some have long hair and some wear glasses. It was normal for Billy. I can’t remember anyone’s ever giving him special treatment, either favorable or unfavorable, except his mother, who overindulged him (like with the special crayon box).
I do remember that he liked to show off how fast he could move across the floor without crutches, as quick as a lizard, on his belly, just using his hands, with his shrunken legs dragging behind him. The rest of us couldn’t do that and were impressed. He was also damned fast on his crutches. He joined in many of the recess games and could give a kickball a powerful whack with a crutch.
There was nothing for my parents to handle. We were friends. Simple.