We have to go back a few years and several thousands of miles to get at the beginning of this story. And, don’t you agree that we should always start at the beginning? My arthritis story begins in 1967, and I’m driving my fairly new Harley Davidson motorcycle near Keesler Air Force Base, in Biloxi, Mississippi, where I’m stationed as an air traffic controller. I had been stationed there since 1966, and they wouldn’t let the big motorcycles on the base, so I was forced to drive it near the front gate, park it outside the base, and catch a shuttle bus from there out to the flight line. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, the roads were dry, and it looked like almost any other day while driving to work, but something very different happened this day. It happened in the blink of an eye. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see movement coming from my right. It was a bright, shiny blue, new Mercedes Benz, and it was not going to stop. I couldn’t believe it!

She hit me from the right side, with a sickening crunch of twisting metal and broken bones. My leg was forced in between the air cleaner, the carburetor, and the extremely hot exhaust pipes. When the Harley fell over on me, the hot exhaust pipes continued burning through my fatigues (uniform of the day) and burned into my right leg. I started yelling because of the pain, and a passerby came rushing to my help and lifted this very heavy motorcycle off of me. Feeling great relief almost immediately, I stood up. Although, there was no bleeding, I quickly noticed that my right hand was hanging down near the calf of my right leg, and I just as quickly went unconscious and fell back to the ground.

I was told that all of the supporting structures in my right shoulder had been torn and the only thing holding my arm on my shoulder was, probably, just the skin. The orthopedic examination and x-rays confirmed the ambulance diagnosis, and I was scheduled for surgery later on that evening. It was quite an extensive operation, which included putting three staples (they looked like the staples used to hang barbed wire) into my shoulder joint in an attempt to hold everything together. After a brief recovery period and weeks of physical therapy, we thought all was going to go well and I was released from the hospital. Well, no such luck. The darn shoulder would not stay in place. It kept slipping out of joint (dislocation), and the slightest movement would send me back to the hospital in extreme pain. The only way that they could get it reduced (back into place) was to give me an injection of morphine, and then twist and pull on the shoulder until it slipped "back into place." On occasion, they would tape a bucket to my right hand, and as the morphine started to take effect, they would fill the bucket up with water. This extra weight allowed them to manipulate my shoulder, one more time, back into place. Thank God for morphine! I got scheduled for a second shoulder surgery.

This time the orthopedic surgeon put in three more staples. Boy, this should hold, right! Wrong! The pain was increasing, my shoulder movement was decreasing, and every time I went to sleep with my hand behind my head, I woke up with another dislocated shoulder and extreme pain. My days of throwing a ball, reaching behind my back or over my head, playing football, or wrestling with a buddy were over. Six more months of physical therapy with extensive exercise, including stretching and muscle strengthening proved useless. At the ripe old age of twenty-one, I started to develop post-traumatic osteoarthritis. But I was not one to give up.

After my discharge from the Air Force, in 1970, I scheduled an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon assigned to the Veteran’s Hospital in Martinez, California. Boy, this was a crazy hospital during that time, but I’ll leave that for another story! Anyway, the surgeon recommended that we take out the six staples, and try a different procedure. My arm was useless as it was, and I jumped at the suggestion. Maybe the third time would prove to be the charm. And, maybe it was. This third surgery proved to be the most effective of the three. Post surgical therapy, however, lasted quite a bit longer than the previous two. I vaguely remember seeing the therapist, at least, three times per week for almost one year! Things were looking up! I got stronger, slept better, and recovered almost full range of motion in my shoulder. And, now thinking that I could do anything, I had to make some decisions about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

I’m fairly intelligent, or, at least, I thought that I was intelligent. But, no doubt, one of the worst decisions that I ever made, in regard to my shoulder, was to become a chiropractor. I loved being a chiropractor, but my shoulder didn’t see the humor in it. I’m one of those chiropractors that really get into it! A typical day was always quite a physical workout and my poor old shoulder took quite a bit of abuse. And, over the years it became increasingly clear that I chose the wrong profession. Of course, having all of the high-tech equipment available to me, I used ultrasound therapy, low voltage muscle stimulation, micro-current electrical therapy, and short-wave diathermy on a regular basis to get me through the day. I also had regular chiropractic and acupuncture treatments, but the favorable results were getting less frequent. Eventually, I went back to see my orthopedist. Treatment consisted of NSAIDS (non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs), but soon, even they, did not have much effect. I resorted to occasional injections of prednizone, a corticosteriod. When injected in the right spot, this stuff was magic. Usually within a day or two, I would be completely out of pain and back at work like nothing ever happened. Unfortunately, the results lasted only a couple of weeks and the terrible pain would return. I didn’t know what to do.

It changed my life. I started sharing it with all of my patients, and the results were quite remarkable. Most individuals had to take it for several months before seeing real dramatic results, and I found that by increasing the daily dose from 1500 milligrams up to 2 or 3 grams each day, we could achieve much quicker results. I loved this stuff! I was back at work. However, the continual abuse of my shoulder while performing chiropractic adjustments continued to do its damage, and in 1995 I was considering doing something else for a living. Fortunately, about that time a friend mentioned reading something about this miraculous nutrient called Cetyl Myristoleate.

At the time, it was available as a liquid with instructions to take it orally. It was foul tasting stuff, and I could barely get it down, but I was desperate. Later on this manufacturer provided it in a chocolate and piña colada flavor, which tasted only a little better, but I truly appreciated. The results were amazing. I’ll never forget the moment that I noticed something very powerful was happening.

Over the years I would wake up during the night about five or six times. At one time I thought that I was becoming an insomniac. I hadn’t had a good night sleep in a long time. I discovered, however, that each time I woke up, I was lying on my right shoulder and the pain was excruciating. I didn’t have insomnia; the pain was waking me up! After drinking this foul-tasting stuff called Cetyl Myristoleate, I experienced something quite miraculous. On the sixth day, I woke up having slept through the entire night and the pain was gone. That was over six years ago, and I still have no shoulder pain. And, I sleep like a baby. I still have to take a small dose, now and then, usually after throwing the ball or a stick for Sadie, my Labrador retriever, but, believe me, it’s nothing like the pain and discomfort that I suffered with for almost thirty years. And, as they say, the rest is history.