When I was fifteen years of age, we were living on a ranch in Nebraska, where I indulged in wild horse-back rides and bronco breaking, afterwards becoming a bicycle enthusiast, and was considered an all-round wild young athlete. During one of my escapades I sustained an internal injury. I was sent to Chicago for treatment, and under a physician's care there after some months I regained my health, and went on a visit to our former Eastern home, enjoying dancing, skating, and general pleasures until the old trouble returned, disabling me to such an extent that I hurried back to Chicago, where I was helped some before returning to Nebraska. I resumed my athletic pleasures and sustained an injury so serious that nothing could relieve me. Four physicians endeavored to help me, but the cause was deep-seated and stubborn, and refused to yield, compelling me to lie flat on my back with the right knee drawn up. The region over the pain was painted, blistered, scalded, poulticed, and braces of every description tried; but no medical aid lifted me to my feet, and I suffered through long and weary months. Occasionally my mother would put me in the big rocker and drag it to the door on summer evenings. There seemed to be an improvement at one time during the year and a half in bed, when a gynecologist from New York took charge of the case; the pain lessened somewhat, and I gained strength enough to bear my own weight and walk a very little, but I was soon down again in a more deplorable condition than before.
This specialist, discouraged with the result of his efforts, assured my mother that every means known to him had been used, and an operation was all that could be of any benefit.
About this time I made a three days visit to a friend; a physician and editor of a Medical Clinic, was going North to a medical convention of some sort, and he suggested that I have a little change and come to his home and remain with his wife during his absence.
