One evening in February, 1895, while riding with my husband in a spring wagon, we were thrown out, the wheel passed over my right limb below the knee and, becoming entangled with my clothing, I was dragged a distance of fifty feet, apparently under the wheel, the horse running away. My husband carried me home in his arms, a distance of half a mile. At that time we were living in the country, and had no one to send for help. It seeming as if I could not be left alone, my husband worked over me all night, doing all he could to relieve my suffering.
When the physician was called the limb was swollen to a great extent, and black from the knee to the ankle, so that he could not determine what the injury was, but thought it only bruised, therefore prescribed hot poultices to reduce the swelling.
I lay in one position for three weeks and four days with constant changing of almost boiling hot applications; still I could not feel any warmth from them. The suffering was beyond description; my hair, which was dark, turning white in the three weeks. The swelling being reduced sufficiently, upon thorough examination the physicians found that the two bones extending from the knee to the ankle had been separated, severing cords and muscles, and the smaller bone forced over on the other and upward very much out of place, making the limb four inches short. The physicians insisted upon an operation, but as the bones had begun to grow in that position, they would be obliged to use the knife in order to put the bone back in its proper place. They acknowledged, however, that it would only be an experiment, as they could neither promise the saving of the limb, nor even of my life; therefore we would not consent to the operation, but continued poulticing and using every kind of liniment that was suggested, hoping to find relief from the suffering, thinking that was all that ever could be done.
