For Chet Thompson, the spasms came infrequently at first. But by nightfall, the stabbing pain in his midsection was more than he could bear. As a farmer living in Lander, Wyoming, Thompson understood pain and agony. The land in Wyoming was stingy at best and, at worst, downright cruel. But with this, even he knew he was in uncharted territory.
Escorted by his wife, Thompson sought advice from a healer who had drifted into town and threw out his shingle in the vacant space next to the dry goods shop. After a thorough examination, Thompson was diagnosed with a severe bleeding ulcer–a condition, he was informed, that would worsen rapidly if he didn’t take immediate action. With a farm to manage, a bank note to repay and a wife and four children to support, Thompson had little choice but to accept the diagnosis. In the most difficult decision of his life, he sold two of his three milk cows to afford the medicine. With the bill settled, Thompson was prescribed a tonic and assured that he would feel better within 24 hours.
Despite taking the medicine, Thompson found no relief. In desperation, he returned to town only to learn that the good doctor had already moved on. In excruciating pain, Thompson was later diagnosed with appendicitis by a physician from Morton, a neighboring township.
Following his operation, Thompson’s pain eventually passed but his bitterness did not. He and his family struggled mightily in the winter of 1917.
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