When Mom and Dad and I adopted Watchtower teachings during the mid 50's, the most influential couple we knew were special pioneers by the names of Raymond and Doris Bridgman. They were truly fine people in many senses, a bit younger than my folks, and very charismatic. The place was New Bedford, Massachusetts, U.S.A.
It wasn't long before you realized that the Bridgmans ate differently than the rest of us. Even at my young age I perceived as much and wondered out loud, "What diet are you on, Raymond?" It took much persistence till he finally revealed that a book by a Professor Ehret was behind their diet and "would you like to read it?", he volunteered.
We not only read the Ehret book but faithfully followed his teachings on diet and enemas and fasting -- for awhile. It was simply too drastic for meat eaters like us. We weakened.
Only recently I found that same book in paperback form and bought it, more out of curiosity. I then discovered how radical it truly was, but so drastic that it had a charm about it. Here was a true wacko and self-ordained "professor" who took on the entire medical establishment. More important, I wondered whether Ehret's philosophy had actually found its way into the earlier Watchtower literature. Bingo! Note the following references.
Barnes, L. D. "The Ehret System of Elimination." Golden Age April 3, 1929 p. 434.
Shelton, Herbert M. "More About the Ehret System." Golden Age May 29, 1929 p. 564.
"The Ehret System of Elimination." Golden Age March 20, 1929 p. 399-401.
But I digress. The Bridgman's were Watchtower products of the 1930's and had a son, Allen, one of my best friends in those mid 1950's. Before I met Allen he'd worked at Bethel headquarters for some 18 months but had to leave because he developed grand mal epilepsy while working there. It was about that time that Allen and I started to hang out although he was some 5 years older. I was encouraged by Bridgmans to come out to their place and be a friend and keep an eye on Allen -- we'd pitch horseshoes and talk and play catch with a baseball. That became a daily ritual during school days.
I was trained to "watch" Allen and it wasn't easy for this 15 year-old. Never leave him by himself, I was told. Go where he goes. Especially, keep an eye on him for the seizure symptoms.
It was always scary to see Allen go into his convulsions. At its worse, his seizures happened daily and sometimes more often. He would always stop in his tracks no matter where we were. He'd turn his head and shoulders to his left, then look upwards. That would be my signal. By that time he would be unconscious and vulnerable to being injured by any combination of falling down, biting his tongue, or throwing his shoulders out of joint. I would quickly get to him and wrap my arms around his chest, then gently lower his frame to the ground, looking for a soft resting spot for his head. A clean handkerchief was always in some pocket and I'd quickly fetch it, fold it, and force it between his teeth in one corner of his mouth. Then stand back.
It didn't last long, perhaps a minute or two. Bystanders would stand clear and some would scream at Allen's violent thrashing of his arms and head and legs. His groans were heart-wrenching. His face would turn from red to purple to nearly black, and he would froth at the mouth. His eyes continued wide open but he wasn't aware of his surroundings for another ten minutes or so. I had a very brief window of time to do then what I dreaded most -- place one or both of his shoulders back into their sockets -- this by folding each arm closed and leveraging the elbow across his stomach till I felt the shoulder snap into place. Delaying that task would mean he would awaken to severe pain where only an ambulance and some medical technician could do what I knew needed to be done quickly.
"Are you all right?", I'd keep asking.
We'd already resumed whatever we'd been doing, perhaps just walking somewhere. I'd already brushed the dirt and the leaves from his backside and head. I'd already wiped the froth of saliva from his face. I'd already placed his handkerchief back into his pocket where it would be ready for the next time. But, untill he regained full consciousness, he acted as if he were ignoring me, as if being insulted by my interrogation.
Finally, "Did I just have one, Lenny?", he would quiz me. He somehow seemed to sense it. In retrospect, however, his head and torso and limbs had just been violently battered by this unmerciful disease of the brain. He certainly was in some kind of discomfort and confided at least once that his shoulders were "very sore". That was no surprise.
"Yes, but everything went okay", I'd reassure him.
Allen would always thank me for being there for him. I was actually proud of myself for remaining calm and doing my little part.
It was then that I at times sensed his anger at having to go through what he went through. Yes, angry at his parents Raymond and Doris. He confided in me, once, that they felt doctors could probably help his condition but that they didn't believe in them or in their medicines. I never learned until recently that their negative view of doctors probably hatched with the aid of Watchtower literature. As "Professor" Ehret's contempt for doctors and their profession is crystal clear in his writings, and since the Society at one time subscribed within their pages to Ehret's thinking, it all came together.
In those mid 50's, all in our congregation felt such empathy and sadness for Allen's plight. Most had no idea his parents subscribed to the then-abandoned teaching that Witnesses shun medicines prescribed by medical doctors. Most, including my family, had no idea that Bridgmans had probably read and believed the following from a leading Watchtower publication:
*** The Golden Age, September 26, 1934, p. 807 ***
"The Journal of the A. M. A. is the vilest sheet that passes the United States mail.... Nothing new and useful in therapeutics escapes its unqualified condemnation. Its attacks are generally ad hominem. Its editorial columns are largely devoted to character assassination.... Its editor [Morris Fishbein] is of the type of Jew that crucified Jesus Christ."
It was only after pure desperation that Allen's parents finally relented and a physican's help was sought. He began taking the doctor's prescription and what happened was like a miracle. No, he wasn't cured, Raymond would always defensively remind us. True, I would think, but Allen had no more epileptic seizures -- ever, to the best of my knowledge. He was able to find gainful employment, a good marriage mate and raise a family.
Allen and I share grandchildren as my son and his daughter have three children of their own. In one sense, Allen is now the lucky one. He has a relationship with the very ones, our children and grandchildren, who feel obligated to shun me.