www.wrightsvillebeachmagazine.com 15
WBM
Stephen Britt, MK2; coxswain Gary Guido, BM3 and Rob Asp, BM3
manned the chase boat for our cover shoot. Station dog Sadie,
a one-year-old chocolate Labrador Retriever, came out to say hi
afterward.
MRIs with dye, called arthrograms were ordered for my
shoulder and wrist.
But then very late in February, suddenly God stepped in.
Yes, Jesus Christ, the same yesterday and today, still heals.
My healing miracles began during prayer. There have been
two so far. I had a gain of 50 percent range of motion (abduc-tion)
in a single day. Then eight days later, the morning after
my birthday, my arm was all the way in the air, straight up
and straight out. Rusty, sure, but the wing was engaging
again. Time for the oil can.
My joy was full after a year and a quarter contending in
faith and hope.
Dr. Moore’s March report described “noted improvement.”
And despite the earlier MRIs, the shoulder arthro-gram
showed no damage. My PT doc was skeptical however, a man
of science.
Today, all glory to our wonder working God, I am grateful
to be back on the job. Tweaking of my wrist and hand is
ongoing, as is retraining my shoulder after such a long disuse.
Life is oh so glorious. As the heartfelt celebration of our
nation’s founding commences, I am swimming off Motts
Channel.
Ya gotta love happy endings. Thank you, Jesus, all glory
and honor is Yours. (And thank you Lord for excellent
doctors and therapists.)
Happy 4th of July one and all!
What you can do in the water, sooner or later you can do out
of the water. I added foam weights. When the temperature
dropped below 60, I moved to a commercial pool, then in
November to the YWCA on College Road.
In December, I began inner trauma healing with Kathi
Oats of Isaiah 61 Ministry.
Thirteen months (390 days) in, despite all the prayer,
prayer chains, laying on of hands, 12 trauma ministry
sessions, 100 hours of PT, and close to 80 hours of OT, I
was still facing the big “D” — a disabled diagnosis. My
wing wouldn’t stretch out or go up (abduct) more than
six inches.
My doctors didn’t know why. The blame was surely going
to land on the mysterious brachial plexus, the bundle of
nerves that controls absolutely everything from the neck all
the way to the fingers, but first a labral tear of my shoulder
had to be ruled out.
A year in, I had received a hard won ortho referral to
Richard Moore Jr., the hand, wrist and shoulder doctor. I
had been told I was “barely treading water” in my PT, and
OT was suspended.
Editor/Publisher
PHOTOS BY ALLISON POTTER