My last two columns were about various alternative medicines, the first about patent medicines, the second about herbal cures.

Though I never expected it, I got a lot of feedback on each column, which prompted me to write yet one more column on the subject.

Note: Don’t worry about the trilogy continuing — this one is the last installment (if not the last straw).

Before I go on, let me stress I have no axes to grind with medicines, conventional, Ayurvedic, herbal, electric, or any other kind. But when it comes to most things, especially medicine, I’m a creature of skepticism and empirical proof. I check out all the options, listen to people’s experiences, research what I can. Then, if I find an option I like and it doesn’t have any serious side effects, I’ll give it a try.

Luckily, I’ve had great health all my life, though I did have a couple of blowouts on the Highway of Life. Twenty-five years ago, I had a triple bypass, and 10 years ago I had a hip replacement. And thanks to the wonders of modern surgery, I was as good as new afterward — a couple of conversation-starting scars to the contrary.

But as lucky as I’ve been, I didn’t creak into my dotage scot-free: A wee bit after my hip replacement I got visited by The Bane of Greybeards, Uncle Arthur — whose full name is Arthur Itis.

Fortunately, it wasn’t of the rheumatoid kind, but it was arthritis nonetheless.

As I understand it, arthritis is caused by the padding in joints wearing away, leaving bone grinding on bone and resulting in various degrees of pain. In my case, it was the joints in my hands. For several years the pain was manageable; then seemingly overnight, it wasn’t. And like everything else in The Golden Years, it kept getting worse.

My hands hurt a bit all the time, but they became a real Ouch Fest when I clamped on things, and especially when I tried to twist them. For example opening jars. It went from being really painful to being impossible. There was no way to fake it, and after I found myself unable to open jars without Channel Locks or to shake hands with any firmness, I accepted that something had to be done. But what?

Pain killers were not an option. When my hip went south, the pain was severe, 24-7, no matter if I stood, sat, lay down, or leaned. Worst of all, I couldn’t sleep. If you’ve ever been in chronic pain and sleep-deprived, you know exactly what it’s like. And if you don’t know what it’s like, you don’t want to.

I started taking aspirin, then Motrin, neither of which made a diff. Then I went on to Naproxin, Tramadol, and others, till I graduated to the big gun — Oxycodone. It didn’t get rid of the pain, but it lessened it, so I got around better and was able to sleep fitfully.

It also turned me into a spaceshot zombie. I couldn’t track conversations, I blacked out constantly, I drowsed off at the drop of a hat. Aside from feeling tired all the time, I felt like the world’s only living brain donor. After the operation, I swore only world-class pain would get me to go that route again, and I stuck to it.

The pain in my hands was not world-class, so if painkillers weren’t an option, what was?

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Chasing the promise

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I started with glucosamine. A bunch of peeps I knew swore by its great restorative powers and I read a lot of positive reviews online. All the literature said you had to give it at least three months to work. I gave it five, but it still kept collecting unemployment, so I quit that shtick.

Next was turmeric. Both the Mayo Clinic and Harvard Medical School said it might lessen arthritis symptoms, but in my case it didn’t. However, it did increase the chance that anyone near my vapor trail would think I’d just gorged myself at an Indian buffet.

From there I went the conventional medical route and got a prescription for Voltaren. I followed the instructions scrupulously for a few months, but the pain stayed the same, so I quit. Beyond it not working, its list of side effects gave me the screaming abdabs. Among them were increased blood pressure, kidney problems, heart failure, and my favorite — “possibly fatal” liver disease. It seemed to me that even if the stuff worked, it’d be a Faustian bargain at best (and I’m not referring to Faust, the Tupper Lake suburb).

I then went the herbal route with ginger, green tea, boswellia, thunder god vine, and willow bark. I figured at the very least, they couldn’t hurt me. Unfortunately, they didn’t help me either.

My final choices were topical analgesics. I can’t say I tried them all, but I had more than my fair share — Icy Hot, Max Heat, Deep Heating, Muscle Rub, Flexall, Dr. Sloan’s Liniment, and more. None of them alleviated that pain, and all of them made me smell like an old time men’s locker room (minus, thank God, that fabulous aroma of unwashed sweat suits and trusty old Bike Number 10s).

At that point, I said to hell with it all, and just accepted that I’d always have a couple of hurtin’ meat-hooks. And what really hurt was my hands hadn’t lost any strength — it was pain and pain alone that made my grip (and me) as weak as decaf.

Then a visit from the Amazon Queen changed all that.

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Becoming a be-leafer

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It wasn’t the visit itself that did it, but what she brought with her, which was a bottle of CBD tincture.

Essentially, CBD (formal name Cannabidiol) is an extract made from hemp leaves. It’s nothing new, having been used for millenia, and it’s been touted to the bright blue skies as the answer to all sorts of ills. I’d heard all its claims as a panacea, but at that point I’d given up hope anything would help my hands. But as I’d said, I give things a try, and that’s what I did with the CBD.

And against all my expectations and predictions, the stuff actually worked. And it worked fast: Within two days the pain went from severe to almost nonexistent. Being the cynic I am, I figured it was a fluke, too good to be true, and it was only a matter of time before it quit working. But I figured wrong, because it’s been about three years since I started using it, and my pain hasn’t come back. And so I keep taking my dropperful a day … as well as keeping my fingers crossed.

Laughing last, laughing best

Since this series started with patent medicines, I thought it fitting to end with one as well. And the medicine is Carter’s Little Liver Pills, which featured prominently in my youth for a few reasons.

One was they were advertised a lot on TV, so they had widespread name recognition. Plus they’d been around darn near forever, having hit the quack market in 1868. And beyond that, most amazingly, they’re still being sold.

Second, I found them intriguing because of their name alone, since I couldn’t figure out what they did (or at least were supposed to do) for your liver. But I wasn’t the only skeptic, since in 1959, after FDA testing proved they had nothing to do with the liver, they had to change their name to Carter’s Little Pills.

Third, at one time they were part of the national vocabulary: One of the most popular similes for illustrating quantity was to say, “Why he’s got more ________ (you fill in the blank) than Carter has pills.” I imagine it’s been as long gone in popular use as whalebone corsets and buggy whips, but for sure it had a long and widespread reign.

As I said, they’re still around, being sold as a laxative, which I find supremely ironic because of how I best remember them.

We all knew about Carter’s pills because we’d heard so many people use that rap about “… as many as Carter has pills.” But what engraved it in my grey matter was another turn of phrase. I first heard it from a friend in grade school, and it imprinted immediately and permanently.

I’m sure he wasn’t its originator, only its messenger, but that took nothing away from its impact.

And what was this fabulous turn-of-phrase? Just this: He called them “Carter’s Little Farter Starters.”

The first time I heard it, I dissolved into hysterics, as you might expect of any little kid. But what you might not expect is that as an old man, I still find it funny. Which I do. And why wouldn’t I?

Let’s not kid ourselves: The only difference between little kids and old men is beer guts, bad knees and bilious worldviews.

And frankly, finding out that Carter’s pills are now a laxative not only ramps up the irony, but the silliness of it as well. And let’s face it: While irony isn’t a necessary for a healthy life, silliness sure is.