Willis Judd Facebook ad: “I Tried Every Natural Remedy Going. The One That Helped…”

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My daughter took her baby back out of my arms. Gently. That was the worst part. I'd tried turmeric, tart cherry, apple cider vinegar, magnesium spray, Epsom salts, a forty pound tub of CBD cream and a woman on Facebook's celery juice, and the thing that actually helped my hands was in a biscuit tin in my mother's loft. I nearly put it in the skip. I'm going to tell you what was in the tin, and why it worked for my grandmother for sixty years, and why it hadn't been working for me. But first I need to tell you about the day my daughter took her baby back out of my arms. I'm 64. I was a teaching assistant for thirty-one years. Reception class. Little ones. I'm not a tablets person. Never have been. My mother wasn't, and her mother wasn't, and I suppose I'm proud of that. Here's who I was before, because I need you to see her. I sewed every costume for every school play for three decades. Forty angels one year. I could peel a bag of potatoes without putting the knife down. I did the hems for half the street. I kept an allotment. Beans, mostly. And dahlias for the house. I did up the clasp on my own necklace every morning without looking. And I held every new baby in the family first. It was a running joke. Pass her to Sue. That's who I was. It went slowly, the way it does. Not one day. A hundred small things you hand over one at a time and call it being sensible. First the allotment. The secateurs. My thumb wouldn't do the squeeze. I gave the plot to a young couple and told everyone I was glad of the time. Then the sewing. You can't thread a needle with a thumb that won't pinch. The machine's under a cloth in the spare room. Then the potatoes. I started buying the frozen bags. My mother would have died. Well. She had. Then the bottles. I'd leave the sauce on the side for Hannah to do when she came. I'd say I'd been meaning to. I hadn't been meaning to. Then the china. I dropped my mother's teacup. The one with the gold rim. I put the rest of the set at the back of the cupboard and got mugs out. Then the necklace. The clasp. Every morning. Ten minutes. Then I stopped wearing it. That was the one that got to me. Stupid, really. Then the coat. I'd started wearing the zip-up one because I couldn't do buttons in the cold. Hannah noticed. She didn't say anything. She just started bringing the shopping in from the car without being asked. Two trips. She'd never let me carry the heavy bag. I'd stand at the door like a visitor in my own house. And the mornings. I'd sit with my hands round a mug until they'd loosened enough to open the curtains. Twenty minutes. Every day. Before I could start. Now, I'd been busy all that time. I'd been treating it. Naturally. I want to tell you what I tried, because you've tried it too. Turmeric. Capsules first, from the health shop. Then the golden latte, because a friend said the capsules didn't absorb. Eight months. My kitchen cupboard was yellow. Tart cherry juice. A glass every night. Sour enough to make your eyes water. Four months. Apple cider vinegar. Two spoons in warm water every morning, with the mother in it. I hated every mouthful and I did it for a year. Magnesium spray. On the backs of my hands and my wrists, morning and night. It stung. I thought that meant it was doing something. Epsom salt soaks. Hands in a bowl every evening watching the news. Lovely while my hands were in the water. CBD cream. Forty pounds for a little tub. Rubbed it in. Smelled like a hedge. Two weeks and I couldn't tell you if it had done anything. Celery juice. A woman on Facebook. I'm ashamed of that one. Three weeks and a juicer I've never used since. And the GP? I didn't go. I know. I know. I didn't want to be told to take tablets. I'm not a tablets person. And every single one of those helped a bit. Or I thought it did. For a week. Then it didn't, and I moved on to the next one, and the next one, and my hands got worse all the time I was doing it. I've got a shelf in the kitchen I call the graveyard. Seven tubs, four bottles and a juicer. Hannah calls it the shrine. She thinks I can't hear her. I can hear her. Then Rosie. My granddaughter. Hannah's first. Three weeks old. I'd been round every other day. But I hadn't held her. Not properly. Hannah was always feeding her, or she was asleep, and I let that be the reason. This one Tuesday, Hannah said, "Go on, Mum. Have a cuddle." She put Rosie in my arms. And my hands started to shake. Not a tremor. A proper shake, because I was gripping so hard, because I didn't trust my fingers to hold her. Hannah saw it. She reached over, quite gently, and took her back. She said, "She's just being fussy, Mum." Rosie wasn't being fussy. Hannah's husband looked at the telly. Nobody said anything else. I sat there with my empty hands in my lap for the rest of the afternoon. I drove home and I sat in the car on the drive and I did the sums. I can't hold my own granddaughter. Hannah's already learned not to hand her to me. Rosie's going to grow up with a grandma who waves from a chair. That's the whole thing. A week later I was clearing my mother's loft. She'd died the year before and I'd been putting it off. Boxes. Curtains. My school reports. And an old biscuit tin with a Scottish castle on the lid. Inside were my grandmother's knitting needles. Nana Vi. Violet. She lived to 91. Six pairs of needles, a half-finished sock, and underneath it all, her bangle. Plain copper. Thin. Dull brown. Worn smooth where it had sat against her wrist. I remembered it then. She never took it off. Not to wash up. Not for the bath. She said it was for her rheumatics. We used to laugh at her. I put it on the kitchen table with the needles and I had the skip bag open and I very nearly put it in. Then Ruth knocked on the back door. Ruth's my neighbour. She was a pharmacist for forty years. Independent chemist on the high street until it closed. Now she volunteers at the museum in town, in the old apothecary room. The one with the big glass jars. She'd come to borrow a cake tin. She saw the bangle on the table and stopped. She picked it up and turned it over and said, "Whose was this?" I said my grandmother's. She said, "Did she wear it every day?" I said she never took it off. She said, "Sit down a minute. I want to tell you something about your hands, and then I want to tell you about this." I said go on. She said, "First your hands. Because everything you've been drinking has been going to the wrong place." I said what do you mean. She said, "The joints in your fingers. The bit that takes the load. There's no blood supply to it." I said I didn't know that. She said, "Nobody does. Everything else in you is fed by blood. Your joints aren't. They're fed by the fluid inside them." She opened and closed her hand, slowly, in front of me. "And that fluid only moves when the joint moves. That's the pump. There isn't another one." I looked at my hands. She said, "So think about it. The turmeric. The cherry. The vinegar. Where did it go?" I said my stomach, I suppose. My blood. She said, "Your blood. Which doesn't go to the joint. And the sprays and the creams went on your skin, which isn't the joint either." "You've been watering a plant that's in a cupboard. Doesn't matter how good the water is." I didn't say anything. Eight months of yellow cupboard. She said, "Now the second part. Tell me honestly. How much have you used that right hand this year?" I started to say all the time and stopped. The frozen potatoes. The bottles left for Hannah. The mugs. The necklace in the drawer. Rosie. She watched me get there. She said, "Your hands haven't been wearing out, Sue. They've been starving." She said, "A hinge that nobody opens seizes. Open it a bit every day and it stays free. Your joints are hinges." "And the little muscles that close your fingers, they only stay strong if they're used. Stop using them and they go. Quietly. Then you drop things. Then you use them even less." She said, "That's why the Epsom salts felt lovely and did nothing. Warm water loosens a hinge. It doesn't feed it. You'd loosen it for twenty minutes and then not move it all day." "Same as your mug in the morning. You warmed the hinge up to open the curtains, and then you sat down." I felt a bit sick, if I'm honest. Not because it was bad news. Because it made sense, and a year of vinegar hadn't. She said, "Third part. This is the trap." "A joint that's stiff and starved gets sore. Sore means inflamed. Inflamed means worst in the morning, after eight hours of nothing." "So you wake up, it hurts, you don't use it, it stiffens, it gets sore. Round and round." She drew a circle on the back of an envelope and tapped it. "It's a loop. And every one of your remedies was standing outside the loop pouring things in." I said, "So what about Nana Vi?" I said, "She wore that thing for sixty years and she was knitting at ninety." She picked the bangle up again. She said, "Right. Now the bit I actually came in to say." "Copper is the oldest medicine we've got. There's an Egyptian medical papyrus, three and a half thousand years old, and it's got copper in it for wounds and for cleaning water." "The Greeks had it. The Romans had it. And in this country, every market town had a stall selling copper bangles for rheumatics until about the time you were born." "Your grandmother's generation didn't have the word inflammation. They had rheumatics, and they had copper, and they wore it every day." I said, "But did it work?" She said, "I can't give you a trial that proves it. I'm not going to pretend I can." "What I can tell you is that I sold copper bangles across a counter for forty years, and I know which customers came back." "And I can tell you hospitals are putting copper on the door handles and the bed rails now, because it kills germs. Your grandmother didn't know that. She just knew you didn't take it off." Then she said the thing that made it click. "But here's what you're missing about Violet. She wore copper, yes. And she also knitted every single day of her life. Peeled every potato. Dug her own garden." "She had both halves. The bangle was just the half you could see." I looked at the needles in the tin. Six pairs. A half-finished sock. Both halves. So I asked her about everything I'd tried. I'll tell you what she said, because you've tried them too. I asked about the turmeric. She said, "It's real. There are proper trials on it for joint pain, and they show a modest effect. I'd never say it does nothing." "But it goes round your whole body in the blood. It can't move the fluid in your finger. And you'd stopped moving your finger." "You were adding a good ingredient to a pan that wasn't on the hob." I asked about the cherry juice. She said, "That's for gout. Uric acid. Lovely if that's your problem." "It isn't your problem. Right remedy, wrong door." I asked about the vinegar. She said, "I'm sorry, love. Vinegar's for chips." I asked about the magnesium spray and the CBD cream. She said, "Skin. Both of them. A bit of magnesium in the skin, a bit of relief on the surface for the CBD." "Neither of them reaches the fluid. You painted the outside of the hinge." I asked about the Epsom salts. She said, "Best thing on your list, and you did it wrong. Warmth gets the hinge ready. Then you have to open it. You soaked and sat still." I asked about not going to the GP. She said, "That's not a remedy. That's a decision. And he'd have said paracetamol and wear and tear, and he'd have been half right and no use at all." I went down the list. Turmeric. Cherry. Vinegar. Spray. Salts. Cream. Celery. Every one of them poured in from outside. Not one of them asked my hand to do anything. A year and a half and a good few hundred pounds watering a plant in a cupboard. So I asked her what I actually do. She said, "Two things. Together. Your grandmother's two halves." "Your hands have to move. Little and often. Every day. That's the hinge and that's the muscle." "And while you're doing that, the wrist needs help settling, because right now it hurts too much for you to want to move it." She reached into the biscuit tin and pulled out a small round tin from the bottom that I hadn't seen. Buttons. Hundreds. Nana Vi's button tin. She said, "There's your physio. Ten buttons a day, sorted by colour, with the bad hand. Pick them up one at a time. Close your fingers right round each one." Then she said, "And this." She turned her own wrist over and pulled her sleeve back. A copper bracelet. Links, not a plain band like Violet's. Warm coloured. She said, "This is a Willis Judd. Solid copper, same as your grandmother's. But with two magnets in every link." She said, "Magnets are the other old idea. The Greeks had a stone that pulled iron and they used it for aches. Your grandmother's bangle had the copper half. This has both." She said, "Magnetic therapy aids circulation. For a lot of people that eases the stiffness and discomfort in the wrist." She said, "I'm not going to tell you it's magic. It isn't a tablet and it isn't a cream and it isn't a juice, which I'd have thought would suit you." She said, "You put it on. You leave it on, like she did. You do your buttons. That's the whole thing." She said, "Give it six weeks. Violet gave it sixty years." I ordered it that night. It came in three days in a little box, with a tool for taking a link out. Hannah took one out for me. I couldn't. Not then. I put Nana Vi's bangle back in the tin. It was too small for me anyway. I'm keeping it for Rosie. Then I got the button tin out and sorted ten buttons. Blue ones. Right hand. One at a time. It took me a quarter of an hour. Here's what happened. I'll be honest with you. Week one, nothing. I'm not going to pretend. The mornings were maybe a shade less stiff. Maybe. I did the buttons every day because I'd said I would. Week two, I did the clasp. The necklace. First go. I wasn't even thinking about it. I stood at the mirror with it done up and I had a little cry, which I don't do. Week three was the odd one. I was cooking and I realised I'd got a bag of real potatoes out and I was halfway through peeling one. I don't remember buying them. My hands had gone back to something before I'd decided to let them. Week four, I'd sorted the whole tin. Every button. By colour. Three hundred and something. And I'd taken one paracetamol all week, because Hannah made me, and I hadn't needed a second. Week six, Hannah came round. She looked at my hands on the table and said, "You've got a bracelet on." Then she said, "And you've stopped doing that thing." I said what thing. She said, "Rubbing them. You've rubbed your hands the whole time I've been talking to you for about two years, Mum." I hadn't known I did it. Week eight. Hannah put Rosie in my arms. Ten weeks old now. Heavier. Wriggly. I held her. Steady. And Hannah stood up and said, "I'll put the kettle on," and walked out of the room. That's the moment. Not the cuddle. Her walking out of the room. Leaving her baby with me and going to make a cup of tea like it was nothing. That's the whole thing. That's what I'd been pouring vinegar down my throat for a year to get back, and it was in a biscuit tin the whole time, with the other half of the answer sat right next to it. So here's what I'll say to you. If you've got a cupboard full of things that were all going to work this time, you know what I'm talking about. Don't wait until someone gently takes the baby back. Don't wait until you've put the good china at the back and got the mugs out. Don't wait until your own grandmother's answer is in the skip because you were too clever for it. Nana Vi lived to 91. She knitted my Hannah a blanket the year before she died. She'd have knitted one for Rosie. I'm going to do that. I've already got the wool. Click the link below. Put it on. Leave it on. Do your buttons. Give it six weeks. I nearly threw my grandmother's bangle in a skip. That was in the spring. Last week I held my granddaughter while her mother made the tea. Don't be too clever for the old answer.

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I Tried Every Natural Remedy Going. The One That Helped Was in a Biscuit Tin in My Mother's Loft.

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