Life was a dream. But I should have remembered my father and how fragile dreams could be.

It was in the fifth month of my pregnancy that my fibromyalgia first evidenced itself. I found myself in constant pain. My arms became so weak I was afraid to hold my newborn child for fear of dropping her. The bone structure in my feet shifted and my feet and ankles began to swell. It was painful to walk. I needed air splints and canes for support, and I knew a wheelchair was not far behind. For nine years I could not sleep and I was plagued with a series of life-threatening sinus infections, even after two major sinus surgeries were performed.

Initially the doctors I consulted were at a loss to either diagnose or treat my condition. The only things that seemed to offer any relief were increasing doses of steroids like prednisone, anti-inflammatory agents, muscle relaxants, sleeping pills, mood altering drugs and massive doses of antibiotics. This continued for years as I went from treatment to treatment, even having surgery six times in a futile effort to find relief. But it was all to no avail. Then, one day, my life was changed.

On that eventful day my husband said relatives from his first marriage were coming down from Pennsylvania to visit us in Baltimore. We hadn't seen each other in many years. When they arrived, I struggled with my air splints and canes to answer the door. I could see the surprise on their faces. My decade-long struggle with disease had taken a terrible toll. After listening with a sympathetic ear to my litany of treatments and disappointments, they asked if I had ever considered any form of alternative or complimentary medicine as a solution. I hadn't, but was intrigued at the prospect.

Over the years, whenever I asked my physician about alternatives he was short and to the point. As far as he was concerned, it was all snake oil. Just a way to bilk innocent people out of their money. As a result, I had never really pursued the idea, because, after all, he was a doctor, and should know what he was talking about. But these were Neal's former relatives whom I knew would never cheat anyone. All the same, I was in a quandary.

Neal's relatives were telling me that magnets could help my problem, but they didn't stop there. Reaching into a bag they had brought along, they began attaching magnets to my ankles. Days later my physical therapist applied a magnetic pad to my back. When thinking back on how that scene must have appeared, I can't help but laugh.

But I had to do something. Despite my own skepticism, and that of Neal, who, as a trained physicist, thought the notion was nonsense, I was at a point where I felt I had nothing to lose. Maybe my doctor was right, but maybe he wasn't. Clearly, nothing he had to offer seemed to be helping. I can't say that I really believed any alternative therapy would help, much less magnets. But I was desperate to try anything.

I don't think anyone was more surprised than I was when I began to feel better. I had found something that held out the promise of relief: magnetic technology. Moreover, it was a promise that appeared to be gaining a growing following among people who, like me, had found relief for the first time from chronic illnesses.