Month: September 2022

When does something you dreamed about become something that happened? And when does something that happened turn into a dream? What if you don’t know anymore which is which, and what is what, but you can’t stop thinking about it.

Years ago, I was maybe in college, my Mom and I were driving somewhere. Mom really had to go to the bathroom but we were on a very long bridge and the traffic was backed up. She started to panic because she was sure she couldn’t hold it. I was very concerned about her panic – and I tried to tell her it was ok – if she had to wet her pants then she did and we would just deal with it. I could run in somewhere and buy new stuff I told her, even a towel. But by this time she was crying and in full on panic mode, gripping the steering wheel with anger and fear. I remember the desperation in that car. I remember the traffic, and I remember how desperately I wanted to help her and that there was nothing I could do. I do not remember if she lost the battle of holding it in. I don’t remember how the story ended. I just remember the reality of that situation and the panic and tears. I do know that she always carried toilet paper and a change of clothes in the car from then on. Always – up until the day I cleaned her car out they were in there in a Ziploc baggie.

Did this really happen? Was the scene on the bridge real? I can’t tell you. I feel like it was. The Ziploc baggie forever taking space in her car is evidence that it happened. But I could have dreamed this particular situation. I no longer know what is real and what isn’t. If I could have spared Mom this terrible day I would have – did I dream it based on her terror? It feels so real, even today.

Mom always had a bathroom obsession. Any store we went in the first thing to do was to find the bathroom. Not just to know where it was, but to go in and use it. Anytime we left the house she had to go to the bathroom a dozen times before we could leave. She’d clutch her stomach and say, “I just don’t know … my stomach is so upset.” I would try and be patient but eventually I would get annoyed. I think she knew this because she would snap “I’ll be ready in a minute.” Or she’d huff and puff and say, “I think we can leave now.” And I would say nothing. I wouldn’t point out that we could always stop at a store, or that she knew where every bathroom was in the thirty-mile radius of the house. (I wasn’t that dumb – she would have killed me.)

But she knew anyway. She knew that I was annoyed. She knew that her fear wasn’t justified – other than the time on the bridge *real or imagined – she never had an accident in the car. Still, she was very afraid of leaving the house. She loved going out and going shopping with me, but until we left the house it was an ordeal every time. Once we were in the car she would usually relax.

Mom had a “witching hour.” If we didn’t leave town by 4:00 she would start getting twitchy. She would lose focus and get snappy. We used to joke about it. If I was trying to make a decision (or a joke) and she “clicked” her tongue and shifted from one foot to the other I knew my time was up. We’d better get going I’d say, witching hour is here! And then to make dinner after that was just too much. She was never a late afternoon/evening person. In the evenings she just wanted to sit and drink beer and read, later this turned into watching TV when reading was no longer easy for her.

But I digress, back to the bathroom thing. In later years getting Mom to leave the house was near impossible. She would never go to any doctor appointments – you couldn’t get her to follow through on anything. She would get so distressed about leaving the house that my Dad would just cancel the appointment. I know now that she was comfortable in her house, and that she couldn’t compensate outside of it.

How long has she had dementia? She was always so smart and sharp. But somewhere along the way, and I don’t think she was as old as I originally thought she was when it started, somewhere along the way she started to falter. The witching hour? Early on sundowning maybe? Witching hour used to be about 6 or 7 pm but as she got older that time moved up to 5 pm, then 4. It even applied to me – if I was at a show and we didn’t leave until 5 or 6 pm she would always say in dismay “it’s SOO late!” Like she really felt for me. I remember leaving a show once about this time and her saying this to me as I called her on the way out – I answered by saying how I didn’t mind, this was my job and some days it was just like this. She just couldn’t fathom it. Even though she used to work at a bookstore until 11 pm and drive home at midnight. Those days were long behind us.

Leaving the house? Like I said, she couldn’t compensate outside of her comfort zone. She needed to know where everything was to feel safe. The bathroom thing got worse as she got older, too. She had to be SURE she knew where it was at all times. Even if I was with her, she was still uncomfortable. Going out by herself, which she used to love to do, slowly dwindled to never as well.

When should I have picked up on all the signs? When should I have known? It really doesn’t matter because I could never convince her to do anything she didn’t want to do. My Dad couldn’t either, though he was more successful that I was, just by virtue of always being in the house with her. But as the years went on she was less and less likely to leave the house, and less and less likely to let anyone in her house either. Even if I had known, even if I had an early diagnosis, there was precious little I would have been able to do about it. She wasn’t a woman to let others make decisions for her. I convinced her to take the Prevagen, which is a supplement made from jellyfish and supposed to be really good for memory loss, but as soon as her memory really started to go, so did the Prevagen. She resented Dad telling her to take her pills. She resented him even more when he did the pill tray for her and put them in front of her every day.

But losing the ability to go to the bathroom on her own has to have been the most excruciating detail for my Mom. I think about the dream I had, or the scene on the bridge and I wonder… was it real?

Does it matter?

I can’t settle to anything all day. I try to work to keep my mind off of Bruno and what is happening at the hospital. I paint Baby Girl’s wall a dark navy – we’ve skimmed it smooth and are going to add wolf stickers to it. I wander around the house and jump at the slightest noise from my phone. My heart is in my throat and I’m nervous. I feel ill just looking at the paddock and not seeing him in it (a feeling that has yet to go away – I can’t even look at that paddock).

Right after we leave the hospital Dr. Alli sends me the radiograph and it is just as bad, if not worse, than the one I glimpsed at Weems. Also I don’t want it to go unnoticed that the two surgeons names are Dr. Alli and Dr. Tony. Weird! At 1:15 I can’t handle it anymore and I text Dr. Alli. Any updates? I ask. She answers “We are getting some special equipment sterilized now so that we can start first thing in the morning. I will touch base with you tomorrow morning and let you know we are going to surgery, etc. But he is definitely good to go first thing in the morning, he is bright and eating and doing well with the splint.” I am very relieved and I tell her so. The fact that they are planning so well means that they are very hopeful. Dr. Tony had told me when we were there that Bruno had a 50/50 chance of being ok again. Possibly a jumping pony again (I’m not holding my breath for this outcome, but wouldn’t THAT be a miracle?!). He looked at Baby Girl with her pony and said “I’m going to do everything I can for them.” Bless his heart.

The next morning I text Dr. Alli as soon as I think it is a reasonable time to do so. I am very nervous, I tell her. I understand, she says. “This is a big deal but we have the tools to give him the best shot.” At 8:17 they are prepping for surgery. I hear nothing further for the rest of the morning. At 12:30 I am jumping out of my skin. Baby Girl has gone to school and her teacher (bless her heart) is taking my texts and passing them along to Baby Girl like she’s her own child. Baby Girl has been sad all day, she tells me at noon. She says she’ll give her a squeeze after lunch and let her know that Bruno is still in surgery.

Around 1 pm Tony and I stop by the clinic on our way to Whitesboro to pick up my car (it needed a new windshield). I have to tell you that the receptionist at Mid South Equine is first rate. The kindest person, as everyone there has been. She immediately goes back to check on Bruno when I tell her I just can’t wait a second longer to know how he’s doing. She comes back and says that I really don’t want to go back there, but that he’s doing well, handling the anesthesia well and everything is going as expected. I start to breath again but I also kind of DO want to go back there. I’m surprised they would even let me. But in the end she convinces me that I don’t – that it’s too hard to see when it’s your own pony.

At 1:47 I get the text I’ve been waiting on all day. He’s out of surgery and in recovery. Dr. Tony tells me later that Bruno was a total champ and sweetheart except when he was waking up and wanting to stand – he was ANGRY and lashing out at that point. Poor baby. I just can’t imagine what he was going through. The two surgeons and several vet techs had to help him get up so he wouldn’t damage what had been done. Dr. Tony held his head while Dr. Alli held his tail and finally he’s standing. I text Baby Girl’s teacher and she responds back that Baby Girl is so happy at the news. Such a relief. This was the hardest part – the standing up after surgery. And we’ve made it.

My miracle bionic wonder pony is in his stall eating from a hay bag when Baby Girl and I arrive after school and lessons. She has been an emotional wreck and I know seeing Bruno will help her calm down. We bring him carrots and as soon as I say “hey Bubby!” as we turn the corner towards his stall he lets out the loudest, longest whinny. He shakes his head up and down a thousand times like he’s trying to tell us how much he’s been through and how much he missed us. He is not yet putting weight on his leg, but it’s only been a few hours and it must be incredibly painful. Baby Girl loves and loves on him and he “hugs” her back numerous times but mostly just searches both of us everywhere for more carrots. He licks our hands and tells us all about it.

He is tied up to a tie line that runs across the stall. This is to keep him from laying down. You can tell it annoys him, but it’s going to be this way for about two months so he’s going to have to get used to it. We adjust his water buckets higher so that he can play in them like he likes to do. When we get home I order a hanging ball toy that you can put hay and treats in and I also order a hanging salt lick. Hopefully these things will help him stay occupied during this long haul of a recovery.

I ask Dr. Tony if standing up without being able to lay down for two months will have any negative effect on him. He says no, he’ll be ok. By the next morning after surgery Bruno is putting weight on his leg. He crosses his left foot over then drags his right leg where he wants it to be. Dr. Alli sends me the picture of the x-ray taken after the surgery. The plates and screws and pins go from just above his knee all the way up to his shoulder. The entire radius is covered. You can see a black line where the two seperate pieces were put back together. It will take up to six months for the bones to grow back enough for that space to fill in. He will more than likely remain at the hospital for at least six – eight weeks. The cast will be changed as needed, but as long as he’s continuing to put weight on it that means he is doing well. Of course he’s on plenty of antibiotics to prevent infection and bute as well. So far he hasn’t needed any calming meds.

He is super alert, bright eyed and sweet as can be when we go to see him Thursday night. He searches us for carrots but we forgot them on the counter in the kitchen. I feel terrible about this. He does seem a bit more tired, but it is late and boy, I’m tired too. The surgeons are both cautiously optimistic. I ask about the long term. It’s basically a day by day thing right now they tell me. We will just have to wait and see. But the fact that he’s bearing weight on it is a good thing. He’s a little champ and they are both rooting for him. Baby Girl is able to sign his (new) cast Thursday night and that is fun for her. They added a more supportive over-layer cast on Thursday that is hard like a human cast. When we are there we see him stretch his front legs out like a dog and I am horrified. Bruno! I say, not the best idea Bubbie!! Please don’t do that again.

For the next few months we have to pray that nothing gets infected and that it all heals like it is supposed to. The surgeons reiterate how lucky he was. Dr. Alli points out that he was smart enough not to flail around and panic when he got hurt. That if the bone had gone through the skin he would not be here today. Because the risk of infection would have just been too high. That if he were a larger pony or horse he would not be here. That the risk of this kind of surgery on a larger horse is just too much. The weight bearing structures just wouldn’t be able to handle it. We WERE lucky and I am all too aware. Praise God, I think over and over to myself. I don’t know why Bruno had to get hurt at all, but Praise God that he is still alive. Because I need one more pony in my pastures that doesn’t have a job – just kidding y’all! There’s got to be a little humor here somewhere.

Please keep praying for him. And for Baby Girl. We’re not out of the woods yet. There is a long way to go. I will keep everyone updated whenever there is news and I thank all of you for your love and support!

I know that many, many people are concerned about Bruno and anxious to know what’s happening and what actually happened. I deeply appreciate everyone’s thoughts, prayers, words and expression of love. I write this for all of you, and for Bruno.

Tuesday morning I am waiting on Baby Girl to finish getting ready for school. She is eating breakfast and watching YouTube Kids. I wander out to the back room of our house to take a peek at the ponies. I see Bruno laying down and my immediate thought is “this is an odd time for him to be laying down.” It’s 7 am. Feeding will happen in about an hour. He should be standing by the gate, waiting. So I watch for a minute and it looks like he’s itching his belly. Then it seems like he tries to get up, and can’t. So I say to Baby Girl that I’m going to go outside for a minute.

As I edge around the side of the house I hear him nicker to me. He knows I am coming. He looks back but he doesn’t get up. I start to run. When I get to him at first I don’t see what the problem is and I’m frantically searching for the reason he’s still laying down. Then I see it. The front right leg bent at an odd angle. The swelling above and all around the knee. Bruno isn’t panicking though, in fact he’s downright calm. As if he’s saying to me “Hey I did a little something stupid and I need some help.”

My phone locks up and won’t work. He might not be panicking but I am. I am trying to call Tony and finally it goes through. Hello? he asks a bit bemusedly. After all, he thinks I’m inside the house. I need you, I say, it’s Bruno. Come NOW. He doesn’t even hang up before he’s running. I try calling our regular vet. He can’t come, he says, he is tied up in the clinic all day. I call Weems and Stephens – and it goes to voicemail. I am trying to stay calm but inside I am floundering.

Tony gets to me. Bruno hears him coming and gets awkwardly to his feet while I hold onto his halter. His front right leg is dangling. Get the trailer NOW I say to Tony. We have to get him to Weems immediately. Tony’s immediate reaction is Oh Shit. He goes off to get his keys and the truck. I call my neighbor trainer, Rene, and she is thirty minutes away. Solving the problem she immediately calls the barn worker next door and he is on his way to help. I have no idea how we’re going to get him in the trailer but I see Daniel pick up a strap from our flat bed trailer and I’m glad he has a plan.

I keep talking to Bruno and hugging his neck. You’re going to be ok, I tell him. You’re going to be fine. I know it probably isn’t true. But I am lying to myself and to him. I can’t handle the truth at this moment. Tony gets the trailer as close to the gate as possible and lets down the ramp. We look at each other and each send a prayer up. We know what’s at stake here. Go get Baby Girl I tell him. She has to be here. She can’t go to school anyway, at this point, as we have no idea what is going to happen. Once she’s with us, she stands by silently with big eyes as Tony and Daniel put the strap around Bruno and encourage him, step by hop, to get into the trailer. It’s a ramp so we have the best shot at getting him in there. He willingly moves a hop or two and then stops. Come on buddy I tell him. You HAVE to do this. He’s such a good natured little guy that it’s not as hard as you would expect it to be. He’s finally in and the guys put the strap around his belly and hook it to each side of the trailer to give him support. I stay in the back and hold his halter as we drive slowly to the road.

He never once even attempts to put weight on that foot. He is fully aware that he can’t. There is nothing on the outside of his leg to suggest ANYTHING. No dirt. No mud. No cut. No indentation. No NOTHING. A grass stain on his knee is all that is different from the night before. We can’t imagine how on earth he has done this, but as I watch his leg swing in the trailer I know without a doubt that it is broken. Maybe it isn’t, I silently say to myself. Maybe it’s just extremely hurt and it will eventually get better. But it swings side to side and I just close my eyes and keep praying.

The trailer ride is rough but we make it to Weems. I’ve called ahead and they’re expecting us. A lovely lady called Karina looks in the trailer. Maybe we should just x-ray it in there? Then more forcefully – we’re just going to x-ray it in the trailer. A crowd of vet techs gather as they pull the machine over to the trailer. What have you given him already they ask? Just bute I say. I had run to get it while Tony held his head, before he brought the trailer over. As the first x-ray pops up on the screen I can’t help but gasp. The bone has separated from itself. It’s literally in two pieces, and one piece has shifted to the outside. No skin is broken, however. Which means we are VERY LUCKY. The crowd confers as Baby Girl cries into Tony’s side. They tell me that their surgeon is out of town but they are going to call around and see if they can find someone willing to try, who has the right equipment. Because he’s so small, he has a chance.

I’ll do whatever he needs, I tell them. I’ll even drive to A&M. If someone can do the surgery then that’s what we’re going to do. Give us a few minutes to send these x-rays out they say. Tony and I lock eyes again. There is no way we’re going to let this pony die if there is any chance to save him. Tony says “road trip” and I say absolutely. Wherever we need to go. But the point is he really can’t travel too far. Some vet techs bring some pieces of PVC pipe and about twenty rolls of elasticon and they get to work stabilizing his leg. When they’re done I’m plenty impressed. An A rated pony clubber couldn’t have done it better.

Finally the one in charge comes to me and says “do you know the place up in Tioga? Off of 377? Dr. Bottoni (Dr. Tony) is willing to take this on.” Yes I say, Mid South Equine. I’ve been there before to take advantage of their salt water therapy. That’s where we headed. Karina, the nurse? follows us with the radiographs (I think) but I don’t know this until we have to stop on the side of the road on the way there to readjust the strap around Bruno’s belly. He’s holding up well, and his spirits are good. I’m holding his head and Tony is driving as slowly as he can. I guess he has his hazards on but I don’t know for sure. When we stop Karina comes around the side of the trailer asking if we need help. I see that it’s her and all of a sudden I feel both relieved and extremely worried. This is obviously a very big deal.

When we arrive at Mid South Equine the surgeon comes out to take a look and she says we have to stabilize the leg EVEN MORE in order to get him out of the trailer. Another PVC half pipe is brought out and duct tape. Yep. Duct tape. If it moves and it shouldn’t…. well…. you know the rest. Anyway, we get him off the trailer slowly and into his stall. He’s obviously relieved to be somewhere safe. The surgeon explains to me that if Bruno were any bit bigger that they wouldn’t even attempt this surgery. That if the bone had protruded outside the skin that they wouldn’t attempt it. So we’re very lucky already and I begin to feel a small shred of hope. Bruno himself helps me to feel better as he is bright eyed and alert even amongst what must be some terrible pain.

They are ordering plates which have to come from Weatherford. So they don’t know if the surgery will be that same day or first thing in the morning. They send us home for the day to wait for news. Baby Girl doesn’t want to go to school and I don’t make her. Remarkably it’s only been about an hour and a half. It feels like half a lifetime.

Stay tuned for part 2 tomorrow…..

For the longest time Mom hasn’t said more than a word. But lately she’s really been trying to talk again. I can’t help but wonder why, and what is happening inside her brain. This is one of those things that I think about daily. What IS happening inside her brain? Of course we’ll never know exactly, other than what the Alzheimer’s experts tell us, which is essentially that her brain is slowly dying. Fading memories and garbled words, the inability to take care of herself and the pain it brings to all her loved ones who simply want her to remember. That’s what Alzheimer’s is.

Be that as it may, she still recognizes me. The corners of her mouth will turn up slightly and her eyes will soften and crinkle. That’s how I know she’s smiling. Yesterday she found my arm with her hand and started patting and rubbing it. That’s how I know she’s still there, still my Mom. Yesterday she was leaning hard to the left and she was very tired, but she opened her eyes quite often, as if she was determined not to miss anything. I talked to her as I usually do, and we sat outside for a long time. Her breathing is slightly labored and she has a very wet cough. I’m told she’s better today than she was on Friday but still I am worried. I bring my hand to her chest and ask her if it hurts there. But she doesn’t respond.

When I’m there I simply chat to her and hold her hand. I ask her questions but rarely get an answer. Sometimes there will be a yes or a no. Sometimes I let her doze while I lean back in the rocking chair and contemplate life. I’ll watch her face and wish things were different. I will think about the end and what that will be like. For me, and for her. I’ll rub her hand and stroke her leg and make sure she knows that I’m there. I ask her what she wants for Christmas and she smiles and kind of laughs. As if she knows there’s nothing I can give her that will make up for all of this. I tell her I’ve bought a lot of Christmas presents already – even though it’s only September and she chuckles at me. I tell her it is September 12th and that is why it is a bit cooler now.

Her body twitches a lot, and her left foot drags while her right foot is permanently bent at a right angle. When we were walking yesterday I had to keep telling her to keep her feet up – and she was able to bring that left foot up some. I noticed that she could still do that, but she can’t keep it up. It’ll immediately start dragging again. So we walk very slowly and I show her the roses. There are two large pots there, one with yellow roses and one with pink roses. Mom can’t focus on things – she won’t look where you tell her to look. So I snip a pink rose off and bring it up to her face. She focuses on it for a second and I bring it up to her nose. Smell it, Mom, I say, smell the beautiful rose. And she closes her eyes and sniffs. But her mouth also slightly opens as if she thinks it’s something to eat. Isn’t it gorgeous? I ask. I think she says “beautiful rose” but it’s garbled and I can’t be sure.

I give her the rose but she can’t hold it. She’s already lost interest in it. I tuck it into her sleeve and we keep walking. But I keep looking at that rose. How full in bloom it is and how soon it will wither and fade away. A new rose will grow in it’s place, a new life in a new dawn. I decide to take that rose home and dry it. Turn it into something I can keep. So that I can remember that everything withers and dies, but something beautiful always will follow.

I may not be able to see it now, but something beautiful will follow. It might be just a small thing, it might be huge. I won’t know until it happens. But I know that when it does, she’ll be smiling down on me and holding tight onto that pink rose.