In Good Hands

Mom is deteriorating. When I go to see her now she is mostly asleep, whether she’s in her wheelchair, her recliner, or her bed. She stares off to the left and I have to get down on eye level to have any hope of her looking at me, even briefly.

When I get there, I touch her shoulder and get down to see her face and I say Hi, Mom quietly. She doesn’t look at me. But her eyes flutter and I wonder if she knows it’s me. I am doubting more and more every time that I go that she knows me at all. She no longer reaches for my face, or holds my hand – except for the grip with her fingers – like a baby will do when something gets close to it’s hand. She’ll hold on then, until you let go, but I think it’s just a reaction – not something she is consciously doing. Hi, Mom, I say again. Will you look at me today? Her eyes flutter but still she doesn’t move her head, or her eyes.

Mom, I say, I’ve had such a crazy week. And I tell her all about it. She never responds, or moves, but I keep searching her face, keep talking, keep trying. She’ll cough every once in awhile and it is guttural – she is definitely aspirating when she eats and drinks because her cough always sounds very wet. Her chest is a mass of bruises and her caregiver Nikki and I wonder why. Maybe she’s scratching herself? Maybe it’s the coughing? Something is causing her chest to have these deep red bruises and we can’t figure it out. Mom’s skin is tissue paper thin, so pretty much any contact with anything will make her bruise.

I am feeding Mom her breakfast today and I can tell it’s oatmeal with peanut butter in it. Trying to get those calories in. I bring her a chocolate donut, which used to be her favorite, but she makes a funny face when I give it to her and I can tell she doesn’t want it. She opens her mouth anytime the spoon gets close to her lips – just like a very young baby. She can still eat, but the swallowing seems to be taking longer. She can still drink through a straw. The entire time I am feeding her she just sits, staring straight ahead. I sigh and I lean in close to give her a hug. She smells like lavender. She’s just had a shower and she’s clean and fresh. Her hair is still damp. Every few weeks I buy her special shampoo, body wash, and lotion. It’s about all I can still do for her. She doesn’t need anything else. She’s got a high necked sweater on today because it’s so cold and she looks cozy and comfortable. I know that they’ll settle her into her recliner as soon as she’s done eating and Mom will doze for the rest of the morning.

I love the way these ladies look after my Mom. I am absolutely assured that when I’m not there they are treating her just like they would their own Mom. They all love her deeply and call her Susie and try to make her smile. Kirstin comes by while I am feeding Mom and gives her some medication. She leans in close and says “I love you” and Mom gives her a huge smile. I am astounded! Mom! I say, pretending to be outraged, how can you give Kirstin a smile and not me?! We both laugh. I tell Nikki that Mom smiled big at Kirstin but not me and she says “yeah she does that to me, too. It pisses me off.” She’s joking of course, and we are both bemused. What is is about Kirstin that Mom likes, I wonder? Maybe just that she sees her almost every day? There is no telling, but I’m glad that someone can still make her smile.

I haven’t been going to see Mom as much. It’s heartbreaking for me to see her sleeping all the time. I know she’s clean and comfortable. I know she’s being well taken care of. I know she doesn’t miss me when I’m not there. I have absolutely no concerns about her standard of care. And because of that, I have started to feel less guilty about how often I make it out there. Because, as much as I hate it, life does go on and I am slowly adjusting to life without my Mom. There is always so much to do every day, and guilt just doesn’t fit in to my life anymore. She’s on my mind every day, and I am absolutely certain that some part of her knows that. What is the point of me sitting there while she sleeps? She doesn’t know I’m there, only I know. So I sit for about thirty minutes, I organize things in her room and I check my phone. But other than that, there’s not much to do, and the guilt now has transferred to all the other stuff that is waiting for me. So I leave. I’ll be back soon I whisper. You’ll be ok? I always ask but she has stopped answering.

Y’all, my Mom is in good hands. I could not ask for more. If you ever have to deal with a loved one that has Alzheimer’s, the very best thing you can do for them is to find a place for them where they are LOVED. Where they are cherished. Where you can let that guilt go, and live your life to the fullest in between visits. I can do this, and I am grateful.

The Art of Teaching, Part 2

As the second group of kids comes noisily in I steady myself for the next hour and a half of what is supposed to be math but really feels more like babysitting and crowd control. I notice that there are a lot of spanish speaking kids in this group and I’m a little worried, but I soon realize that they all speak English just fine. They are loud, yes, but a little more inclined to work. They are definitely more interested in learning and slightly more respectful. I even get a few minutes at the board where they are all quiet and I think hey! I’m getting the hang of this. However, chaos soon returns with them ALL eager to take a turn at the board. This group manages to do the first two worksheets a bit quicker than the first group and I pointedly ignore the word problems on the bottom of the page. I just feel like it’s too much to take on and I’m not at all inclined to try it with them with the possibility of a language barrier hindering us. I hand out the third packet, which is supposed to be done with a partner but somehow ends up with several kids all working together in different areas of the room. No one is left by themselves, however, so I let the failure to follow instructions slide. As long as they’re working, I’m happy.

As their time comes to an end I realize it’s raining outside and they will not be going outside for recess. I wonder what happens in this scenario. I soon find out. The groups switch around again and I get the third group for a half hour recess INSIDE the classroom. I think I was at least hoping for the gym. The boys begin to play an indoor game of catch with a hat, of all things, and devise a game where whoever catches the hat has to leave the group until the last person remains and that person is then out. I watch idly and am impressed with a rather tall kid with long hair that I take to be a girl. (I was wrong!)

After recess they all exit the room for lunch and I breathe a sigh of relief for the thought of thirty minutes to myself. I try for the restroom but it’s full of girls so I decide I can wait. I eat my peanut butter sandwich silently and text Tony. He asks if I’ve wanted to throttle any of them yet and I laugh. It’s just hard, I tell him. A lot of noise and activity for a person who enjoys silence. I should be used to kids, but the fact is I’m better with one on one instruction and of course, HORSES. Not children. I have already started counting down – you only have four hours left. Three hours left. Two and a half hours. Two hours and four minutes.

The third group comes in and right off the bat I mistakenly say “her” regarding the kid with the long, shiny, dark hair and I am QUICKLY corrected by everyone but the boy himself. Geez! They say, every sub does that! Well, I reply, you have long hair and I don’t know any of your names. An easy mistake. I refuse to be embarrassed. This set of kids is very bright. They get through the first worksheet in record time. I know we only have an hour before the Veteran’s Day assembly we will all attend, presented by the fourth grade music class. So we persevere and get through the second worksheet, again with ignoring the word problems on the bottom of the page. I am just about to hand out the third packet when the Vice Principal starts to call for dismissal to the gym for the assembly.

We all troop down to the gym and I am gratefully uninvolved in seating or disciplining anyone. I am anxious for a glance of my own Baby Girl, so that I can remember that I do, in fact, like kids. The third grade has been on a field trip that day and are late in on the game. They finally arrive and I see her little blond head almost right away. She is scanning the area and finally her eyes light on mine and she grins and waves. I feel something run through me and I think it’s just relief. Oh yeah, my gut says, there she is. She’s ok, so you’re ok too.

The noise in the gym is INSANE. I squeeze myself as close to the back wall as I can and wonder how long this thing is going to last. I half want it to last until it’s time for dismissal but I also don’t want to stand on that hard floor for that long. My feet are already aching and I shift from side to side trying to find some relief. Finally the music teacher calls everyone to order and we are thus subjected to a motley of songs God Blessing the USA and all the military. One song has a bunch of kids with drums and I’m just wondering what the beat is supposed to be because this surely isn’t it. Several girls are meant to be giving solos but try as I might I hear nothing at all. I couldn’t even tell who was meant to be singing. I find myself tear up a time or two as I witness the veterans in the audience and think of my Dad, who I am missing a lot this day. But I quickly rein it in, it won’t do for anyone to see my emotional side here.

Thankfully, the program ends after about half an hour and we all troop back to the classrooms. I get the homeroom kids back and we are not halfway in the door before one boy shoves another and a fight starts to break out. Hey! I say, cut that out! And they briefly move away from each other. However, the two boys are determined to let the other know who is boss and it doesn’t take long for them to be back at it. I know I am not supposed to leave the room so I take a kid and tell him to go get the teacher next door. She comes straight in and sees the conflict- what the heck boys?! She asks. She pulls them all out into the hall and I am grateful. There is a few minutes of peace as the remainder of the kids have free time until the bell rings. Wow, I think to myself. A scuffle on my very first day! And a kid that went missing! How eventful!

At dismissal the teacher from next door tells me that I can leave straight away, that they’ve all “got this.” I don’t wait around and argue – I am out! I practically run for the office and to find my kid. As I turn in my badge the receptionist asks “how was it?” Oh it was fine, I say. No problems.

I’m not lying. It could have been worse. I have a huge respect for teachers, and all the staff that make a school go round. I am tempted to say this isn’t for me, but I’m not a quitter. I’ll be back. With more information and armed with an attitude and maybe a little something something in my lunch box. (That’s a joke).

The Art of Teaching, Part 1

The morning started out like any other – getting Baby Girl ready for school. But this morning, I was making a lunch for myself as well. This would be my first day in over 12 years to be a substitute teacher. Before I met Tony I had subbed in the Aubrey school district and was fairly traumatized by the experience. But I think to myself that THIS TIME it will be different. I have a kid of my own, I know how they think, I am more patient now. This time I will like it.

We arrive at the elementary school only for me to be told I am not on the schedule. Almost elated, I say that I can go home if I’m not needed. They finally figure out that somehow I have been assigned to the High School. No, I say, I specifically signed up for 5th grade math. I’m not going to the High School. No worries they say! We actually do need a 5th grade math teacher so we’ll just fill you right in here. What happens to the job at the High School then I ask? The receptionist says Ah! We get a little selfish about subs – you’re here so they’ll just have to cover that class. She says it with a little grin and a shrug, not at all concerned. Truthfully I am not that concerned either, there’s no way I’m going to the High School so I take my ID badge as they explain it is a bi-lingual class. But not to worry! The kids will help you. Most of them speak english anyway. MOST of them? Gulp. Turns out spanish speaking students were the least of my problems. There’s another lady behind me waiting to be helped and through this whole process the look on her face tells me that I am clearly insane. She looks terrified FOR me. I wonder what my face looks like.

I get down the hall just in time for the first bell to ring, I haven’t even read the instructions! And the key to the door is very tricky. I am not panicking, I am not panicking, I say to myself. I can do this! Hear me roar! As the kids come in and drop their binders everywhere I try to quickly scan the instructions left for me, there are three worksheets to do, two of which we are to do together on some sort of new fangled computer whiteboard screen which I have no idea how to use. At least I can do the math I discover with some relief. What would the sub do who had no idea? I figure the kids will know how to do the whiteboard, and they do. Only every single one of them is jumping over themselves ready to show me.

One girl comes in and with her arms outstretched tries to give me a hug. This theme continues throughout the day. The second time it happens I say, No thank you, I don’t need a hug. The third time I say Wow you really like hugs don’t you? And the fourth time I just cave and freeze until it’s over. She’s a flighty sort of girl, very tall and kind of not there. There’s plenty of boys that are obviously going to give me some trouble and one girl that is falling over herself to be my helper. She asks me to put a bow in her hair. I see that there is the largest knot in the back of her head. She says it just stays there all the time. I wonder to myself about her home life. I wonder about that knot the entire rest of the day.

The noise in the room is cacophonous. I raise my voice and tell them all to take their seats. I am half expecting one of the boys to raise his chair and say “Where should I take it?” They have specials first thing, which will give me a chance to figure out what to do for the day. I walk them down to the gym and gratefully leave them there. I have an hour of peace to kill. I sit down and carefully read through everything. Apparently these classes act as “pods” and there are three classes in a pod. They switch from one subject to another through the day. So I will have three different sets of kids – the first set was my “homeroom” kids – and I will have to teach math for an hour and a half per set. I look at the math worksheets more carefully. The first two we are to do together on the whiteboard computer thing. Now wouldn’t it be nice if they all sat quietly in their seats and raised their hands respectfully and answered the math problems whilst working diligently? Baby Girl and I read the Little House on the Prairie books and there is a lot these kids could learn from the way kids behaved back then.

When I get them back and we begin, that picture of saintly behavior quickly fades to black as I get a bunch of raucous kids kicking chairs, tapping feet, falling out of chairs, doing artwork, passing notes, getting up, falling down, softly singing annoying songs and doing everything short of actual spitballs. There is one girl that you can immediately tell is drama. I don’t know how it starts but all of a sudden she wails “MY PARENTS ARE LEAVING ME” and is bawling at her desk while another student scoffs and says something unintelligible to which the girl turns around and screams “YOU DON’T KNOW, YOU DON’T KNOW ABOUT MY HOME LIFE.” Just at that moment the vice principal opens the door. Wow, she says, looks like I came at just the right moment. I have no doubt that the girl is dramatizing and looking for attention, but she is in tears, so the assistant principal takes her and her work down to her office for awhile. I am not sad to see her go. The other kids take no notice and simply go back to their level of noise and activity they were previously at.

It takes FOREVER to do these problems. I am not sure what the purpose of doing them together is, as some of the kids are bright and quick and bored while others are struggling. It seems it would be easier to move around the room offering help where needed? But again, that would assume a level of quiet and diligence that is sadly lacking. To get their attention I try turning the lights off and just having the computer screen to see by (which is light enough) and I tell them that if they can be quiet I will leave the lights off. It fails miserably. Some of the kids, of course, are pleased with the lights off and try to make the others shut up. To no avail. It is a lost cause. These kids could do with a little more “sit downs” and “shut ups” in their lives. Then again, maybe they are all angels for their regular teacher but I doubt it.

By the time we get to the third worksheet which they are supposed to do with a partner and on their own I am sweating and ready to quit. My brain has had enough with the noise. I am sharp tongued and thisshort of lashing out. One boy takes himself off to a corner to pout when he gets a question incorrect on the board and I have to call someone else up to do it. Another boy sits on the floor in front of the computer screen the entire lesson. That boy plays catch with his water bottle and I finally snatch it away in exasperation. Every single one of them asks me if they can go to the bathroom. The boy who had been pouting asks if he can go wash his hands, as they are all sticky. How?!??!? I don’t ask, just sigh and say yes. That same boy is found to be climbing the walls in the boys bathroom about 15 mins later. His worksheet has somehow found it’s way to the learning lab. I have to call down to the office for someone to go find him, as he has disappeared from my classroom.

It would be funny…. might be funny…. in hindsight…

By the time this section of math is over and we change classes, I am wondering if it can get any more difficult. This group has not impressed me, but I have impressed me – I managed to keep them all alive and the lost boy was found so I feel it’s a win? I pop open a Diet Coke and take a huge swig wishing it was just a tad bit stronger…..

Stay tuned for part 2.

Waiting for Christmas

I can’t shake this feeling lately. Of a huge let down, a monstrous feeling of gloom. It is sneaking its way into everything I do, everything I feel and everything I eat. It could be that I’m missing my Dad more than usual. It could be that I’m hyper aware that my Mom doesn’t have much time left. It could be mom guilt, exhaustion, stress about finances, worry about Bruno, it could be just about anything.

But I think, I really think, it’s just that I’m realizing how very alone I am.

Yes, yes, I know God is always with me, and believe me without Him I would’ve drowned a long time ago. And yes, I have a great husband who adores me most of the time and doesn’t let on when he doesn’t. He’s a smart man. I have a daughter that has true joy in her heart and has the strongest will around. She has a precious heart, as her counselor says. I have friends, GREAT friends. Friends who listen, who walk with me, who care deeply and who will send me crazy meme’s when I need a laugh.

I have the ability to write about my feelings. An outlet that saves me constantly. An outlet that gives me the space to explore how I feel and what I need. And you, my readers, tend to give me heartfelt feedback and enjoy what I write which always gives me a lift. I mostly write for myself, but who doesn’t appreciate a compliment?

Because I have these terrible feelings right now, all I can do is wait it out. There is no magic cure. The ever-present awareness of my Mom’s disease is a scourge to me. I am powerless and helpless, no amount of my love can save her. No amount of her love for me can remove it. She would have done anything to avoid this, I know. Is it a sin to say I wish she was free? I wish she was dancing in heaven with my Dad, free of pain and free of the mental anguish. My mental anguish – she literally knows nothing anymore. I hate this for her. So much that I often feel nauseous just thinking about it.

And so I wait.

I’m waiting for Christmas. A time of cheer and goodwill. Fairy lights and brightly wrapped gifts. Giving and love and high spirits. I need me a good Christmas party to go to. To bake cookies and shit. To spend time, without feelings of guilt, with my daughter. To know that it’s ok to RELAX and enjoy the season. To make fudge, to make presents. To listen to Christmas music that makes my stepdaughter cringe, but which Baby Girl loves. To sing Jingle Bells at Baby Girl’s request until I want to throw up. To laugh, but NOT to cry.

I don’t know what this season will bring. I am afraid of it, but also very much looking forward to it. I don’t know the future outcome of Bruno’s injury. I don’t know the answers to stress about finances, or if I will ever conquer the desire to eat my feelings. Mostly, I don’t know where my Mom will be in ten weeks.

I am waiting. Waiting for joy again. It will come. And peace will come with it.

The Bathroom

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?

We’re Gonna Talk About Bruno (Pt 2)

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!

We’re Gonna Talk About Bruno (Pt 1)

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…..

Pink Roses

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.

Pat and Feel

Five am is very early. That’s been my wake up time lately. About 3 I start moving around, uncomfortable because the Advil has worn off. I can last til about 5, 5:30 but then I have to get up. Which leaves me with almost two hours before I wake the small beast for school.

Two hours is a long time in the dark quiet of the morning. I can hear the owls hoot outside my office window. I pause to listen. I think about Daphne and I’m glad she is inside the barn. I start to think about that book I want to write and I know I need to start. But not this morning. This morning I’m going to tackle the god-awful mess that is our “back room.” The room where all the stuff goes that has nowhere else to go – what the British might call the “box room.” The room covered in glitter because it’s also Baby Girl’s craft room. The cat box is in there, as evidenced by the kitty litter scritching under my feet. The recycling. The stuff I use for camp. Basically if you don’t know where something is that’s the first place you should look for it. Chances are I’ve tried to chunk it back there because I’m tired of looking at it.

Needless to say it’s a wreck. Titanic size and daunting. I’m determined, though, and I dive in. Next thing I know it’s time to wake up Baby Girl. I’ve sorted through the mess, emptied the glitter outside in the dark where I listened to more owls, cleaned the cat box, swept the floors and mopped. All before 6:45 am. Even the kitchen floor has been mopped. Because if you have the mop out you might as well use it.

I stand briefly at the door to the back room and I “pat and feel” for a minute. How many of you southerners know the saying? My Mom and Dad were big pat and feelers. It means you admire a job well done. Especially a HARD job well done. It means pride in your accomplishment, and I come from a long line of hard workers. I admire the room some more and then sigh, because I know how long – exactly – the room will remain pristine. Maybe an hour.

Today I did the playroom. Not at 5 am, but while Baby Girl was at school. The temptation to throw shit away when she’s not there is so strong I can barely keep it in check. She has gotten more organized as she’s grown and when I can convince her (sometimes by yelling) she CAN put things away nicely and importantly – where they actually go. I’m going to make an organizer and accomplisher of her yet. And yes, I know accomplisher is not an actual word but I like it.

I like to pat and feel. I like to show others the fruit of my labor. I will go back during the day multiple times to look at it again. As long as it still looks good I will admire it and pat myself on the back over and over again. Showing the husband what I’ve done is almost as satisfactory, but he’s not my Mom or Dad and he doesn’t truly appreciate the concept of the pat and feel technique. Dad would tell you a dozen times in one day what he had done that day that was important to him. He insisted that you pat and feel his accomplishments as well as your own. And you better had, or you would be subjected to hearing about it fourteen times. Sometimes it hadn’t even worn off by the next day, or God Forbid, even the next week. So you see I’ve had lots of practice at the pat and feel technique.

I’m desperately trying to pass this along to Baby Girl. I am going to make a hard worker of her yet. There’s hope there. She takes excellent care of her pony – when she wants to. You cannot deter her when she is in the middle of doing something – she is going to finish and that is that. Even if you were supposed to leave for something or other fifteen minutes ago. Once she’s committed she’s all in. To be honest this pleases me except when it involves watching something on youtube kids. Then I want to throw the computer out the window. And sometimes her along with it. Then I just slam the computer closed and handle the consequential crying with a shrug and a “get your butt out the door.”

Anyway, if you are a morning person I highly recommend cleaning something at that hour. Your husband won’t walk on it, your kid won’t insist on playing in it, and you can get some serious work done, in peace. Chances are you yourself have enjoyed the pat and feel technique. Even if it’s just making it through the day and actually showering once. Maybe getting dressed, or brushing your hair. Or maybe you wrote a dissertation or built a bookshelf. Whatever it is, OWN IT. Enjoy it! Pat yourself on the back because, Girl, you deserve to.

Missing Them

The smell of the hot iron brings her to me. She stands at my shoulder when I am in my kitchen, chopping celery, making chicken pot pies the way she used to. She watches the time when I make fudge. I’m baking banana bread and she’s there – in her Julia Child’s kitchen way while I clean up every little thing as I go. We’re laughing until the song “More Hearts Than Mine” (by Ingrid Andress) comes on and all of a sudden I’m alone again, standing at the sink bawling my eyes out and missing her so hard I can’t breathe.

I’m in the bedroom with Tony while he changes out an electric plug but he’s swearing because it’s not going easy. “You gotta get postured” I tell him. He rocks back on his heels and looks at me. “You gotta get postured,” I say again. “You can’t do anything if you aren’t postured.” Dad always said that, I tell him. He stares at me, his face clearly saying “what on earth?” “Well,” I say, “you got to get positioned in a way that makes it easy for you to complete the task.” I get another look. So Dad and I leave the room and leave him to it.

Another song – “You should be here” by Cole Swindell – has me breathing deeply in the car trying to hold it together. Because he should. He’s missing out. His Fu Fu misses him and so do I. We just aren’t the same without him around. I can’t even drive down his street. I never want to see the house where he was so miserable and our whole world fell apart again.

Almost four years ago Mom is with me in my house and we are decorating for Christmas. A little figure breaks – one that I love – it is a pony with a little rider on the end of a lunge line, and there’s a trainer holding onto the other end. It is me, of course, and Baby Girl on the pony. It comes off the table when Baby Girl (4 at the time) accidentally pulls on the tablecloth and it shatters. I am shattered, too. I start to cry and my Mom comes to me and hugs me and tells me she’s so sorry. I know she is. I know also that it’s probably the last Christmas I’ll have her with me, the last time she’ll be able to tell me she’s sorry. The grief comes in knowing. The figure breaking wasn’t the only reason she was sorry, nor the only reason I was crying.

Yesterday I ordered that little figure off eBay. I paid a pretty penny for it, but I can’t wait for it to arrive. I need that figure. I need to hold it, to close my eyes, to remember clearly that moment. Those last moments, those last everythings. She’ll still smile at me but the words are gone. Her eyes no longer focus on me, except briefly. You can’t leave me, Mom. Please don’t leave me.

Everywhere I go Dad goes too. We have a blow out on the trailer on the way home from a horseshow and I can hear him having a heart attack because we don’t have the small air compressor he bought me in the trailer with us. Because it’s broken and hasn’t been fixed. I tell Tony it must be fixed before the next show. Dad wouldn’t like me traveling without it. Luckily Tony is there and can change out the tire that blew. But we can’t find air for the other tires anywhere. Vandalism has created a problem. We make it home but Dad is sitting in the cab with us the whole way.

Every day, every moment, all the time and everywhere, they are with me.

And I miss them.