I am a woman who possesses an interesting range of enviable skills. Getting surgery is not on the list. One month ago, I broke my wrist. Later, an old friend said she thought with all I did, my bones would be strong. I told her they were. I had to use my full body weight and fifty pounds of horse supplement to do it.
A week later, I was getting seen by an Ortho and I got the “surgery candidate” question. Yes, I’m that old. I’ve told clients to think about it for their older horses. It’s how old dogs get out of more teeth cleanings. It’s that question about diminishing returns. The Ortho says my wrist can heal fine; I’ll lose some strength. But after 65, fewer folks get surgery. She looks at me and adds unless you’re active. I just listen. Like if you do yoga. I said, just the last fourteen years. Or if you are active. I tell her I’m a horse trainer. She asks if I lift heavy things and I don’t mention the supplements. I’ve already broken the rule about not saying what I do.
Stick with me. I’ll get to the horse part.
So there I am, getting prepped for surgery. I repeat my name and birthday a dozen times. The Ortho stops by long enough to sign my arm with a Sharpie. I try to be sociable, another skill I lack, because I’m nervous and want them to like me. I’m under a space blanket that is inflated with warm air, and I’m trying to hallucinate myself into believing I’m at a spa. One more skill I do not have, but it’s easier than the alternative.
People in blue scrubs filled the room. My hospital gown was seductively off my shoulders to make room for sensors and wires hooked to machines. A man’s voice asked if I’d like a nerve block as if he was offering chocolate. Yes. As he began the process of turning my arm into a boneless lump of tepid meat, we watched the injection on an ultrasound. He explained and I told him I understood. My vet uses one. Then he said his wife was a vet. Large animal? I ask. He said yes, she was valedictorian of her class at Cornell. Even in this delicate position, I had to say it. I told him he married up. Now we’re best friends and I’m lucky.
He tells me she retired. She does some small animal stuff a few days a month, but no more horses. It’s my first moan of the procedure. I’m two months away from losing my favorite horse in the ugliest, most violent death throes I’ve ever seen. It took an hour of calls until the fourth vet said they could come… in about 45 minutes. There are fewer large animal vets than ever, both in practice and in college. It’s a lousy job with brutal hours, but at least the college bills are astronomical. And now there is one less.
As if this was strange news, he said I won’t believe her reason, but I already know. I tilted my head; he was still injecting my shoulder. He says the ranchers were difficult to work with, with so much disrespect and general arguing. I said I knew. He talked about how rude they were, this man who was so kind to all the techs and nurses working on me. He didn’t need to convince me, but he works in a different universe. I was thinking of friends of mine who have quit vet work or training or teaching. They are fabulous with horses, but the human aspect wore them down. We lose a few each year. I try to encourage them, but sometimes I work hard to convince myself. Aspects of the horse world are pretty divisive these days.
But I was distracted by my blanket being unplugged and they wheeled me to a stop under huge banks of circular white lights. Everyone wore green scrubs now and when the mask came to my face, I took deep breaths. Finally, something I’m good at.
I was sitting on the ground. My body felt soft, and the ground was warm. I was in a field with tall prairie grass that was pale tan and nearly waist-high on a blue-sky-white-cloud day. There was a light breeze, the kind that touches your skin barely enough to notice. It was not my prairie farm. I was not alone. Sometimes when the breeze would part leaves of the grass, I could see a flash of a horse. Just a knee or part of a hock, or a slip of brassy bay coloring, and then the breeze moved the grass back.
A longer gust came, and I saw the face of a horse I knew. It was that rusty old Appaloosa who got a one-way trip from a rescue I worked with to my farm because their elder pen was overfull. He made a soft landing and was euthanized a few months later, but he was moving well now. I knew the field was filled with many horses; they didn’t need to come to me and I didn’t need to go to them. We were all fine.
Then there were beeping noises and glaring lights. A nurse tried to wake me up, but I was paralyzed. I fought my eyes to stay shut. I was crying, I was gasping as if I had drowned.
You know the rest. I went home with a list of instructions and threats of infection. I couldn’t do chores, but if I covered my arm, I could go to the barn. Naturally, I had some rectal exam gloves, so I shuffled around my herd and did some non-dominant-hand training with Bhim. Years ago, I taught myself to not remember my dreams, but this surgery dream stuck with me, as clear as the conversation about the vet.
But why did that horse come? Why not the one I lost? I was almost angry about it. This decrepit gelding had been used hard, with blown knees and a swayback. He was shy and didn’t like people, so I let him be. After a few weeks of mucking, he blocked the gate one day and let me lay a quiet hand on his neck. It gets worse. His name was Cupid.
By late fall, his knees failed him; he stumbled too often and could barely get back up. Winter would be even harder, so I offered to be his predator. I gave him a good death. He was one of many who traveled through my farm, but he was never mine. It was years ago, I nearly forgot him. I wanted my beautiful Iberian who didn’t come.
Do you look for signs, for guidance in life? I do, but never from horses. The thing about horses is that no matter what, it’s never about us. It’s always about them. They are like bad boyfriends. It’s not what I need, but what the horse needs. So, I guess Cupid needed to stand guard while I slept. Maybe he owed me a rest.
To my professional friends, yes, we do exhausting work in a competitive field. We’re doubted, heckled, and disrespected. We don’t get paid for our experience; we work for longer hours than we charge. Some of us are half-lame and past retirement age. The dream gets rusty and beat up. It helps to be reminded it was never about us.
…
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WOW. Exalted writing. Just beautiful. Thank you.
Thank you. I love to write!
P.s. I forgot to mention how funny this story is (in the beginning). I was so deep into my heart by the end that I forgot to mention it. Jil
If we are going to be old and complain about our maladys, we should try to be clever!
Thanks for writing & sharing this. I hope you’re healing well. We’re all getting older & many of our 2 legged and 4 legged friends have gone on. I wouldn’t change much of the things I’ve experienced on this journey & believe I’m stronger and a better person b/c of them. Take care.
There are a few I’d change, but it’s been wonderful to meet horses around the world. I wish we’d do better for them. Thanks Susan
Thank you, Anna. Sometimes for me the messages just all align and this was one of those times.
Thank you for reading!
Every Friday, your words are a soft and gentle smack upside the head, leading me back to the truth of what is really important. I am still re-reading and digesting last week’s on perception and judgment. I plan to be practicing that lesson for a long time.
Recover well, Anna! Those bags of supplement won’t lift themselves.
Heheheheh! Hay delivery today! Thanks Cathy.
Amen!
Thank you, Karen
Oh my. What a lovely note to send to your many followers. I’m sure almost all of them sat back and contemplated awhile about your comments before moving on to their day’s activities. And, in my case, I will never discard this piece.
Thank you, Chaz. I appreciate you.
That really hit home. I’m soon to be 79, walking slower to the barn, figuring out a way to maneuver 100# bales. I’ve started feeding hay pellets to extend the hay. The bags are the 40 pounders, no longer 50 lb bags, to save my shoulders. Anything to extend my time. It’s all about the horses.
Thank you, Jean. Take care of you!
I have seen that great horse herd in the “wherever.” They thundered past me in my dreams. I know my beloved Whinney (and the many others) was running with them — free at last and gloriously sound. I got the message.
Thanks for reading, Anne. Always good to visit the ghost herd.
I woke up and found this in my email box. I thought, who is this and how did this come to me? So I read your post and was so moved by it. I own a horse (my heart horse passed away in October 2021) who I got one year ago, thinking I’d never love a horse as much as I did Maximus, my Friesian who left me too early. But isn’t it always “too early”? And I fell in love with my Gypsy Vanner – a hard fall and something I sometimes feel guilty about. Anyway, I have a friend who is a large animal vet (my vet) who became my friend because she’s my vet. Anyway, she sometimes tells me tales of the humans who own the horses and the tales are sad and anger-making. I am going to join your group because it sounds like a positive place for horse people. Thank you for your post.
No idea how it arrived in your mailbox, but we are a wonderful group, if I do say so. Thanks for reading, Patricia.
I can already tell by reading all the comments that this is a great place to be for a horse lover. Thank you for accepting me.
You won’t be sorry. Welcome to the group.
Thank you so much, Marsha.
You will be grateful for this “accident” in your mailbox! Try not to feel guilty about loving & caring for the “new” boy/girl – I think we all do the best job we possibly can for our animal “kids” while they are with us – always way too short a time. But if we’re really fortunate, there will be another creature – horse, dog, cat – who we need AND who needs us.
This is a really great place for all of us.
Thank you for your kind words, Maggie. I just have wondered now for 2 years (almost) why is it that Maximus’s death hit me worse than the deaths of 5 dogs (over the years) who I lived with every day and who I hugely loved as well. What is it about a horse that causes such deep grief when they pass away?
Its been 21 years since my beautiful Appy was put down – miss him still and all the other horses I interacted with over the years I had him. I dont think the level of grief was more than my dogs but I miss them all. As I said – their lives are so short compared to ours – and we know from the start we will have to make the decision at the end.
Welcome
This is really powerful, Anna. Thank you for sharing at such a deep level. We all just want to be valued and respected, don’t we?
That’s it Lisa, Our horses, ourselves. Mister clears his throat loudly…
Okay, I confess – I thought you were being clever when you said “I had to use my full body weight and fifty pounds of horse supplement to do it” because in my mind your injury had to do with an actual horse. I was thinking “how does she know the horse leaned/pushed 50 pounds worth?” When I eventually realized my confusion (but not until I was reading the comments), then I really did have to laugh.
An astoundingly well written piece – my heart was with you. I hope you are healing well.
Hehehe. Not a horse injury! Supplements are the dangerous part! Thanks, Amber. I am healing very well.
So glad you are mending well and have your identity back, it is past time things started going your way after a rough few months. We both have large ghost herds at this stage in life, I get the temptation to stay with them but we need you here. Your friends and students need you, and the horses that want their owners knew what you have to teach!
Thank you, Peggy. I appreciate the kind words (and send them back for your work.)
I felt everything you generously shared. Many of the items in this timeline resonated based on my experiences.
After reading J Allen Boone’s books and doing a lot of “digging”, I know there’s another energy that speaks to us.
I suspect Cupid was there to tell you his time with you was too short. He’s in a better position to tell you that now.
They know, and I know you know, here we only see a small sample of what lies beneath.
Thank you.
Thanks, Jennifer. It is an infinite world out there.
Anna – sorry for your recent breakage. Those fifty pounders are doozies at a certain point.
I now get my feed (sunflower for birds, corn for deer) delivered & thankfully, put away for me. Frankly was hard to admit that I just couldnt hoist those 50 pounds anymore. As I said to someone else – this getting older is definitely NOT for sissies!
Hang in there and BE CAREFUL
Also, if anyone pushes you to start bone density meds – do the research & read ALL of the side effects & downsides! A friend of mine – younger than me – has been on one of them for several years & now found that her teeth & jawbones are suffering from it. Which doesnt make much sense to me, but does make me glad I didnt start any of them!
My two cents there…..
I’m lucky. Being in my body is a weight bearing exercise. Thanks, Maggie.
Cupid had your back. Bless him and you.
Thanks, Kathleen
Sending you so much love Anna. Thank you as always.
Best wishes back, Jackie. Thanks.
I think we must be distant cousins…but then, aren’t most horse people? Or perhaps I just want to be related to you. First, I’m so sorry about your wrist, and how underestimated you were. I hate that. I’m 65 now, and I’m getting the double take when doctors read my birthdate. I broke my wrist awhile back also. Slipped on a perfectly dry rubber mat. Injury by walking. I can practically hear them calculating if I can survive the wrist fix. (Tore the radial nerve). Same question, “do you work out?” Ummmm…I moved 2,000 lbs of rock by myself last week, does that count? Sure, slow, and a bit at a time, but don’t count us out because of our birth year. May your recovery be speedy and as pain free as possible!! I love that one of your horses watched over you.
Welp. What’s the whole problem with women like us. We don’t work out! Heheheh. You heal well and stay toes down, Cousin. I hope we meet one day.
Oh, my friend (I take the liberty of calling you that, even from these many miles, because so much of our heart(s) are the same.) I have gone ‘under the knife’ many times, and that sweet slip into dreamland was always most welcome. They said, “pretend you are on a beach” or some such nonsense. Instead, I always put myself on a horse, and we cantered majestically until I faded into the sunset. As for Cupid, remember another famous quote, that may apply: “When the student is ready, the teacher will come.” He took you exactly where you needed to go that day. Heal well. xx
Thanks, Kathy. I swear, it didn’t feel like anyone needed anything.
Outstanding ! I remember the old gelding Cupid from an early video on haltering. Glad to know he and others are healthy and well on the other side. Thanks for sharing the dream with us. I think anaesthesia dreams are the most meaningful since they are so rarely remembered.
Thank you, Sarah. Yes, glad you remember that video.
Very glad, for not entirely selfish reasons, that you came out of surgery OK. That’s never a small thing. I will admit with some guilt to being one of the ones who have walked away from horse people. It was a long goodbye, I knew the relationship was over 20 years ago, but I think I’ve finally made a clean break. Now it can be all about the horses again for me 🙂
Thank you, Shaste. I hope you don’t walk away from all horse people.
You have been a blessing. to my life for many years now. I am glad things went well. This piece came at the perfect time as I finally admitted “Uncle” and am spending the weekend doing absolutely nothing so that my poor wrists can have a respite from overuse injury by this person who is having difficulty giving up the Superwoman thing. It was loading, unloading and piling hay bales that did me in finally.
Thank you for all you do. I am sending my vet an appreciation card too, as soon as I can write again.
Oh dear. Teresa, hope your rest is going well. I confess, paying to have my hay stacked is a luxury that I think of as the same thing as other women paying to have their hair dyed. Is it time? You crack me up. I’d like to chat but I’m off to buy a case of Aspercreme. Take care!
The horse vet I’ve used for many decades is, like me, in his late 60s but doesn’t want to fully retire. So he does routine work but no longer middle-of-the-night emergencies, and I say good for him. After decades of solo practice, on call 24/7/365, he deserves it. He’s reasonably priced, very competent and I like him, so I continue to use him for routine work although he lives at least 45 minutes away so wouldn’t be the best option in an emergency anyway. I recently had an 8 pm horrible experience with an elderly boarder that I think had ruptured something inside himself and was in agony. I had the same experience you did, frantically trying to find a nearby vet to euthanize this horse. After about 15 minutes of phone calls and a 45-minute wait for the vet to arrive, we managed to get the job done, but get this: vets were trying to tell me they would not come to put this horse out of his misery because I was not their regular client. I’m told this is increasingly common. I don’t understand. Don’t vets go into practice to help animals?
Getting busier for night calls… maybe they can’t do them all, but what a mess, right? And training new vets is hard. This is all I know, those internal ruptures of some kind are the worst. Thanks Lee.
Oh Anna, I’m a crier by nature but have taught myself to subdue my emotional responses. Between being a nurse for the last 40 years, and only giving homes to horses that nobody else wanted, there have been many reasons to cry. I am awed by your writing as demonstrated by the burst of tears when I read “Maybe he owed me a rest”. Thank you, the tears felt right.
Our jobs are more similar than different… thanks for what you do, Laurie. A peaceful affirmation.
Dearest Anna,
I can’t really improve on the other comments thus far, but just wanted to say thank you. Your words resonate so deeply on all points, and I love how you keep a sense of humor through it all. Wishing you a speedy, uneventful recovery and good fortune in your follow up medical team.
Best regards,
Fran
Thanks, Fran. I could write about the my my Physical Therapist massages my incision, but it might set off a wave of barfing across the country. I’ll just swallow it. Teeheehee.
Again, I’m just here, Anna, looking, laughing and crying over the message you received replete with brick-and-mortar responses and none of my own to contribute. Isn’t there a song out there somewhere in the past where the boy is trying to convince the girl that the love she’s been looking all around for is standing right in front of her? Can’t say for sure it’s the same for Cupid.
It felt like a place free of love… and very impersonal. Seeing the comments makes me think I didn’t get it written right. No one there needed anything and there were no threats. Release from emotion. But you could be right. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at a horse without love in MY heart. Thanks Lynell. Food for thought.
Untold truth: for all my assorted “procedures” I lean against a beloved horse’s warm side (all in my head) and just breathe. I can make every cold table, every strange smell and sound, every supercilious person wearing yet another uniform just … go away. The magic of horses. The escape I need to brave it out and “never let them see you cry.”
I’m so glad you’ve made it through that mess — and through Facebook Limbo. What the what?
Sherry, the sheer immensity of what you write here. It backs me up. It is a weapon we have, to use when needed. I know I can close my eyes and be cantering the Grandfather Horse on the old airstrip. That’s my go-to. I believe in the beginning, they are on the outside of us but if we do it right, and not many do, but if we do (Now I am remembering photos of you on your gray) we eventually embody them; they are inside us forever. I am so glad for you. My wrist is nothing comparted to the line of uniforms you see, a warrior on a gray. Thanks Sherry.
Wonderful! Thanks!!
Thanks for reading!
I thought about sharing broken-wrist stories in response to this post and these comments, but thought instead I would say, 2 years after my last horse died, I have become a ‘Patron’ (through Patreon) of a pig at a local pig shelter for “differently abled” pigs. The horror stories, OMG. But pigs are so smart, beautiful, loving if treated well, and I am happily learning about them and spending time with them. The people who run it and volunteer at it are heroic. I’d still miss horses, but the pigs are such a gift, and completely unplanned in the arc of my life. You can see them on FB at Saving Snouts. I do love livestock, it seems.
Oh, this makes me so happy. Because I remember Tiepost Twila, a lovely sow. Thanks, Theresa