A little grief-coping glurge

 Forgive the glurginess of this, but in the past 18 months, we have had to put down three beloved animals: our mare Ferrana broke my heart in September 2011, Inigo, my beloved cat, in August 2012, and just this past March, our adopted sweetheart dog Ginger.  This followed losing our sweet, but very sick by the end, sheltie Angel who we said our final goodbye to in 2008.

Add to that losing my father in 2009, after losing my last grandparent in 2007 (the others passed in 2000 and 2003) and well, sometimes I think about them all and wonder what the reunion would be like.  Usually when I'm missing them so.  Like now, I suppose.
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The light is bright, but not blinding; warm, but not hot. Time no longer flows in a singular path like a river, but rather ebbs and flows and rolls and envelopes like an ocean.

Voices.  Scents.  Senses.  Knowings.

Then...then.  Squeaking sounds, half mew half grunt.  Princess, that old sweet love of a cat, my beloved companion from age 4 to 21, my nursemaid and therapist, trots in eagerly and wishes only to be in my arms, as she always, always had been.  There is competition.  Inigo, my companion of 14 years and first pet as an adult on my own, is demanding to share my arms.  Lady is more content to howl her discontent at having to share anything and sits at my feet in her Egyptian statue pose, demanding the respect of her regal roots.

But if she could roll her eyes, she would, as bounding out of the light come two vivacious dogs.  Angel, freed of her badly damaged elbow and kidney disease, bounds about, tail flagging, tongue wagging in a tricolor blur of effervescence.  Ginger, freed of her badly damaged hips and cancer-ridden body, bounds along beside her, the two shepherding breeds happy to herd each other in bouncing laughter.

I sit, Princess and Inigo in my lap, Lady at my side, as Angel bounds around me before rolling over on her back next to me, showing off that fluffy white belly and begging for rubs. Ginger moans and barks and whines her exuberance before also rolling on her back to plead for the same.  Princess and Inigo, well aware they are dominant to these silly dogs, do not move.  Lady, finding such sloppy raw emotion disgraceful, moves out of view and reach of them at my back.

Then, both dogs' ears perk in the direction of the light.  They both look back at me and flash their brilliant doggy smiles, then bound forward before turning back for me, insisting I follow.  I rise, setting the cats down.  They trot behind me as I go forward.

I hear her first.  Her voice penetrates my heart, and joy overflows my soul. Then her hoofbeats.  Then her. Ferrana Moniet.  Ana.

She is brilliant white with no arthritic hocks, no damaged shoulder, no catastrophically disintegrating tendons...she is whole, she is sound, she is beautiful, she is happy.  She canters toward me, her large round eyes and tipped ears locked on me.  She slows as she approaches, respecting my space as she carefully approaches as she always has.  She whuffles and nickers her greeting before resting her head in my arms, her eyes half closed in contentment.  Like our last morning together, I weep into her neck and take great comfort in her fleecy coat and familiar scent.  She is ready for new adventures with me now, but first, she alerts ahead and pauses.

They are coming.

Dad is first, hugging his sassy one whose unbridled outspoken individuality always tickled him so, even when it made Mom want to disappear under tables and church pews. Then my grandfathers, my grandmothers, my great-grandmother...all who knew me before saying their final goodbye surround me in familial love, recognition, and celebration.

I am safe, I am welcome, I am swallowed whole by love.

Ferrana's memorial in our home.  At top center is a box containing braided sections of her mane and tail,  surrounded by condolence cards and a trophy and belt buckle we won together.  The ribbons are all from our last show together, except the third on the far left--that one is from our first. <3

Inigo's memorial box. My eldest son made it with me at the same time we made Ginger's (below)  We picked favorite treats and toys to go with his collar and tags.  

Ginger's memorial box.  My poor heartbroken eldest son--who was devastated over losing Ana and saddened over Inigo--was crushed to lose her.  He sadly drew the most ominous of her tumors above her leg. 

Torn lead rope, "Is Tril supposed to be backwards?"--awesome lesson anyway. Dammit.

Time for another lesson.

Took the new German martingale, took my new gloves, took some ibuprofen, took a puff from the inhaler.  :::puts sunglasses on:::  Let's do this.

A kind friend offered to trailer Tril and me over--well, trailer Tril, I got to ride up front in the truck--and she had a lesson right after mine, so it was a fun twofer for both of us.  We got to have our own lesson then learn by watching someone else's.

But first: as we pulled up and parked the rig, the trainer called out in quizzical amusement, "Is Tril supposed to be backwards??"  My friend and I: "Whuhhh??"  "Tril is backwards."  "Whuhhhhh?"

We got out of the truck, walked to the back of the rig, and sure enough Tril had his previously tied nose sticking out the back of the trailer.  I figured my Houdini had untied himself, as he has done on many, many occasions at the hitching post.

Nope.

"What?"

"Is something on my face?"

Working on the next one

I don't know if he chewed through that lead rope or tore it, but dude got himself free.  Unbelievable.  Except it's Tril, so.... believable.  He then apparently decided to take a gander at the world we were leaving behind and turned himself around, though because of having to share the slant load with another horse didn't make it the full 180 degrees (which made unloading interesting).  But, thankfully, my goofball didn't hurt himself, something he so excels at doing.  Considering his major medical insurance had lapsed and he was no longer covered as of midnight last night, I am grateful that tempting the fates only meant a little jocular reminder as to WHY this horse needs major medical.  Seriously.

I'm thinking of starting a trophy wall for him.  I'm sure this won't be the last.

The trainer lunged him and warmed him up, doing a lot of bending at the walk under saddle.  I watched carefully, taking a few videos on my phone, so I could see ways I could get him to use his flat-muscled butt correctly.  She commented he was more stiff than the last time I had brought him out, which made sense--I had not been able to ride him in 5 days,  I'd tried, but the property owner is getting new drainage pipes put in, which meant digging and machinery right in front of the hitching post and tack room three days in a row.  Ah well.

Bendy bendy

I was eager to get on, as I had had enough rides on Tril since my last lesson to have questions.  Not ones I could put into words and raise my hand and ask, but ones based on what I was feeling and not feeling and doing and not doing.  I was eager to get on and see what I discovered.

Well, let's see.

I ride stiffly myself turning to the right and tend to just brace that right rein and not let go.  This annoys Tril and is a prime example of me getting in the way of both of us.  I tend to not let him be straight going that direction because of that braced right rein--unaware, I keep him curved.  "Watch your horse's head," the trainer told me.  Yeah--perpetually turned slightly to the right.  Shoot.  Solution: lots of circles and changes of direction at the walk, making sure he goes straight in between each transition.  This is more for me than for him.

Actually, most of the lesson--perhaps all--was about me and not him.  I felt like a kid starting over again--the trainer actually did say I was going back to kindergarten (later she amended it, "Well, maybe that was going back to third grade").  I did a series of very useful, very excruciating drills where I would sit the trot, two point, post the trot, sit the trot, two point, lather, rinse, repeat.  This gave me tremendous feel for my lower leg position, but OH DEAR LORD.   I love, and hate, how absolutely exhausting and challenging that is.  I shall now do it every ride until it isn't exhausting and challenging, dammit.  I WILL CONQUER YOU.  Legs, shut up.  I have more ibuprofen at home.

Then came the words that instill fear in the heart of many an equestrian: "Drop your stirrups."  Actually, she asked, and I--now fully pissed this easy stuff wasn't easy--welcomed it.  I let my legs go long, but she corrected me--put them back in position.  Now, sit the trot, post the trot, sit the trot, post the trot (thank God she didn't ask me to two point without stirrups) until my hip flexor muscles screamed for mercy.  "Do that until you're too tired to do more, and you're done," she said through a dark grin.  And indeed, I did.  Dammit.

My lower legs have a tendency to creep back behind when I ride, particularly when I cue, and these drills will help keep them in position.  I also learned Tril speeds up when I circle him because I subconsciously am pushing him forward, when pulling on a rein (to turn or otherwise) is actually a slow down cue and the opposite should be the case.  I also tend to have my reins uneven, shortening them for every turn, and need to be mindful of keeping them exactly even.  Ooh, I also brace when I transition (upward or downward) and need to relax my arms and legs rather than scrunch up.

It goes on.  All good to write down and remember while it's fresh to avoid the "Holy shit, I forgot everything she said!  WTF do I do??" feeling I had first time I sat on Tril after our previous lesson.  I will not forget this time!  Dammit.

The frustrating thing about having had so many physical setbacks in the last few years (two babies, two back surgeries, recovery from H1N1, busted ankle) means it seems like I am always going back to the beginning.  I told the trainer after the lesson what is both insulting and embarrassing is how incredibly exhausting such basic work is.  *sigh again*  But, really, it's about getting a proper foundation and building my stamina--everything else just builds on top of it.  She did tell me it's easier to teach kids because kids are willing to do everything they're asked--drop stirrups?  Two point?  Sure!  I like that I still have that child-like willingness, if not a child's body (that I've heard once described as being made of "rubber and magic").

Watching the other regular riders at the barn, I felt small and unskilled, clumsy and oafish, ignorant and coarse.  I still aspire to be As Good As Them someday, and have a thoroughly educated horse who is abundantly forgiving and generous who can help me Get There.

A simple sentence my friend told me resonated with me: "It's fun riding with someone who gets it."  I later realized she meant me--I was getting it, and that was rewarding for her to see.  I was out of shape, sloppy, exhausted, but I was getting it, and as a teacher myself, I know there is no greater pleasure than seeing that in a student.  I look forward to more of it.  I look forward to not being a perpetual newbie.

Dammit.

Riding lessons. ACK. Perpetual Newbie in-stinkin'-deed.

The last few rides on Tril have been difficult for me as I struggle to speak his language.  He's hard-mouthed, strong, and exhausting, and I felt like we just weren't communicating.  He knows so much and has so much to teach me, but I realized I had no clear idea how to listen to him.  I reached a point of frustration, and felt he shared the sentiment--we both want to please the other, but neither of us was understanding.

So, I buckled down and scheduled a riding lesson with a local professional Arabian trainer.  I figure this is someone familiar with how Tril is trained who can serve as translator for the two of us.  This had been the plan all along--to take lessons with her--but my busted ankle delayed that by about a year.  But, spring break arrived, and I had time and had healed...so, DAMMIT, I'm scheduling that lesson and getting out there.  With the help of a friend, I did exactly that.  Dammit.

And you know it's going to be one of those kinds of lessons when one of the first things the trainer says is, "Well, first I'm going to teach you how to wrap his legs correctly."  Awesome.  And then the recommend increasing his hay an extra flake a day as he's down about 100lbs and needs the groceries.  Crud.  And that my saddle pad was insufficient and he really should have something else as (poke poke poke) he's a little back sore.  Phooey.

But!  All of this was offered kindly and gently, and she was absolutely right.  I listened and absorbed, as she certainly knows her stuff and I certainly could learn from it.

She also told me, to my surprise, that her daughter showed Tril as a three year old over at a big Arab show in Santa Barbara, and that they were reserve champion something-something, and that her daughter loved this horse.  Well.  WHOA.  She also said Tril had suspensory injuries which is why he stopped showing when he did, and that he was always a hard keeper over at Cal Poly, which is why I am having so much fun keeping weight on him.  Made her feed adjustment suggestions all the more poignant.  (I think she's his favorite new friend, because thanks to her, he gets a FULL flake of alfalfa twice a day now instead of just half.)

So this is a trainer who really knows the horse, not just the way he was trained.  

With that, she saddled up and took him from a brief ride to get the feel of where all of his buttons and levers are.  

Ooh, purty

She also saw what we've been working on chiropractically with his hind end, and showed me various maneuvers to get him engaging both sides of his body evenly... 

Lots of bending

...and getting that atrophied butt of his working.

Work that butt.  WERK.

Then I got on him and it looked like this:

Laura, relax, you have elbows

It was an introduction to Arabian Hunter Pleasure Horse as a Second Language.  Vocabulary, basic sentence structure, greetings, and basic, useful phrases akin to "Where is the bathroom:"

"Hold frame on the bend."

"Whoa."  Yeah, we liked this one.  Even if my eq makes my eye twitch a little.

"Bend on the turn going the other way.  Engage the hindquarters."

Our communication is getting results--even if just at the walk.  I'm meh, but he looks awesome.  I think I had a Breyer horse that looked like this.

You'll notice not many trotting photos.  I did trot a good amount, but that's on video--which this blogger is annoyingly persnickety about.  Some videos upload no problem, and some get "We're sorry, but there was an error uploading this video."  All of my riding lesson videos are in this uncooperative latter category.  OH DARN.

I was stunned at the end of the listen to discover it was much, much less work to ride him the way she was teaching me versus how I'd been riding him on my own.  There was so much mental energy spent at that lesson, covering everything from his care up through the ride itself, that it's difficult to remember what she was saying.  (God bless video.)

But today, I went for lesson #2--just two days later, gotta make damn good use of my spring break!--and a few things went click!  One, I had been riding him like a dressage horse, trying to push him forward from my seat up into my hands to frame him up.  This did NOT make sense to him, at all, and would result in my legs and arms being drained and shaky in a hurry.  Instead, I just need to tap him with my legs while half halting him and, stunningly, he frames up.  That is not at all what I would have thought would happen.  I thought there was a lot more squeeze and hold--but again, this is an Arabian hunter pleasure horse, not a dressage horse...not that I have ever been much of a dressage rider.  Heh.

Two, I try to ride like an equitation rider and force myself into correct frame, so much so I become tense (which makes me crooked--frickin' irony!).  It's okay to bend my elbows and lift my arms--and I should!  What has happened is I have become stiff and tense and brace while trying to hold my wrists stiff.  The idea of bending my elbows was ludicrously unheard of until this second lesson.  My shoulders and forearms get wonky partially from the tension--just let go and go with the horse is actually okay, rather than try and stiffly hold my own frame.

Three, when I cue my horse with my leg, it goes back.  I need to work on keeping my lower leg at the girth--even though it feels like a chair seat, it's not.  She physically held it in place and hand me look down to prove it wasn't as far forward as it felt--it was, in fact, perfect.  Felt horribly awkward, but perfect.

Four, in the words of my trainer, "Shut up."  I told her while tacking up Tril that the photos were painful for me to look at because my shoulder is crooked, my arms are stiff, I collapse my left rib cage, blah blah blah, and she said with a warm smile, "I can tell you this because you're an adult: you need to shut up.  Don't criticize, don't overthink, just do.  Relax."  

Yes ma'am.

Greetings from disease central

Good.  GRAVY.

I think I still own horses.  I'm pretty sure I do.  I feed them everyday, and they nicker their recognition and hungry welcomes.  I pick up a lot of manure and the interior of my truck is covered in shedding horse hair...so, yeah.  I'm pretty sure I still own horses.

But for the past two weeks, I've been working hard being human and a mother.  It started with me taking a Thursday off because I was completely drained feeling.  I wasn't exactly sure what I was feeling--sick, maybe?  Sick-ish?  Since my youngest had a cold and my tummy had been iffy, I figured it was a virus and took my first sick day for myself (but fifth this year--ah, motherhood) to lounge on the sofa and watched a marathon of RuPaul's Drag Race.  Yup, while I didn't go to work that day, I did go to werq!  

Then I picked up my eldest son at school, and he was sobbing in misery.  I thought it was just a fever, until I heard his breathing.  Shit.  A few times in his life, his body freaks the hell out at a virus and he goes into respiratory distress.

I brought him home, checked his temp (101.2), and started the nebulizer as his breathing was wheezy and he was whimpering with each struggled breath. As he watched his favorite movie (Spirit, Stallion of the Cimarron--hooray, horsey movie!) after the nebulizer treatment, I watched him breathe. His stomach would push with each breath, and his ribs would go in instead of out. Uh oh. I called the pediatrician, who sent us straight to urgent care. In hindsight, I wish we'd gone straight to UC, or an emergency room, from school.

Hubby took Boy 1 while I stayed home with Boy 2, feeding, bathing, and bedding him while anxiously checking my phone for updates. 

Boy 1's oxygen levels were low, so they immediately put him on O2 (which scared him, even though it didn't hurt--he was afraid of wearing the tubing), and then they started him on an IV of a potent anti-inflammatory medication to get his lungs to calm the eff down. When hubby texted me that, I moaned--putting an IV on this kid was NOT going to go well for anyone. And in fact, it didn't. It took three pokes and three locations before they got it in, and got it in to stay. In his panic, his blood pressure raised enough that his vein "blew out" the second jab. 

But, they got it in, and they then started him on a double-dose albuterol treatment on the nebulizer. Exhausted and feverish, Boy 1 fell asleep while his body was soothed by the welcome presence of oxygenated blood.  

Poor baby

After all that, the doc still could hear something in his left lung, so he was sent for x-rays to check for pneumonia. Thankfully, they were clear. 

Hubby expressed deep gratitude that I had called the doctor and sent Boy 1 on to UC--seeing how much he was still struggling to breathe, after all that treatment, was unnerving to my stoic hubby.

Four hours of treatment later, my super-wired-from-medication boy came home with a new Matchbox set, two prescriptions, and a worried mommy's arms.

Wish I were as resilient as he is

From what we've been repeatedly told, he doesn't have asthma; just "reactive airway disease," which is more or less a catch-all term of this sort of thing. He can go months, and as much as a year, without an episode. It isn't triggered by allergies, heat, dust, or physical exertion--it always, always follows a viral respiratory infection. This is by far the worst he's ever been, and I swear it came out of nowhere.

Five days later, both Boy 1 and myself started running a fever as the flu hit us full throttle.  I assume whatever it was that made me lethargic and sent Boy 1 to urgent care is to blame, as that bastard drew its claws and just shredded us with high fevers, severe body aches, skin pain (seriously?  WTF is that about?), nausea, and a paaaaainful cough.  Crap.  Guess we're staying home that Thursday, too.

Friday morning, Boy 1 and I woke up feeling worse.  Then Boy 2 showed up with bright red cheeks and ears, and I groaned.  He had a 102 fever as well.  Sick momma can't handle two sick kiddos, so hubby stayed home to help out.  The next few days were a blur of pain, fevers, nausea, and Boy 2's vomiting spells.  Four days later, I managed to drag myself to work--and then hubby woke up with a 102 fever.

I oozed into my classroom, dutifully digging through the mess that even the best of subs leave behind, and was greeted by substantially smaller class sizes.  The virus wreaked havoc in particular on my afternoon group, which had six out of 31 absent Monday and seven out on Tuesday.  The rest of the week, we watched as some returned and others went out, and by Friday, we counted 14 of the 32 of us (when you include me) that had been leveled by the bug.

Thursday, I figured enough time had passed that I could go ride my damn horse.  It had been over three weeks when you account for Trilogy's inexplicable lameness (that mercifully resolved with a week of Bute and stall rest) and the infirmary my home became.  I lunged Firefly, turned her out, then tacked up Tril and lunged him before getting on.

I made the ride simple, figuring Tril was going to be strong and I was going to be weak.  We only spent about 10 minutes in the arena, trotting, circling, bending, before my shaking limbs directed Tril out to go on a brief trail ride around the property.  We paused to stop and talk with a friend, and after a few minutes, I noticed a hot, queasy feeling in my stomach...soon followed by a feeling of cold water pouring over my head.  Uh...oh...  I quickly dismounted and handed the reins to my friend and lay down on the ground (how interesting that must have looked) to avoid passing out.

Apparently, while I certainly felt better in that I no longer felt like shit, I wasn't truly better.  My friend confirmed what I read later on--this virus takes weeks to recover from.  Suuuuuuuper.  After about 5-10 minutes of lying there, I was able to get up and slowly hand walk Tril home.  I felt icky the rest of the night.

I disapprove.

I hope to ride this weekend, but admittedly, more than anything I just want to lounge about with my laptop inbetween naps.

We'll see.  Here's hoping I get to experience my horses again soon.

Tril, you're so LAME. And you make ME feel lame. LAME!

Oof.  I suppose there is a reason the word meaning "crippled or physically disabled" has come to have slang meaning of "stupid, boring, and/or ridiculous"--because apparently the reason why horses go lame is "stupid, boring, and/or ridiculous."  I mean, seriously.

I have frequently said (and always only partially in jest) that Tril is like having a third son.  He is sweet, gregarious, and endlessly curious, exploring and conquering his world in his constant, innocent, hands-on investigations.

However, there is also a lot of:

"No, don't put that in your mouth."
"That's not a toy."
"That's not a toy either."
"Well, what did you think was going to happen?!"
"What the hell is that?"
"What did you do to yourself now?"
"How the heck did you hurt yourself there?"

Within a few months of owning Tril, I stopped worrying about the lumps and cuts I'd find on his legs. If he was sound, I shrugged it off.  Whereas my pretty, dainty, feminine grey mare rarely had a mark from the knees down, Tril frequently looks like he's been running through briar patches while wrestling baseball bat-wielding weasels.

I used to document every lump and bump, like this small one on the outside of his right (photo left) front leg, worried that he'd done something akin to that hideous (but asymptomatic) splint on the same leg.  But he was sound, so sigh and move on.

Aw, look at how cutely worried I used to be about itty bitty lumps

Once, as best I could gather, he got the leg straps of his new fly sheet up in his groin and sliced some very delicate territory like a giant, painful paper cut. "How the heck did you hurt yourself there?" What do you do with that except Bute him and leave him alone?  It's not like he's going to let me put antibiotic ointment there.  Then, there was the big rubbed-gash-like thing behind his elbow that as best I could gather was created by kicking himself getting up.

Then there was this:

Ow.

Ow!

Ow ow!

"What did you think was going to happen?"

Trilogy had been enjoying some turn out and grazing on the property when some firecracker shot up his butt, ignited, and sent him wheeling and bolting around a corner for no reason in particular.  He scrambled, fell, and skidded upside down a good six feet or so before righting himself, popping up and trotting away snorting and tail flagging like no one saw that, and if they did, he meant to do it.

Ow ow ow!

I had been cleaning his stall and saw the skid and was incredulous watching him slide, four limbs up in the air, and took all these photos for documentation.  Note the landing strip he created in the process:

Talent

I looked him over, cleaned and dressed his multiple wounds, gave him Bute, put his fly mask on to protect the scrapes on his face, snapped a final photo, shook my head, and went home for an adult beverage.

All.  Boy.  ALL boy.

Since then, he seemed to slowly learn his boundaries and how to not, oh, maim himself on his fly sheet/pipe corral poles/dirt/gravity/bubble wrap.

When I see his legs have marks, I check his soundness, shrug my shoulders, and move on.

His legs:

...look a bit like my 3yro son's legs:

Ask me where all those scrapes, bumps, rubs, and bruises came from.  On either of them.  Go ahead, ask.

I have NO idea.  But, they're not complaining, so...*shrug*

So, Monday when the farrier came and noticed Trilogy was lame at the walk when I led him out, I shrugged.  He was fine when I'd turned him out for a good run-off-the-crazies a few hours before, and figured he torqued something mid-yee-haw.  He was shod and trimmed and left to be.

Wednesday, I noticed he was still walking a bit off and asked a trusted friend with a damn keen eye to take a look (I always ask her, "Can I borrow your eyeballs?").  She noted he was slightly off on the same leg--the left front (white leg)--and helped me discover a little heat on the inside of that leg toward about midway down.  No noticeable swelling--well, nothing unusual for him--so I followed her suggestions of a little arnica on the heated area, wrapping his legs with bandages smothered in ichthammol to keep my mouthy boy from eating them, and of course...adding a little Bute to his grain bucket.

Tools of the trade

Be grateful this blog cannot capture the smell. It's like he slogged through the La Brea Tar Pits. 

His "I'm bored" face.  Too bad, Tril.  Deal.

"Hmm, wonder if I can somehow hurt myself WITH the wraps!"

I let him be then went back Friday to check on him, and I could not believe what I was seeing:

Yup.  He still had heat on the left front, but now he's lame on the right front.

What.

The.

HELL?

I put in a call to the vet, who advised Bute, rest, and time. Of course. If it gets worse, doesn't improve, or comes back, it's probably time for me to have him come out and look a bit more thoroughly.  Of course.

And a little Quietex won't hurt in the meantime...of course.

Guess it's time to focus a bit more on Firefly's ground driving.

Never a lame step in the 8 years I've known her.
Of course.

F-you back surgeries, H1N1, busted ankle! I'm taking my body back!

As I respite on the couch following a long (but fulfilling) morning at the barn, I'm reflecting on how much my body has been through--and celebrating how much it can do, now.  

There are many, many others who have (and have had) it far worse, but admittedly, it's been a rough past three years or so physically. Hmm, past 7 years, really. I had back surgery in 2006 (shattered a disc giving birth to my first), then again in 2007.  That second time around was the most frightened I have ever been; the tough outer lining of the disc, all that was left of it, had herniated and had kinked the sacral nerve root like a garden hose.  

The pain was indescribable and incomparable.  I gave birth to my first with pitocin-augmented contractions and not a drop of pain medication of any sort, and I will do that every freakin' day over being in that sort of pain again.  

Surgery removed centimeter-sized chunks of material normally measured in millimeters--but unkinking that nerve provided immediate relief of the agony.  It took months of physical therapy to strengthen my atrophied body, but in time, I was riding again.  I have some arthritis and minor nerve damage, but it's nothing that even appears on my radar 95% of the time--and again, I will gladly take that in exchange for getting my life back.

Incidentally, an MRI of my spine appears in the book Shit My Kids Ruined, heh.  I'm under "V" for "vertebrae." 

Then in October 2009, I came down with H1N1 (the infamous "swine flu") while pregnant with my second.  Full disclosure: I was diagnosed, but not tested specifically for H1N1; they said it was the only flu that people were getting at the time, and they were treating everyone (especially pregnant ladies like me) with the assumption that that is what it was.  

This beast did the most lasting damage--I ran a fever for two weeks and my OB called me on a daily basis at home (!!!) to check on me.  I was still trying to go to work and actually tried to convince him to let me.  WTF, Laura??  He actually barked at me that old physician cliche, "No, you are NOT going to work--that is an ORDER!" <yes sir>

In the days after a c-section delivered my son (with my history, I was advised to avoid a vaginal birth, and they weren't about to give me a spinal; I was knocked out), I started coughing up nasty black stuff  that resembled contents of a dirty ash tray.  (Um, minus the cigarette butts.)  The specialist later said it was due to the medication I was given when I was intubated; all that gunk was sitting in the bottom of my lungs, and the medication--meant to dilate the respiratory tract--and intubation drudged it up.  YUMMY.  

I'd like to add, coughing that deeply and violently after abdominal surgery SUCKED.  Su-UCK-ed.

I was sent to a pulmonologist, amusingly yet appropriately named Dr. Leung, who had this peculiar way of interrupting me with active listening.   

"So what is going on?"

"Well, they think..."

"...Uh-huh..."

"...I had H1N1 when I was..."

"Uh-huh, yeah..."

"...about 27 weeks pregnant with my son..."

"Yeah, okay..."

Oh...kay.  But hey, he was listening, and managed my case well, so...he can "uh huh, yeah, okay" in randomly timed non-pauses all he wants.

He warned at my first visit (uh huh) it would take 2 (yeah) years to recover (okay). I "Bah"-ed this--two years?  Psh, sure. Oh, but indeed--it was 2 years to the month after my diagnosis that he finally said my lungs were clear, and staying clear, and I could wean off the medication. A year into my recovery, I found myself in the ER; another time, I wound up in Leung's office getting a steroid shot in the "hip" (doctor speak for "butt") for an out-of-nowhere infection. A cold could send me from zero to bronchitis in 6 hours. 

Ugh. Wow, it sucked. I suppose it makes sense I was diagnosed with post partum depression in that phase, too.  But haven't I whined enough?  This is a bit uncomfortable for me--me, the over-sharer--because I've learned I need to just deal with what is given, and when need be, get some help with dealing.  Seriously, this is getting to be too  much.

(Um...well...I also busted my ankle last April, which put me in a cast for 6 weeks and a brace for 6 months.  It's stiff, but healing.  That story awaits another day; it involves a moment a supreme stupid with Trilogy, and it was alllllll my fault.)

Obviously, I cannot be trusted with gravity.  I'm like a horse that can impale themselves on bubble wrap.  "What the hell did you do to yourself NOW?"

All those years of medications (the steroids, in particular) and all that inactivity (I couldn't do anything because my lungs/back/whatever wouldn't allow it the majority of the time) meant the baby weight gained from baby #2 stuck. I'm only about 17lbs up from what I weighed on my wedding day, but I hate it.  Around November, I gave up, resigning myself to just being overweight and trying to make myself accept and own it. 

Then another epiphany came. We went to a campground this past Christmas, the same one we went to when youngest was barely one (and thus, I was just at the halfway point in my H1N1 recovery). I remembered going there that time and being winded--more than winded, just whole-body fatigued--walking up and down the main hill just to the kids' playground. Yet, this most recent visit, I realized I was able to walk everywhere. EVERYwhere. Up that hill, down that one, hiking that trail, going to that playground two times a day alone--PLUS all the other walking. 

It dawned one me, I can do this, and I couldn't before. It excited me to the point of tears.

So I've started 2013 using My Fitness Pal. I'm calorie counting and eating healthily, and prefer it. I've always had good eating habits; I just realized my portions were too large. 4.4lbs lost in the first 3 weeks.

Also helps that my riding horse is a hard mouth lazy boy. He makes me WORK to ride him--at least, to ride him so he's not just willy-nilly loosey goosey on the forehand. 

I hope to get down to my prepreggo-with-second-child weight, but more than anything, I just want to be healthy--and ENJOY being healthy. 

I feel like for the first time in years, I'm...me.  My neurosurgeon told me after my second back surgery to start physical therapy to "regain confidence in your body."  Yes, that was it completely.  My body had betrayed me, I'd felt.  In the years since, it has continued to confound, confuse, and frustrate me.

But now, now, I am exercising, walking, breathing, riding...I'm me.  Nice to have her back.

Well, nice to meet YOU, Captain Goofballpants

I needed a few days to let some muscles stitch themselves back together before getting in the saddle again, but with Mother Nature (or, at least meteorologists) reminding me that winter in SoCal means *gasp* rain, I needed to hustle my tired, sore butt in the saddle today before STORMWATCH 2013!!! (!!!!!) struck.

I was short on time and on daylight, but I got out there.  I knew Tril probably needed a good head-clearing galloping around the ring in turnout, but time did not allow and I only lunged him in a circle.  He's not allowed to canter circles yet due to chiro's orders ("I don't want him on one leg"), so all we did was trot.  Bor-RING to a 10yro hot blood, but deal, boy.

After about 4-5min of lunging each direction, I got on him...and, uh, wow.  I got to meet the real Trilogy today.

"The real Trilogy?"

Yes.  It's rather like what my son's preschool teacher was telling us today at his conference (which is why I got to the barn later in the day):  when they start testing boundaries and acting out, it's a very positive sign because it means the child feels emotionally safe.  

I don't mean Tril hasn't felt "emotionally safe" or some other 70s-child love mush, but that since we are now really doing some work (or, I suppose, starting some work), he is showing me his "I don't wanna work!" side.  It's a positive because it shows I am actually asking him to work now, instead of willy-nilly wandering about the rings.

He didn't do anything bad, and, true to who he is, he wasn't being nasty or aggressive or spooky.  He was just being himself--his big, goofy self--but bigger.  I could feel his energy when I got on him; he rounded up and tucked his chin and played with the bit, which at first had me thinking, "Great!  He's giving my hands a break!" However--our first trotting pass, he decided the leaves in the back corner were a reason to buck or crow hop or something else that involved rounding up and ducking his chin further.  Never afraid--just annoyed--I said, "No, no, NO.  Go forward, go forward, go forward, and get over yourself."  Harrumph, he said, you're no fun, and off we trotted (with some circle and figure-eight work tossed in when he was feeling just too good).

He kept up the "Let's PLAY!" persona, but was a good enough listener inbetween the "Aw, c'mon, let me spook at the trash can!  Let me get all snorty and blowy and race down the line!  Let me be stupid at the leaves again!" for me to actually get some riding in.  My legs are still lame (literally with my right ankle, dammit, but it's not sore in the stirrup) and I had to remind myself to use my lower leg, but that proved challenging with Captain Goofballpants.  

We worked for a good 25min or so (all the time I had with the vanishing daylight) before getting everything battened down for WATER!  FALLING OUT OF THE SKY!!   !!!

I'd really like to get some lessons on him soon so I can better learn his language (and that includes how to properly call him on his bullshit).  A local Arab trainer is busy with shows--Scottsdale is next month--but I might manage one sooner than later.  We shall see.