Day 118 Horse Crazy

Yesterday, for the first time since my (first) surgery I tacked up a horse and I rode.  Granted, she is an old mare, with some age related lameness in her rear legs but she's a steady Eddie pro and a safe bet for my first mount.  I had a lesson under my dear friend who tormented my legs with all sorts of two point exercises and short bursts of trot.

My husband had puppies when I told him I was going to take my first lesson.  He has been my caretaker and closest friend through all of this and has seen the depth of my weakness and knows how far I have to travel yet.  Still, my surgeon gave me his full release and there's a chance that, if I can ride again, I won't be so crazed and cranky.  Even with that behind me hubby was not happy, resigned yes, but definitely not happy.  To live with me you must accept the things you cannot change.

Since I was a girl I have been horse crazy.  Helping my friends take care of their horses in exchange for an occasional ride, paying for lessons, working like a slave in some fancy barns where I learned to fling poo, maintain tack, groom and listened to trainers talking about horses.  I read all horse books obsessively: My Friend Flicka, Misty of Chincotegue (the whole series), the Godolphin Arabian, the Black Stallion, horse encyclopedias and breed anthologies.  I have been kicked, stomped, run over, bitten and just generally roughed up by the objects of my affection with no derogatory effect.  I have kept that fire burning, optimistic that one day I would be a horse owner. 

Life gave me that opportunity at age 45, when I brought home Chrome, the most beautiful horse I and anyone else had ever seen.  This horse was a supermodel, splendid in every way except one:  he had an unsolvable respiratory issue and so back he went.  My second horse was Murphy, a Trekehner/Warmblood schoolmaster, but we didn't get along in the saddle, his movement was huge and I am quite little.  Incapable of generating equally measured movement.  I thought time and work would solve our issues but they didn't, and nearly three years later I donated him to a girls college equestrian team that I am very familiar with, and where I knew he would receive great care and affection.  I could not sell him to a stranger.

Which leads us to Dee, my little appaloosa mare.  She is coming along phenomenally well under her fabulous trainer and is gaining balance while making some baby steps toward collection.  Riding her is like climbing the Empire State building to me, but it is a goal I am working toward ever day I get a chance to ride another horse.  My poor husband would rather I just give up this foolishness, but I can't.  My love for this is an elemental part of who I am and when I ride, I link myself to a brave girl who caught the city bus to arrive at the barn(s) for 5:00 a.m. chores, taking another bus to High School with mud on her shoes, determined to survive another day of teenaged angst, and make her life into something of her own design.

My life has been a life of long term goals born in a wild heart.  I am not sure if it is the goals or the undomesticated nature of my heart that have made me so determined frankly, but whatever it is it has served me well because I am still going strong.  I wanted to live, then to live to ride my horse, and now just to ride my horse.

Day 84 Yarn Balls

Wednesday has come and gone and I still have two drains sticking out of my chest, a little more than 5 inches below my arm pit, held in place by a single stitch and tunneling between my expanders and chest wall.  Unpleasant would be a tactful word for them, painful is more accurate.  Painful because they hurt of course, but also because they separate me from the things I want to do, like drive, work, sleep on my sides, exercise, ride my horse, visit my horse, drive to visit my horse.  I have been confined for 6 weeks now and the surgeon won't pull them out until my daily volume decreases by 20 ccs.  I might lose my mind.

I tried teaching myself to knit but have been forced to admit that, while skilled in many other things, I am a hopeless knitter.  My yarn balls are now being appreciated by my Fanny, my Blue Heeler puppy.  Poor Fanny, she looks at me like I have failed her with my confinement.  No more long days in the pastures, eating horse poop, splashing through mud puddles and herding any beast sorry enough to stand still.  Like most Blue Heelers she needs lots of activity and sadly has none.  She vents by shredding anything she can find and laying half dead roaches at my feet.

We are all coping the best we can.  My aspie daughter told me that I am ruining her summer, which should be spent with friends preferably in a pool and NOT taking care of her mother.  She tells it like it is, no guessing necessary with her.  My son is lucky enough to spend this month at camp, but was reluctant to slip away while I still need care.  My poor husband enters the house holding a dining chair in one hand and a whip in the other, just in case his tiger of a wife decides to leap off her recliner and at his exposed throat.

Undeniably as long as my body keeps draining I will have these drains anchoring me like a boat in a harbor.  But a harbor is not where boats are meant to be and I dream of sailing away.

Day I don't know

I have been handing off my classes for the past week.  Bringing in a new teacher, introducing them to my students and showing the instructor what we are up to in class.  Next week I will walk out the door, leaving them in someone elses hands.  My progress notes are up to date so they can be referred to in my absence.  Our first annual fundraising trail ride is on track, volunteers and raffle items are in place.  There are 3.5 weeks left in the session after I leave, mission accomplished.

This weekend I will try to tie up the loose ends at home.  We will install a dog door, a small one so my 15 week old Miniature Blue Heeler Fanny can come in and out but the larger dogs remain outside except when intentionally admitted.  This will cut down on the mess and the chaos.  My large German Shepherd/Irish Wolfhound X is scheduled to be shaved on Monday to assure his comfort in the heat.  Fanny's new Invisible Fence receiver is in the mail and should arrive any day...she's going to hate this, but it will keep her from herding the increasingly angry walkers in the neighborhood.  Puppy or no, she knows her job and those walkers will keep moving.

Post surgical camisole are ordered and will be delivered to our office on the day of my surgery.  Just in time for me to return.  My post surgical wardrobe is determined:  camisole, drawstring pajama bottoms with pockets (for my cellphone), one of my husband's button front shirts (sized XXL, I'm hoping the look is endearingly adorable, not ridiculous.)

Bought a camera that my husband can use to record this journey.  I can count the number of photographs he has taken of me, or taken period on one hand.  If I was hit by a truck tomorrow there would be almost no photographic evidence of my existance.  What makes me think he will do this?  If he does then that's incontravertable evidence that Cancer changes everything.

The first week of my recovery will be at my wonderful, generous In-Law's home.  This will allow my husband to work during the day and possibly sleep at night.  I am unsure about this since I will be on less than my best behavior during my recovery.  Adjectives such as: crusty, anxious, and downright mean would be appropriate to describe me NOW...what am I going to be like post surgery?

There is hushed talk of hiring a day nurse for the first week, hushed because I don't think I will need it, and the idea that I will makes me angry.  My husband does not want to confront me on this, he's doing it "behind my back."  I am letting him because there is no arguing with him on this point, he won't discuss it and is treating me like a child who doesn't know what she needs.  I have resolved that he and my in laws are doing it out of love for me and I am trying not to fight against it.  I hope she has a sense of humor or, if it's a man, he's ruggedly good looking.

I have enrolled my mare in another month of training, and my dear friend has also agreed to keep my puppy for the first week of my recovery.  This might be the end of our friendship since this hardheaded dog will completely dominate her household and is imperfectly housetrained.

My sister in law is managing the meal delivery through an amazing website that organizes that sort of thing.  I can't imagine this being less than overwhelming and I am so grateful to her for her generosity and grace as well as the gift of those lining up with their loving meals.

I have a stack of notes and charitable gifts that I have to acknowledge, plus the meals already being promised.  My personalized notecards should be delivered next week.  I hope 50 is enough, it was all I could afford at that moment.  Maybe I should have ordered 100 just to be safe.  Why was it important for them to be personalized?

Food in the fridge is dwindling, I am on track to clean it out on Tuesday.  Joy.

No Kindle yet...carpets need cleaning but I think it will be OK.  I am so ready for this to be over and be looking at this from the other side where I can regain some perspective so small things don't look large and normal things don't look huge and my "to-do" list doesn't seem so important.

Day 27 Pitching

May 5th.  That's the morning of my surgery.  I found out two days ago, but haven't been able to write about it.  Today I received the presurgical packet from the reconstructive surgeon and it was full disclosure heavy, very intimidating stuff.  I have to sign every page, there are 7 of them and each one basically says "this might not work or worse."  I am still waiting on the breast surgeon's package, that should be a kick.

I told the girls at work about my date and we started hammering down teachers to cover my classes.  Already they are coming in to shadow me, each one is a relentless reminder that my presurgical days are ticking away and the searing pain of having my breasts cut away is hurtling at me like a fastball pitch.

This is such an edgy time for me, I am snappy and dangerous to be around.  Yesterday I missed a baseball game with my family.  Though I am not a big baseball fan, hot dogs and beer in the moist, simmering southern evening is such a treat.  We are lucky enough to have a local farm team for the Devilrays and games are big fun.  Through our friends, my son was awarded the last minute honor of throwing out the first pitch and because of work I was going to miss it.  I pitched a fit and refused to go to the game at all.  I stayed at home and ate scrambled eggs while everyone else partied their socks off.  Childish.

My anxiety is also making it difficult to ride.  Today I got a lesson on my wonderful green mare who is under training with my friend.  We trotted, she rushed, I tightened and wasn't easy on her mouth, my hip angle kept closing, I sat too hard, my weight wasn't balanced, when I asked for the stop I clenched with my legs and butt.  All wrong, I just couldn't get through the anxiety, the ever present feeling that I am going to die kept surfacing.  Realistically, I know I am saving my life, not dying but fear is irrational and so am I right now.