How to Get Intimate With a Truck

By Joy Smith

                                               

I like trucks.  They pull the horse trailer that takes me and my horses to fun places.   They are great for hauling big stuff around.  

I’ve never been much into the mechanical part of a truck.  I know where to check the oil (I think) and put diesel in but that’s about it. I like the truck to be pretty with lots of cool features like heated seats, a good stereo and be strong enough to haul that horse trailer over the mountains.

But last week I got to really know what‘s under that hood. 

Of course, it was all because of a kitten.  Why on earth would I go under the hood of a truck for any other reason?

Last week a customer brought a car into George’s Friendly Auto in Lincoln for service work.  Out from underneath the car popped a mom cat and two kittens, obviously having hitched a ride.  The mom and one kitten were soon captured but one kitten remained loose in the garage. 

Kitty soon had a routine of scooting up in the wheel well of a truck in for repair.  She hung out there during the day and at night frolicked through the closed up shop eating the food the workers had set out for it.  She even set off the alarm one night causing the police to check out the two pound intruder.

On the day the truck was due to leave FieldHaven was called in to capture kitty so the truck could go home.

When we got there I scooted on a creeper under the truck with one of the mechanics.  The kitten was spotted and immediately headed up into the bowels of the engine compartment. 

We discovered that she had crawled into a space so tight that she could not get herself out. She was wedged  in a tiny cavity in amongst many metal – and greasy – parts.  Don’t ask me the names of the parts; I couldn’t tell you. 

I should have asked because over the next four hours several of us got very intimate with the most private parts of that truck.  We could reach her with the tips of our fingers from above the engine compartment and from underneath the truck.  But kitty was so wedged she couldn’t move – and we couldn’t get her out.

   

We had a team of four from FieldHaven;  myself, Kelly B., Scout and Dr. Peterson.  The mechanics  were all giving their opinions and expertise.  The conclusion was that kitty was stuck. 

Two alternatives were decided upon. One horribly unpleasant; the other expensive.  Thank you for the compassion of the team at George’s.   Out came the air wrenches and the dismantling of the truck began. 

Now with a somewhat more open but very circuitous route to the kitten we had a little more working room. Instead of just fingertips we could get more of our hands into the cavity. 

  

With Kelly underneath the truck and Dr. Peterson and I reaching from the top the three of us – with the aid of copious amounts of  KY Jelly – pushed, pulled, manipulated  for nearly an hour.  We had no visual on the cavity she was in, we worked by feel alone against the unmoving metal parts of the truck.  Each fragile leg and foot was unwedged and maneuvered around the corners of the cavity, progress hindered by the unyielding metal parts.  Each tiny movement towards the victory when she oozed out into Kelly’s waiting hands. 

We rushed her back to FieldHaven where she was found to be in remarkably good shape. At one point  I was fearful that I was going to fracture a leg in my efforts to unwedge each part of her body.  Fortunately, other than a mixture of grease and KY Jelly coating her entire body she was all intact and unscathed.  A couple of baths took care of the slimy mess then she feasted on Gerbers Chicken baby food while we buffed her dry.  Soon she rewarded us with a rumbling purr.

Everyone at George’s, you are the kindest men.  You are gracious, compassionate and really know the insides of a truck!   Thank goodness, because I hope to never get that close to the under-the-hood part of a truck again! 

In Memory of My Mother Betty

Lifetime of Living in Columbia

90 years – Mother lived all but 2 years of her life in a 5 miles radius here in Columbia.  She often traveled far to all corners of this country, many times to visit us in California.  But this was her home, her place, her people, her garden.

She touched so many lives – so many people – I look over all your faces today and each one of you carries with you  a part of my mother.  I know we have all learned many lessons from my mother.

She loved to teach and she taught us all well.

Her ministry was her God.  She was a true disciple of him.   She was proud of those of you who followed in her footsteps.  Ninabeth and Lynn – you achieved the highest honor of Betty by becoming pastors.  Congratulations to you both and thank  you for giving my mother that joy and fulfillment .

The teaching gift my mother gave me was to know the glory of finding the meaning of my life.  Just as my mother committed her life to teaching about her God, our God, I have given my life to caring for his creatures.   She led me by example to finding my life’s purpose.  That is her legacy to me. 

Dark Days

As a lay speaker, an achievement she was immensely proud of she would give sermons several times a year.  As we were cleaning out her house in preparation for her move to Chelsea I came across some of her sermons.  I made copies of them to save. 

I have found great comfort and great closeness to Mother these past few days by browsing through some of her “teachings” as I call them.

In one of her sermons that I think was written in the late 70’s Mother wrote about a very dark time of her life, actually our family’s life:

She wrote:

I’d like to share with you a part of my personal life.  I think back to 1974 when my sister-in-law Barbara died from cancer after her battle for life.  In 1975 Chet’s (my father) accident and 5 weeks later his death,  in 1976 his mother lost her battle with cancer, 1977 my father had his last heart attack.  I can remember sitting on the end of the walk in front of my house waiting for the ambulance to come and take him to the hospital, sobbing and saying “how much more can I take?”.  2 months later I was tested again while visiting a friend in North Carolina with my widowed mother I received a call from Jann telling  me my mother’s house had burned.  What I really want you all to know is where my strength came from.  It came from God and his son Jesus through your prayers, your love, your caring.

Mother’s faith and belief pulled her through those dark years and she emerged to build upon her  strength to find happiness and content in her church, her community, her family.

Part of those dark years was my own angst as a teenager.  Instead of embracing the pain my mother was experiencing I rebelled against it.  I worked hard at trying to move off the path  to adulthood but somehow I kept coming back to the right path as Mother tried to gently steer me in the right direction.  She admitted to me years later that she found great relief when Preston and I became a couple then married.  He was quite literally the boy next door and the man of her dreams for me.  

Thank  you Preston for giving my mother one of the greatest reliefs in her life

Her family grew when she married Bill in 1980,  His children and grandchildren became her own. 

Michael, she treasured those years that she helped care for you as an infant, a toddler and a young boy.

Chris and Jess – you gave her so much joy.  She always talked about you. She loved and cherished the times spent with you and the children.

Bill, you have been a wonderful  companion to my mother for 35 years.  You lived a full life as a couple, traveling, spending time with friends and family, relaxing at your lake house, you Bill making beautiful things with wood and Mother with fabric. May you find comfort in the memories of all your years together.

Buttons

I brought something today that I want to show you all.

My sisters and I have spent the last 2 months preparing for Mother’s move to assisted living and preparing her house to sell.   As we went through her belongings so many memories have surfaced and  Mother refreshed our memories and told us stories.  Her recollection of the past was so sharp right to day before she passed when she told me the origin of a quilt made by an ancestor. My memory isn’t so great as I will have to go back to the notes I made to remind myself which grandmother it was that made the quilt!

In cleaning out the house I found this box of buttons.  It was tucked in a corner of a shelf in the garage.  I also found a couple other jars of button which I emptied into this box.  Jill sugggested that no one would want a box of buttons and we should probably deposit it in the dumpster.  She was a bit confused at my emphatic “no”.

Mother was a very gifted seamstress.  She could sew anything.  As children she made many of our clothes – not that we really were thrilled about it at that time.  As adults her skills were displayed at the windows of each our houses as she created beautiful curtains and window coverings.  That was a legacy she received from her mother and grandmother as they both had talent with needle and thread. 

So, these buttons intrigued me and captured my sentiment.  I just wasn’t sure what to do with them.  I just kept moving them around the house, protecting them from the hands of my sisters who looked at them as dumpster fodder.  My mother acknowledged them when I mentioned the box to her and I now regret that I didn’t ask for more details because I know she could’ve told me stories about many of the buttons in the box – maybe this one was from a sweater that I wore on my first day of school.  This one could be from my father’s favorite western shirt.  Or maybe this one came off Jann’s winter coat when she was in junior high. And, Bill I’m sure there are buttons from your work shirts in here.

As I was packaging up things to ship to California I couldn’t think of a reason to ship a heavy box of old, dusty, sometimes broken buttons.   So I dumped the whole box on the kitchen counter and sorted through them one by one.  I put aside all those pretty and interesting buttons to include in my “ship to California” pile.  The rest I put  back in the box. Now could we put them in the dumpster Jill asked?   I still couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I said I would take them to the church thrift store.  Surely someone would love to have all these buttons for some craft project or to use as – well – buttons.

In the many things Jill and I had to do before leaving I never did get this box of buttons to the thrift store.  As we were putting the last few things in the car Jill asked me what I wanted to do this with them?  Put them in last bag of garbage?   Put them in the car I told her.

That car was packed tight and I could see Jill rolling her eyes as that box took up precious space.   As we dropped off some packages to mail I shifted the button box and some buttons seeped out the bottom of the box.  By now Jill was resigned that the box was making the journey with us and she taped it up.

As you know, our journey to Dallas was cut short as we received the call that Mother had passed in her sleep.

On Saturday we took some items from Mother’s room at Chelsea to the thrift store and Jill once again asked if I wanted to leave the box of buttons there.

Absolutely not!

These buttons are memories of my mother.  They are memories of 90 years of giving, loving, living – good times and bad times.  Memories, like these buttons,  are not all the same.  Some are big, some are small, some beautiful, some downright ugly, some new, some old.  Some happy looking, some very chipped and sad. 

These are memories of my mother that I and all of you have.  And it’s not just about those nice, pretty buttons in a package on its way to my home in California which I will put back together with their not so pretty mates as soon as I’m home.  It’s about a whole lot of many kinds of memories – all together they make up a life – a very full, satisfying life.  My mother’s life that each and every one of you were a part or.  Each of you have a button or two or three in this box.

Prayers Answered

26 years ago when my grandmother Mildred Davison died Mother wrote this in a letter to Jill, Jann and I:

Many people have told me what a beautiful service we had for her and you each participated which made me feel good and happy.  That you cared and have so much love for your family.  This is a very important part of life to have a family who is caring and loving.  Not to have this, so much would be missing.  I pray that never changes.

26 years later I know I speak for myself as well as Jann and Jill in saying that  it hasn’t changed  and we are all committed to seeing that it never does.

I think your prayers have been answered Mother.

Love,

Miracle – a story of love, hope and giving…and a horse named Logan

I wrote this for Scout on Christmas Eve. She recently asked me to publish to share with...well, with everyone who believes in her.

I believe in miracles. Call me a dreamer, unrealistic, naive but I do believe we see miracles everyday. 

So, how do I define a miracle? I suppose we all may think of it differently.

According to Websters Dictionary a miracle is:
"an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs"

OK, but what is divine intervention?

Wikipedia says “Divine intervention is a term for a miracle caused by a Deity's active involvement in the human world”

Now, who’s this Deity dude? Again, Wikipedia tells me “In religious belief, a Deity is a supernatural being, and who may be thought of as holy, divine, or sacred”
Isn’t it ironic how we use word the miracle on a pretty daily basis but do we really think about what it is?

Like I said, we can all have our own definition of a miracle.

Mine is probably pretty loose. I can call it a miracle when that crazy driver in front of me avoided hitting me, That I have so many beautiful, lovely people in my life. Or even  back in my showing days when I found 8 distances in a hunter class! 

The miracle I want to tell you about really fits right in with those definitions above. An extraordinary event that came about with divine intervention – there simply is no other way to explain it.

Our dear friend Scout (Vicki) Valentine can breathe thanks to a miracle. The miracle that extraordinarily skilled surgeons, with God’s guidance at their back, can take the working, useful lungs for a person who has left this life to go be with their God and place them in a person whose work on this earth is not done. The miracle that the timing of the donor’s passing coincided with the hour of Scout’s greatest need. 

Did I ever doubt that the lung transplant would happen? I have to admit my faith waivered slightly during the last hours before the surgery. Shame on me for even questioning but the strength of Scout’s spirit and the spirit of all of her loved ones overshadowed my doubt. That is the meaning of strength in numbers and the power of prayer. Oh yes…a miracle.

Scout received her new lungs in the very early hours of June 8, 2013. The journey to that day began nearly 2 years before.

It was right after Classics, Cats and Cabernet 2011, FieldHaven’s annual fundraiser when Scout developed a nasty cough. It was diagnosed as pneumonia and treated as such. It seemingly was on its way to resolution until several months later when it became apparent there were some lingering symptoms.

Over the next several months diagnostic tests were done and Scout fluctuated between feeling normal and great and feeling just a bit “off”.

The “off” didn’t stop her from being active. She continued to run several days a week and take riding lessons which she had begun in 2010. She had made her debut in the hunt field in early 2011 at a Red Rock Hounds joint meet in Santa Ynez and had become quite hooked on riding.

In the summer of 2011 I acquired an unattractive but loveable 3 year old off-the-track Thoroughbred gelding. He really had quite poor conformation, was underweight and his feet were in miserable condition. But he had an eye that you could get lost in.

I’ve looked at a lot of horses in my lifetime. I can look at how they move and perform, their conformation, body condition, temperament but a horse’s eye will tell me most of what I want to know. They can be the most beautiful, most talented horse but if they don’t have a willing, curious, loveable eye I am cautious.

This one had the “eye”. So he came home with me and everyone but Scout and I laughed at him. I named him Logan.

It was several months before I could even ride him because his feet were in such bad shape. Finally around November I could start riding him. But, in late November I broke my back (different horse) so I could only do ground work with him.

Scout had decided she wanted to go with us to another Red Rock joint meet in Ridgecrest, California in January of 2012. We were trying to decide who would be the best mount for her when I had the brainstorm of having her ride Logan.  Everyone but Scout and I thought it a crazy idea; a beginner 55 year old on a barely broke 3 year old in the hunt field? But this was Logan and I knew he would be careful with her.

And he was. Scout had a wonderful time on that 3 day meet. We debuted the “Leisure Field” for those that just wanted to stroll along to watch the hunt and had a large number of people in our field. She and the now-beautiful Logan went on to participate in the closing weekend hunter pace and hunt at Red Rock in April.


 

Scout’s world was rocked right after that.

During the early months of 2012 Scout became increasingly short of breath, especially when she was in the altitude at Red Rock. More tests were done, including surgical biopsies. After several tentative diagnoses a proclamation was made after a consult with Mayo Clinic that “we’re pretty sure it’s Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis”.

What?

Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis is scarring or thickening of the lungs without a known cause.

No one knows what causes Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis or why some people get it. It causes the lungs to become scarred and stiffened. This stiffening may make it increasingly difficult to breathe. In some people the disease gets worse quickly (over months to a few years), but other people have little worsening of the disease over time.

The condition is believed to be due to an inflammatory response to an unknown substance or injury. "Idiopathic" means no cause can be found. The disease occurs most often in people between 50 and 70 years old.

We hoped it would progress slowly but in Scout’s case it worsened quickly.

In late April 2012 my sister Jann (an RN) and Scout went to a consulting pulmonologist. The consensus rather shocked us all. If the disease progressed to a point where she lost most of her lung capacity a transplant would be the only treatment. Transplant!? That only happens to “other” people doesn’t it?

At that point Scout said it was not something she would consider. Besides, this disease could progress slowly so that decision probably wouldn’t have to be made for perhaps years down the road, right?

In the meantime, little could be offered in way of treatment to slow the disease progress. It really was up to the individual person’s body to dictate how fast it would progress.

We couldn’t just sit around and wait to see how fast or slow this nasty disease would take to destroy Scout’s breathing. We would let medical science help us in all the ways it could but we also needed to treat Scout as a whole body. After all, her lungs were just one part of her body. While they were deciding how fast or slow they wanted to develop scar tissue we could focus on every other part of Scout.

With a clearance to fly by her medical team, 5 of us embarked on a journey in early May to the Healing Spirits Herbal Farm in Avoca, NY. Matt and Andrea Reisen are masters at whole body healing. Andrea is Red Rock Hounds MFH Lynn Lloyd’s sister and absolutely embodies the spirit of optimism, adventure, love and spirit that we all love in Lynn. Andrea and Matt have made healing their life’s work and they give all of their selves to it.

Scout, my sister Jann, friends Jen and Leslie and myself spent a glorious week in in mountains of New York at a delightful, welcoming inn by night and at Healing Spirits during the day. We all indulged ourselves in Matt and Andrea’s loving, skilled hands, hearts and knowledge. By the end of the week Scout could walk up the hill nearby without losing her breath where earlier in the week she couldn’t even get halfway up. We left with hope and an inner sense of purpose. No matter how quickly the disease would progress we could surround Scout with our Healing Spirits.

Immediately upon her return Scout departed on a continuance of her healing journey. She went with her family for a sailing trip to the Caribbean. There she wrapped herself in the healing powers of the ocean and the sea air.

Upon returning in early June she felt wonderful. For at least that month between New York and the Caribbean the disease gave her the gift of letting her forget for awhile the hard journey ahead. It gave her the strength and purpose to move forward in what would be the hardest year of her life.

During the summer it became apparent the disease was progressing. There were good days and bad days. On the good days Scout worked at FieldHaven as much as she could. The purpose of helping animals live and introducing them to new lives in loving homes buoyed her spirits to help her get through the bad days.

She enjoyed her family and friends and held to “normal” as much as possible. In mid-October eight of us went to the No More Homeless Pets Conference in Las Vegas, NV. In late October she held her annual frightful Halloween Party in Scout’s Woods.

Soon before that she had to start using oxygen to supplement her breathing. But even that didn’t slow her down terribly. Her little backpack of oxygen just accompanied her as she went about her life, just a little encumbrance to tag along.

Her mom moved in with her for a period of time. The timing was right that her mom was in transition and coincided with Scout’s growing need to have someone living with her. 

In November Scout asked me if I would go with her to her pulmonology appointment on December 3rd. She wanted to discuss the possibility of transplant with her pulmonologist.

That was quite the first of many very surreal experiences I have had over the past year. Some of the questions stuck in our throat as we asked them. “What will happen if I choose not to do a transplant?” “What is the success/survival rate?” “What are the chances of getting a match – how many people die waiting for a transplant?”

At 5:30 pm on Monday, Dec 3rd 2012, Scout made the declaration that would send her on a journey that she’d be on for the rest of her life; “I want to move forward with a transplant”.

The first of a huge battery of tests were scheduled for the following morning. No time to waste. Over the next two months Scout had each and every body part and system evaluated and screened. Right down to the teeth and toes! And, not any too soon because Scout was now pretty much on full-time oxygen.

Scout found out on Valentine’s Day that she was listed with UC San Francisco for a lung transplant. Quite appropriate, you think?

“Listing” means that she was registered with UNOS (United Network for Organ Sharing). She received an initial LAS (lung allocation score) that determined her place on the list. A match would mean they found lungs that matched her in approximate height and blood type.

Dr. Krukeja, the transplant surgeon at UCSF had met with Scout during the evaluation and talked to her about the different types of lungs that may be offered. They could include smokers, drug users, felons; Scout told her she wouldn’t be picky; any lung’ll do!

It was closer to becoming a reality and yes, it was a very, very bizarre feeling that we were essentially waiting for someone to die. How do you reconcile that in your mind?

Sometimes you just have to use humor to get past these “heavy” feelings. That’s not to say we in any way laughed about someone dying in order for Scout to live but you just have to make a few jests along the way. “So you’re about Scout’s height, what blood type are you?” “Yes, I’ll drive carefully, I love ya but I’m not keen on being your lung donor.”

Laughter is one of the key ingredients for getting through. Like posting silly transplant jokes on Facebook:

The patient demanded, “Doc, I just must have a liver transplant, a kidney transplant, a cornea transplant, a lung transplant, and a heart transplant.”

“WHAT?” yelled the doctor. “Tell me, exactly why you think you need all these transplants.”

“Well,” explained the patient, “my boss told me that I needed to get reorganized.”

Laughter made the wait a bit more tolerable. And wait we did. For weeks it seemed as if they had forgotten about us at UCSF. We waited for the “call” but radio silence prevailed. The transplant coordinator at UCSF was wonderful in reassuring us that Scout was definitely on their radar but the fact was there were patients sicker and higher up the list than Scout.

In March Scout moved into FieldHaven where we could all help her and be there for her.

Several times during the wait Scout’s lungs worsened considerably. We became frequent visitors at the Kaiser ED and she was admitted several times. Her oxygen needs increased and she became dependent on the large oxygen concentrator that hummed along all day and all night. She was tethered to the 50 foot green hose that was connected to the concentrator. The cats were delighted. They thought that we’d installed a play toy just for them and you’d often see Scout dragging a cat attached to the hose as she walked about the house. That damn green hose was a hazard. How many times did a trip over it or become wrapped up in it.

Then there was that time when I was standing in the kitchen and the concentrator started beeping. I looked down and realized I was standing on the hose and was cutting off Scout’s oxygen! Oh dear!

Have oxygen – will travel. We got adept at estimating how much portable oxygen we’d need for a short or long car trip. As her oxygen needs increased it became more challenging. But we didn’t let that stop us.

One day I wanted to go horse shopping (yes, a bad habit I’m trying to break). At this point the portable tanks were just meeting her needs but because we were going to be gone for several hours and in a rural location we didn’t want to get caught without air. So Benay and I hoisted the concentrator into my Explorer and we threw in a long extension cord. Worst case I could stop somewhere and plug in the concentrator for Scout. Knock-knock. “Helllooo….could I borrow an outlet to plug in this machine so my friend can breathe???” No, we didn’t need to do that – we actually had a super fun day and never ran out of oxygen. And, yes, I got the horse.

Scout kept busy. She worked down in the shelter as much as she could. We watched all three seasons of Downton Abbey. We ate a lot of sushi because post-transplant sushi is on the forbidden list (possibilities of bacteria). Four of us went on a weekend retreat to Calistoga.

And we waited for the phone call to come…..

We never did receive that call.

Scout’s condition deteriorated to the point where walking just a few feet caused extreme shortness of breath. One day it led to a 911 call for yet another ER visit. This time after five days in the hospital we had to increase our oxygen setup before she could come home. Six large stainless steel liquid oxygen containers that turned our house into what looked like a brewery, pushed air into Scout’s lungs each and every second.

Memorial Day brought a steady stream of family and friends to keep the cheer going but it only broke our hearts to watch our sister’s lungs fail her otherwise strong body. By the end of the day it was apparent Scout needed to be with a medical team that had the expertise to keep her life going until donor lungs became available.

If it wasn’t under such scary circumstances the 120 mile ambulance ride from Lincoln to UC San Francisco Hospital would’ve been thrilling. Sirens blasting, lights twirling parted

the bumper-to-bumper Memorial Day traffic of vacationers returning from the traditional summer kick-off weekend festivities. Watching the traffic part as we sped down Highway 80 was truly exciting….and reassuring.

We arrived at the UCSF and immediately Scout was put in the skilled hands of the ER staff and members of the lung transplant team. At around 2am we were moved to ICU where Scout would spend the rest of her time waiting for donor lungs.

If we thought the waiting of the past four months was long, the ten days we held our collective breaths until the transplant happened crept along like ten months. After several days at UCSF I had gone back home and was preparing to go back down on June 8th for the weekend but at 3am on the morning of June 7th a call came that Scout was in respiratory failure and they would be performing a last effort to prolong her lungs – and life – until donor lungs became available. The procedure they would perform is called ECMO and is basically a heart-lung bypass; a machine would be providing those functions for her.

We rushed to the hospital in time to see her off to surgery. They delayed the surgery a bit as Dr. Krukeja thought there might be some lungs but it did not happen. She informed us that Scout was now “at the top of the list” but she feared she wouldn’t live much longer unless the extreme effort of ECMO was done so at noon she was taken off to surgery. At 3pm she came back from surgery with the news that there was a good possibility of a matched set of donor lungs.

Then came the twelve hour wait where time moved along one painful second at a time. Scout’s life was leaving us but our prayers, her will and the talent of the staff kept her on this earth until 3am on Saturday, June 8th when she left for the transplant with all of us right beside her in spirit.

The transplant went well. The recovery period was not without challenges, disappointments, fear, anger and yes, some guilt that another person had to lose their life to give us the opportunity to continue living.

After just under two months of post-op care while living in an apartment near San Francisco Scout came home to FieldHaven on August 6th.

Living with a lung transplant is no easy undertaking. It is not for sissies. There’s the litany of blood tests each week. The regular bronchoscopies and other invasive tests to ensure the lungs are working properly. The 40+ drugs taken each day on a very strict schedule. The absolute obsession one needs to develop about keeping germs away from a very compromised immune system (can you say “germophobia”?). The utter fear that each little symptom might mean the lungs are “rejecting”. The side affects of some of the drugs. (have you heard of “roid-rage” from the steroids?). 

Scout and Logan at Ridgecrest Joint Meet – January 2012 

Through it all Scout has kept one picture in her mind. The picture of her and Logan at the annual Ridgecrest Joint Meet in January 2012 before this journey began. The picture was on her wall at the hospital, in her apartment and as her screensaver on her laptop. 

114 days after a lung transplant Scout took Logan for a ride.

On September 29th – not even four months after surgery Scout swung her leg over Logan and settled into the saddle. Then she took a deep breath – what a miracle in itself it was to watch that – and nudged him into a walk. Like a fearful mother I watched them walk further and further away from me, ready to leap into action should Logan do some silly 5-year old thing. But he didn’t. Scout didn’t fall off. She didn’t stop breathing or even get short of breath. Not so much for me though. I believe I held my breath the whole time she was riding.

While in the hospital and all the months after Scout pronounced her goal was to ride at Red Rock Hounds Opening Meet in October. 

Ex RRH MFH John Schafer did the Blessing of the hounds on Opening Day

Of course, she met that goal. Who could have doubted that my crazy, brave, willful friend wouldn’t be there!

Scout and Logan on Opening Day

Here it is on Christmas morning. The season of miracles. Every day we thank the donor and their family for making this miracle possible. And how are we celebrating?

Why, we’re going on a Christmas ride of course!

Christmas 2013 - A beautiful day for a ride

UPDATE 2/24/14:  Last week we returned from a joint meet with Red Rock Hounds at Tejon Hounds and Santa Ynez Valley Hounds where Scout rode Logan 4 of the 6 days we hunted.  During the trip she marked the  1 year anniversary being put on the lung transplant  list (February 14th). Upon our return she went to UCSF for her regular check-up with the lung transplant team.  When she told them what she had been doing for the past week they were in awe and called her the "Poster Child for Lung Transplants"!

Each day we send thoughts and prayers out to the family of the person who gave the most generous gift of all.  Grateful doesn't begin to describe.....

Scout on Logan, Preston on Devon and Joy on Kindred at Chamberlain Ranch in Santa Ynez

Hunting at Tejon Ranch 

Happy in the saddle

Here's to good times, good horses, good friends.....and life

This Broken Body Rides Again!

The summer of 2012 was my summer of healing.  For the better part of a year I had been sidelined by riding injuries.  First a fractured vertebrae then a seriously fractured arm. 

When last I blogged I was given the word that my useless paralyzed arm was going to take up to a year to regain use of.   I think most of you know that I said “F&*# You” to that. 



Logan, the 4 year old OTTB therapy
horse. As part of my PT exercises
 I put a grooming mit on my
 paralyzed hand and rubbed him
all over his body.

I’ve been asked why I haven’t kept up with writing the chronicle of my recovery that I started with much one-handed-typing gusto last July.  I can’t count the times I sat down to start writing – but stopped after one sentence. 

I think what stopped me was the lack an inner fortitude to really get back on a horse.  Each time I went to the doctor I faithfully asked him when I could ride again.  He faithfully told me “not yet”.  And each time I breathed a huge sigh of relief, my racing heart would calm down and my stomach would quit flipping around.

Silly, silly…..stupid…I kept telling myself.   Even when the doctor revealed that he had “missed” an additional fracture in my humerus that took me back several steps in my Physical Therapy there was a teeny, tiny inner part of me that said “whew, I don’t have to face the demon saddle yet!”

In spite of the fear I was committed to getting back the use of my arm as fast as possible.  I figured I’d face the fear of the evil stirrup when the time really did come when the doctor said “yes”.

The hand therapy team I worked with are surely miracle workers.  That one year prognosis was given the first week of July.  By mid-August I had about 85% of the use back of my hand and arm.  One day I noticed I could use 1 finger to hold down the shift key while typing, then I could actually start using that finger to type a little.  I was now a one-handed + one-fingered typist.  Within a couple of weeks the other fingers joined up one by one.  I could now drive my car but because of that hidden fracture I couldn’t be weight bearing.

The doctor gave me a target date of September 12^th to get back on a horse. But by this time I was determined that I’d actually just sit on a horse for Red Rock Hounds’ annual showing at the Franktown Hunter Derby several days prior.  I knew I could do it.  But damn it, I was scared.

I picked Logan as my re-entry horse.  The youngest at four and greenest horse I have.  What, was I crazy?   But Logan is an old soul whom I completely trust.  After all, he was the horse who at three and barely off the track that I put my close friend Scout, a 50-something beginner, on to take on a 3-day hunting trip! 

Kristi McBain was tasked with getting Logan prepped for me.  Goodness knows what needed to be “prepped” because he couldn’t waste the energy to spook, buck or spin – or even break into a trot! 

The moment for me to swing a leg over a horse came when my bestest friend Sarah was here from Virginia to give me moral support.  I got on while Kristi patiently stood by his head in case he bolted.  Hahaha!  Then she walked me around the arena like a kid on a pony ride, me clutching his mane and barely able to open my eyes.  Soon she stepped away and the fear started to ease just a little.  I can’t remember if I even trotted that first day.  I think I did but the main thing is I survived and didn’t embarrass myself by wetting the saddle.  I got off and hugged and kissed Logan. I think I cried a little too but I’m not sure if they were tears of fear or happiness. Logan just wanted a cookie – he got a whole bunch!

The next step was to go to Red Rock and ride around the ranch for a couple of days before the Hunter Derby.   Where I got my inner courage I have no idea but while Sarah and I were on a ride I found myself wanting to trot, then canter slowly and then I looked over at Sarah and said “let’s go”!   She riding Devon and I riding Logan galloped down the dirt roads behind the ranch.  YES!!!  It felt so GREAT!  

But the next day my joy was swiftly dashed when Logan came out lame.  We had been battling a heel bruise all summer with him and it was nearly healed.  Until I galloped him down the hard dirt road.   Now that’s what I call stupid!  Poor Logan had another bruised heel and he was off duty for carrying me to the Hunter Derby. 

Preston begged me not to ride.  He knew my fear and he was afraid too.  And, probably really done with having an invalid wife for the better part of the past year.  He was over me being a princess and wanted me to start carrying my weight (no pun intended - the “Fracture 15" is whole other blog!) around the barn and ranch.  Can’t blame the guy!

But the customary Wagner determination won out and I decided to ride Devon at the Derby.   Devon can be pretty fiery but I knew him well and was pretty confident in the ride.

The demonstration ride went well as we galloped around the arena following Lynn and the hounds.  I did my traditional passing of the flask to the audience.  What fun – but it was over way too fast!

As we galloped out I tried to hold Devon back with one hand while I was putting my flask in the pommel case on my saddle with the other. I was leaning up and over Devon’s neck trying to situate the flask when Devon sprung his head right into my face.

My lower face and nose hurt a little but not too much. Unfortunately, I quickly discovered something was missing – a front tooth!  As I continued galloping now attempting to fish the wayward tooth out of my mouth with my flask hand I burst out laughing. I galloped up to Preston turned to face him and presented him with the biggest smile.  His face went white and he nearly fell off Baxter.

Red Neck Fox Hunter

The rest of the day amidst jokes that I was going to start a Red Rock Hounds Redneck division, I could only laugh at myself. What else is a girl to do when she’s dressed in her finest formal hunt attire and attending a swanky  tent party with a missing front tooth? Fortunately, that tooth had had a root canal so there was no pain or blood. 

But behind the laughter I had a weird feeling – was this some sort of message?  C’mon my first outing and I break something else? 

I fought that feeling and rode as often as I could in our arena.  Some days there was hardly any fear, others I could barely break into a trot – and on some days I just walked with a hunk of mane in my hands.

OTTB Kindred giving me back my confidence

Ever so gradually I started doing a little more – even jumping tiny fences.  But even now the thought of jumping a coop in the hunt field make me want to vomit. 



Even the smallest of jumps still make
me nervous!

By Red Rock Opening Day I successfully led the Leisure Field of about 15 riders and continued to do so for several more weeks.   I switched between Kindred and Logan as my trusted partners.   Eventually a breakthrough came when I rode Kindred in MFH/Huntsman Lynn Lloyd’s  “pocket” one day in early November.  We galloped across rough country for several hours and that lovely horse gave me the confidence of a Grand Prix rider – minus the coops!

Logan and I at the Red Rock road trip in
McDermitt in November.  

Logan and Kindred – there’s no money in the world that could replace those two horses for me.  Logan has quickly learned to navigate sagebrush and is now galloping across any sort of terrain on the buckle.  Seriously, I bet I could drop the reins, hold a flask in one hand and a camera in the other and just gallop along on him.    I’m not quite ready to try that yet but check back in a few months and I might be there.  But those coops…..racing heart and gagging.  I have a ways to go with them!

I know someday there will be another fall.  It goes with riding horses. It comes to mind often as I’m galloping across the hunting terrain.   I frequently find myself grabbing the breast collar and hanging on to let Logan or Kindred, whomever I happen to be on that day, do their job of keeping me on their back and off the ground.  But instead of white-faced fear there’s a smile on my face.

That’s what it means to have a partner in your horse.  How lucky am I to have not one but two remarkable partners!   They are my heroes.