DrinkingOutOfTheTrough

After the scary weather this spring and summer, I bought one of those emergency weather radios today at the grocery store. I’ve heard them work. Very cool. I wish I had it Wednesday morning at 1 am when a storm woke everyone up in Larimer County.

We have had perfect Colorado summer weather the last three days. Yesterday, Hannah and I rode the perimeter of Lory State Park. What a good Baby. She is so fun to ride, and it’s nice to hear compliments on her beauty. Friday, I rode Scoot up the Timber Trail at Lory, a technical trail for experienced riders and bikers only. Last summer, Scoot became a monster of a mountain horse after rehabbing his horrendous surgery the previous winter. This was his first time going it alone without Hannah. I was concerned that he would wig out, but he didn’t.

Both horses have climbed Timber alone with me this summer. They have done well. No problems like, “Gee, I think I’ll spook at this rattlesnake and send Mary tumbling down the mountain!” I enjoyed the views of Fort Collins below. The vista expands all the way up into Wyoming. I love being up high and looking down and out across the short grass prairie. Deer and golden eagles were abundant.

I had a hunch all along on these perfect rides the last few weeks that Earl was riding along with us on Marcie, our Angel Horse. Friday, as Scoot and I rode the trail, I actually had a one-sided conversation out loud with Earl. Alone with Scoot on that mountain, I started to cry. I guess it had to come out. I haven’t been trying to hold emotions in, that’s unhealthy. But on that beautiful, peaceful perfect day, I knew the love of my life and the horse of my life were with me and Scoot on that gorgeous trail. Usually I converse in thought with the Almighty about what his plan is for me, and how I can be of service to Him and his children, human and animal.

On this Friday, I spoke to Earl and Marcie . There was peace.

Besides being a wonderful actor most remembered for the ‘Golden Girls’, Betty White Ludden is a true lover and advocate of animals.

Last night, I attended the annual Morris Animal Foundation dinner in Denver. These are high class functions, as MAF is well known as the largest non-governmental non-profit organization devoted to animal health care studies. Betty is a Trustee Emeritus, and has been with the organization over 40 years.

Everyone had been informed of Earl’s death via email to the Trustees. I had also been in touch with staff members about the Wonder Husky’s memorial, and about Earl. During his illness and subsequent death, MAF sent Earl and the family cookie bouquets, flowers, and cards. I told the CEO, Dr. Patty Olson, a former professor of mine that I wanted to go, but didn’t want to be stuck in a corner with strangers. She put me at her table. Betty was at the next one over. I brought a friend, Karen, with me. Karen has been so wonderful to me, and worked so hard on the open house we had.

When a speaker mentioned Betty’s new movie, ‘the Proposal’ with Sandra Bullock as being the number one film at the box office, Betty went marching up to the podium to take the mic away. She gave a heartfelt thanks to the Morris Student Scholars; veterinary students in attendance which have health studies in progress sponsored by MAF, and told them very emotionally that they were the future of protecting the animals. Wow.

While I didn’t have to tell anyone about Earl’s death, I reminded Betty how the three of us walked around the Denver Zoo at last year’s 60th anniversary celebration. She remembered that, so I did mention to her that Earl had died exactly two weeks before. She looked at me with true sympathy, as she still mourns the love of her life, Allen Ludden. Then, she tenderly kissed my cheek. I love you, Betty.

June 24, 2004 proved to be a typical Colorado summer day. The weather was warm, a little windy and threatening to erupt into a storm at any moment. We were taking a young Hannah to a jumping lesson. That would be my last day of walking normally.

We loaded Scooter and the Baby to go her lessons. At the farm we tacked up the horses and prepared for Hannah to take her lesson with Earl aboard. I rode Scoot with English tack and watched the lesson while practicing some moves and jumps with him. We had our horses take a year of jumping lessons at age four for agility, discipline, and to teach us how to ride our young horses. The Baby was four that summer.

Marcie and Franny did well as jumping students long before Earl and I were married. We hauled them down to Loveland for Friday evening lessons returning in time to watch Dallas. It was a date we had enjoyed very much before we were married. During the “Who Shot JR” drama, “the girls” became fine jumpers. Scooter, our gelding, had been a willing student and is a good jumper himself. He is pretty flashy looking in English tack.

Hannah’s Dream, whose great-great grandsire was Shecky Greene, the 1973 Kentucky Derby horse named for the comedian and who ran against Secretariat, is a brilliant red dun registered paint that has a thoroughbred look to her. She is breathtakingly beautiful. It’s fun to tell people that the Baby is a registered paint because she is not painted. She has no chrome other than a star on her forehead. This is called breeding stock.

That Thursday Earl had a sore on his leg and his boot rubbed uncomfortably against it. I volunteered to ride the lesson on Hannah. We traded mounts. Hannah had yet to pick up her right lead when asked to canter. It was difficult urging her to get on the correct lead. We were working on this when the instructor advised me to sit back in the saddle. The natural inclination incorrectly is to lean forward in the saddle to help the horse along. I did as Sue asked while Hannah changed to a fast trot. I sat back at the same time Hannah brought her hips up in the gait. Our butts crashed together, Hannah swerved unexpectedly to the left and I was launched like a rocket.

A true science nerd, Newton’s laws of motion passed through my brain as I flew through the air. There truly is a Universal Law of Gravitation. Newton’s three Laws of Motion do exist. An object in motion will remain in motion unless acted upon by an external force all right. I struggled to hang on, but found myself falling. It’s peculiar that you know you are falling, you know you will hit the ground, and it most definitely takes place in slow motion.

I hit the dirt dead center on my right hip as though a target had been painted on it. Although we always wear helmets, my head never touched the ground. I lay there for a minute a little disoriented and peered up at Hannah, who wondered what the heck I was doing on the ground.

It didn’t hurt at first. I tried to get up, but only made it to my hands and knees when I realized that my right leg wouldn’t move. I told Earl to call 911. Because mountains surrounded the arena, our cell phones wouldn’t work. Sue went into her house to call the paramedics. The fire station was close by so the truck came immediately. By the time the fire truck came, I was sitting up in a farm vehicle. I was calm, thanks to years of yoga breathing techniques, and had only one minor episode of nausea and dizziness.

I barked the firefighter, “Whatever you do, do not cut my boot off!” It had taken me all my life to find a pair of knee boots that fit me. I had used my late sister Natalie’s discarded English boots for 30 years. My beautiful brand new shiny boots were field boots, the kind with shoelaces in them. The firefighter was very patient, and worked with me to get the boot off intact.

I realized I had a fractured bone. I had felt the broken edges grinding when I had tried to put weight on the leg. It felt like wobbling on top of a pond.

I was packaged up to go to the hospital. I chatted with the EMTs in the ambulance.  I observed the position of my injured leg. It was rotated with the foot turned totally to the outside, the classic position of a fractured hip.

The emergency room staff took over my care, put in an IV line, gave me longed for pain medication and then sent me off to radiology. The ER doc never put a hand on me.

Taking the x-rays was the worst part of emergency treatment. The radiology technician was heartless. The room was frigid for a trauma patient, and I was left alone with no safety railing on the table. I worried that I would fall a second time. It was too painful to put my leg into the position the uncaring technician wanted. She had to call others in to hold my leg. I was shaking and crying by that time. I didn’t know that my husband was just outside the door, and they never sent him in between attempts at x-rays.

Returning to the ER from radiology, I heard one of the techs say the word, surgery. I knew I had a fracture and would need surgery, because the ER doctor had also ordered a chest x-ray, a mandatory precursor to surgery. I informed them I was aware of confidentiality rules, but since I couldn’t see their faces, please tell me what was broken. The femoral neck, I was told.

I had to wait all day for the orthopaedic trauma surgeon. I was not critical, and he needed to finish office hours. The injury occurred at eleven o’clock in the morning, and I was taken to surgery at 7 p.m. It was a long, scary wait.

That evening, I underwent surgery to place three screws large enough to hold farm equipment together across the fracture. Physical therapy began the next morning. It was an excruciating. I had to learn to use a walker and crutches for the first time. I had to shower on a special seat.

I reacted badly to the morphine drip. Narcotics are delivered on demand by pushing a button on a special machine attached to the IV apparatus. Then they are delivered directly into the vein. It was an effective pain medication, but it made me itch all over, talk like a crazy woman, and hallucinate. I had no clue that I was hallucinating. I just thought I was in a different room every day for my six-day stay. One day, my room had a kitchenette. The next day, I wondered where the kitchenette had gone. I saw visions of my childhood home on Indian Tree Drive as fronts for new condominium buildings. Animals morphed into other animals. That was pretty cool and in Technicolor®, too! A couple of teacher friends came by to visit and told me that my visions were hallucinations. I had no idea. It took 51 years to experience a hallucination. My friends laughed so hard they nearly fell off their chairs. I was never a druggie in high school or college. I had been an athlete too busy being a pioneer for Title IX to do drugs. I didn’t know what a hallucination was until the 21st century.

My dear Jean came to visit and did some relaxation exercises with me. She applied some acupuncture seeds taped to important meridian points to help me relax. I will never forget Jean stroking the palm of my hand so gently. My nurse that afternoon was fascinated with what Jean was doing. Since the nurse had a little headache, Jean applied seeds to the nurse’s hands.

Things improved when I was removed from the morphine pump and allowed to swallow a different narcotic. I became a rock star at physical therapy.

Upon returning home, I had eight weeks to sit in a chair using first a walker and later crutches to get around. Summer as I knew it was over. My friends and junior high school family were wonderful about bringing meals, sending cards and flowers, visiting and calling. Family members checked in by phone. One friend, a retired flight surgeon who had an artificial knee, came once a week to take the Wonder Husky for a long walk, one less thing for me to worry about.

My mother-in-law, Beverley, widowed eight months to the day before my accident, arrived to spend the summer with us. Bev helped out a lot, although I didn’t need much help other than to carry things and be driven around. Bev struggled with me to put on the vile uncomfortable compression stockings worn to avoid deep vein thrombosis. It was over one hundred degrees many days that summer. We don’t have air conditioning.

Earl drove me to physical therapy twice a week. In my mind-set I was not in rehabilitation. I was training as for sports. It helped my mental outlook by focusing on training for future physical performance rather than rehabbing a past injury. I saw hip fracture as an adventurous journey.

I learned the value of patience and creativity. I accepted help from others. For example, I had to shower sitting down on a transfer table using a hand-held showerhead. At first, Earl had to pick up my leg and put it into the tub. I created a nest of sorts on the table next to my recliner chair where I kept the TV clicker, pens, paper and medications. I took my mealtime vitamins in a paper cup carried between my teeth as my hands were otherwise occupied. Soon Cowboy Joe and Frank, then kittens, were carrying paper cups around the house.

A few days after I got home from the hospital, I stumped clumsily out to the barn using my brand new youth-sized walker-not an easy feat on our flagstone path. Hannah was relaxing in the barn looking out the window. I managed to go up to her, where I burst into tears, and told her it wasn’t her fault. I hugged her head and stroked her soft muzzle while standing on my good leg. She understood.

Eventually I was able to sweep the barn on crutches. What a wonderful psychological boost for poor old bunged up me! I would place one crutch against the gate, and using the push broom and other crutch for support, I could sweep out the stalls without putting any weight on my injured leg. I left the shoveling to Earl.

Hannah skulked around waiting to take the crutch not in use, and chew the top of it or toss it in the air. I delighted in watching her silly antics during a time when there was precious little fun in my life.

During my sick leave from school, we took Hannah to Steve, our horse trainer, for some remedial ground lessons. He determined that at the time of the accident, the Baby had a sore hip herself. She did well in her lessons. I couldn’t wait to be allowed to ride again.

Shortly after getting off crutches, I requested that Steve bring Hannah close to me. He knew what I was thinking. I tentatively mounted Hannah with Steve holding the lead rope. Rudimentary as it was, I was riding again.

In October before I returned to school, I was able to ride and move around to the point where I could drive our rig alone and take Marcie to Lory State Park to ride. Free at last.

I visited school one day before my return to work, and told some staff members hanging out in the lounge that I was going riding that afternoon. Quizzical heads looked up. My colleagues asked if I was really going to ride horses again. My response was something to the effect of, “Have you ever had a car accident? Do you still drive?”

Riding is vital part of my life, like breathing or thinking. What transpired that June five years ago was a freak accident. Even the surgeon said so. One millimeter’s difference in the way I hit the deck would have avoided disaster. I’ve had more car mishaps than equine incidents. During the year I spent commuting to Northwestern for graduate school, I was rear-ended four times in my VW bug and totaled it when a tree jumped out into the middle of Sheridan Road during a rainstorm.

After returning home once I began teaching in November of that year, there were the horses to take care of, talk to and ride. Although my rehab team included an excellent trauma surgeon, physical therapist, Pilates therapist, massage therapist and a health club, the horses turned out to be the best rehabilitation modality of all.

© 2009 Mary Elson Carlson Trust

One of my great pleasures in life is reading the paper with breakfast. This was particularly so when I was teaching. It is a way to relax and prepare for the day.

Not so today. While getting a report on my hospitalized husband, I was preparing the Wonder Husky for home euthanasia. She ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with sedation added. As a cancer patient, that was pretty much all she enjoyed at that point. I added some chocolate, as she wouldn’t become poisoned from it on her way to the Rainbow Bridge.

While she rested, I read the obituaries. Given the ethnicity of my ancestors, this is what I do first. I dread seeing names I know. Today, there was a former student of mine listed. Jenny was an animal lover and a figure skater. She would come to my cat clinic and observe. A tragic reality check.

Over the last two weeks, Tipper went downhill quickly. Many people are too hasty to send their pets on. I waited until she told us it was time by her glassy eyes and lack of appetite and enjoyment of her daily walk. There is an honor and dignity to hand feeding a beloved, aged pet that is very private and intimate.

It is never easy planning to put down your own pet because you are a veterinarian. I slept with Tipper downstairs last night with a DVD on. It really was quite peaceful. We had a walk in the rain this morning. She enjoyed sniffing the wet grass. We gave the horses good-bye treats before our friend came to release her from this life.

Tipper was only the second dog of our 27-year marriage. Our first Husky lived fourteen years. We got Tipper six months before Keli died. Keli was rejuvenated having a frisky puppy around until her death a week before the Great Flood of 1997.

Tip was a popular dog on our daily run/walks. It is nice to have a beautiful dog because you meet people you ordinarily would not speak to. Dog names are exchanged, but rarely do people give their own names. She also served as protection. Huskies look vicious, but in reality would help a burglar hold his flashlight. Our cats and horses are the guardians of the home.

Tipper would sneak up on the couch to nap when we weren’t home. I’d come home and feel warm upholstery. One time, I decided to see for myself. I crept through the bushes to the window. There she was, sprawled on the couch asleep with the cats. I tapped on the window to get her attention. Busted! By the time I got into the house, not only was she in her crate, she was faking sleep.

Making the final decision is the toughest thing to do. Then comes peace. We honor Tipper’s life, and thank her for being a delightful, loving member of our family. It was totally appropriate that her doctor took her little dog body away in a Porsche 911.  Pax tecum, Tipper. Good-bye, my love.

The Wonder Husky is holding her own against lymphoma. It is slowly sapping her energy, and her breathing is sometimes harsh. The lymph nodes in her neck are becoming larger and harder, but it is not time yet.

She is eating canned cat food and peanut butter on dog biscuits. She no longer eats her regular chow. She enjoys walking along the fence sniffing the grass late at night and relaxing in her dog pen either in her husky hole or on her porch. At bedtime, I hide a pill in a lump of peanut butter so she will rest comfortably. She is not in pain.

People are too quick sometimes to end a pet’s life when a terminal diagnosis is made. There is a special dignity to caring for a sick pet. It is an honor for me to feed her by hand with soft food on a tongue depressor and seeing her relish her meal. I always enjoy watching animals eat. There is a certain loving closeness as I give my best dog friend nutrition of any kind.

Tipper will tell us when it is time. I thought I would help her go while Earl was in the hospital but Tipper really has been OK. Not great, but OK. I didn’t want to have to go to the hospital with her collar to show Earl. I haven’t been able to spend as much time with her during Earl’s hospitalization, but she has always enjoyed being alone in her dog pen or in her crate. The cats supervise her when she’s inside. It’s amazing to me how the cats know what is going on, especially Matthew, her special feline buddy.

Whenever an animal family member has been sick, I have been ready to euthanize it before Earl has. I have always waited, with two exceptions, until he has agreed that it is time. The two exceptions were when he was working in Denver, and I had to make a decision after consulting him long distance. The first was my cat, Pruney, the cat of my life, born at the end of my senior year in high school, and was found outside in a coma under a bush shortly after vet school graduation in 1987. The second was our first dog, Keli, who was comatose on a hot July evening in 1997. My classmate and neighbor helped me run blood work, then euthanize Keli under her favorite tree, which is where Tipper will go when it’s her time.

Earl is coming home from a tough hospitalization today. Tipper will be here to greet him. He will process her situation, and we will agree, with Tipper’s input, when it is time to send her to my friend Jean, whom I know is watching and will come to take her to a place with no illness, the Rainbow Bridge.

Franklin is eagerly waiting for Earl to come home today so he can be bedridden while Earl sleeps. It’s funny that the cats have hardly slept with me while Earl has been hospitalized. Yesterday morning, I turned my sheets down a little, and there was Frank, snoozing all day against my pillow. I guess he doesn’t like the bed made up.

People you don’t know can make such a big difference in your lives. When I had my injury, I looked forward to Ophelia coming to clean my room every day. She was so nice and put up with my practicing Spanish with her. Being hospitalized can be pretty boring once you are on the mend.

The man cleaning Earl’s room is Jimmy Chang, originally from Taiwan. Yesterday, Earl wasn’t feeling so great. The day before had been the day post-op where it felt like a semi ran over him. Yesterday, Earl was to have an ultrasound-guided aspiration of some ascites and a liver biopsy. He was not a happy camper.

Jimmy came in to clean, and happily told us that there is a big banquet next week where employees of the year will be announced. He is so proud that he was nominated a second year in a row. He really wants to win this time. He is taking his wife; they are getting their best clothes ready, and are looking forward to a really good meal. Going to that banquet is a real honor for Jimmy.

Earl’s mood brightened as Jimmy laughed his way through his description of the upcoming event. The sun came out on Earl’s bad, scary day as he laughed with Jimmy. We totally got into it with Jimmy, “Vote for Jimmy Chang!” I even put it in ink on the door sign that said no food for Earl that morning. “Vote for Jimmy Chang!” Jimmy was so tickled, he thanked us over and over while bowing in his native tradition.

I went down to radiology to be with Earl while he had his procedures done. I came back up ahead of him to order lunch for us. On his worst day, Earl would eat all the Jello in the universe, but he is on solid food now, and was hungry. The radiology technician gave me two coupons, so I could order a guest tray. Usually, I get my food in the café, using my volunteer badge for a discount.

While waiting, I called the CEO’s office to talk to the secretary and tell her that we wanted to see Jimmy win the employee of the year in his division. I told Gloria how wonderful Jimmy was every day with his infectious smile, happy giggle while patting Earl on the knee and wishing him a well. After that, I saw Jimmy in the hall with his supervisor, and told him I had called the boss’ office. He laughed and bowed in his excitement. His supervisor laughed also.

This is one reason why I volunteer. There is an opportunity every day to help people who are having the worst day of their lives feel better. Sometimes it takes only a smile and a little kindness. Jimmy helped Earl feel better on a bad day. I hope the hospital recognizes him for that. The room is pretty clean, too.

Vote for Jimmy Chang!

Today marks the 39th anniversary of Earl’s kidney transplant. He was born with a defect that covered the outlet of the bladder, causing pressure on his kidneys, and spent his first four months in the hospital. He did pretty well throughout his childhood. In adolescence, the kidneys started to fail, and it became necessary to consider transplantation.

Fortunately, the best surgeon in the world was at the University of Colorado, Dr. Thomas Starzl. Transplantation was still fairly experimental in 1970, and Earl was fortunate to be a part of a study and have his transplant done with little charge.

That’s a lot to have on one’s mind when you are only eighteen and want to be a champion athlete. He never wanted to be known as the ‘kidney boy.’

Finding a donor was not the long wait some people have to endure. His mom was considered first, but they found an aneurism on her splenic artery. She ended up having a splenectomy.

Next, Uncle Jerry stepped up to be the donor. Although Jerry’s kidney was only a D match, it has done very well. Jerry is a special guy. You wouldn’t know it from meeting him, though. He’s a regular, easy-going man that plays in a band, loves his Dalmation, and holds the family together with his crazy demeanor. Three generations of Carlson decendents have Jerry as their special uncle, much as my Uncle Tom was my special buddy. Jerry also took care of his parents, and moved into the other side of my in-laws’ duplex with his mother, our Gram, so they could live next to my in-laws. After my father-in-law and Gram passed away within 12 days of each other in 2003, Bev and Jerry now have a wonderful relationship as brother and sister separated only by a closet. Neither is alone. What Jerry really did for a living before retirement can’t be discussed, or the government would have to kill me. I still don’t know all the details, but national security was involved.

Earl could have been on disability his entire life. Instead, he went to college and veterinary school. He opened a small animal clinic, and then worked for the State of Colorado as Animal Welfare Veterinarian for the Division of Racing Events. He rarely missed a day of work. The most work he ever missed was during my ortho soap opera. He stayed home with me for three whole weeks after my hip replacement.

He has done much research to benefit racing animals, and is a popular speaker at conferences. He’s really good at that. My heart always turned to stone whenever PETA would picket the racetracks and target him. He was hired to protect the animals. He worked with retired greyhound associations to help greyhounds get adopted. The beautiful plaque and statue given to him by the greyhound industry on the occasion of his retirement attests to his care of racing animals.

Monday, he has his colon surgery. We are hoping for the best. It could be benign, as was a friend’s grapefruit-sized colon tumor. Skin cancers that are not much of an issue for normal folks blow up in transplant patients. After months of our wonderful dermatologist hacking away at Earls face, his skin cancers are under control, and he will start prophylactic radiation therapy on these after he recovers from surgery. He underwent needle-guided ultrasound biopsies of some lymph nodes that lit up on the PET scan. That was not very fun. After it was over, we went to lunch at the famous Silver Grill, and feasted on cinnamon roll French toast. After we went home, Earl popped a Vicodin® and went to sleep.

My quiet, mellow gentleman is really a tough guy. He is training for the surgery by going to the health club every day. My mom never lived to have a son-in-law, but she adored Earl. She did tell me one time, “You don’t deserve him! He’ll never look at another woman!” Thanks, Mom. I miss you after 30 years, special lady. Yo, Carol!

Franklin is already lined up to take care of Earl. I believe he posted about being a Feline CNA. He does not leave the bed when Earl is resting. We tease that Frank is bedridden. He did make one boo-boo yesterday. Earl was talking on the phone to the admissions nurse. Frank jumped on the bed landing directly on Earl’s abdomen. Not good. Earl and I laughed like idiots about where Frank would land on Earl after surgery. 16 pounds of cat landing on a new incision. Oy.

We are having a blizzard again today. I slept in a little. Cowboy Joe came to visit, purring loudly. Frank was positioned on my pillow, and we were head to head smooching. Earl had returned to bed after feeding Scoot and Hannah, and letting Tipper out into her Husky wonderland. Earl petted Joe and said, “There is nothing better than a cat purring on the bed.” I think Earl is well covered for companionship during his recovery.

Life is so strange. I closed out Jean’s estate yesterday, sending a certified check for the dregs of the Estate account to Morris Animal Foundation. I was going to walk around the mall for a while to think, but I went home and burst into tears. My duties for my best bud are finished. It was more emotional than I thought.

I also have a decision to make. University of Wyoming MSW program, or Texas Tech University School of Law. Paid up in both places, but need to know where Earl will be after surgery. I retired at 53, and that was too young. School teaching was making me ill, my room was toxic, but I was too young to stop using my overactive brain.

So, I will employ a phrase I read long ago. Let time pass. Send some good thoughts our way, please.

Earl and I were in a restaurant at the end of February where we saw two former teaching buddies, Scott and Mary. They are expecting their first child in September. We chatted for a while, sharing pleasantries and laughs. As we were leaving, Scott said, “Not to put a damper on your evening, but we just found out that Carly has Hodgkin’s.” Carly is his daughter, a young lady whom I have known since she was two years old. We share a love of horses. She was the first kid I let ride Scooter when he was new to our crew. Carly was seven at the time.

Cancer at 16. What a blow for a girl in the prime of adolescence. 16 year-olds should be getting their licenses, going out on dates, driving their parents nuts, getting into trouble and focusing on the fun of high school while thinking ahead to college. One might feel sorry for her, but that’s the last thing Carly wants.

Carly is a brave young woman whose first post on her online journal was, “The cancer picked the wrong woman to mess with!” and “We’ll smash this small speedbump in my life to smithereens. Adios cancer.”

Carly’s website is provided by Caring Bridge, an organization that provides “free, personalized websites that support and connect loved ones during critical illnesses, treatment and recovery.” Carly and her family immediately jumped on this opportunity to record her journey for people to follow. It also helps to connect with Carly in a way that does not intrude on her life at a time of delicate health issues such as low blood counts during chemotherapy. Since the beginning of March to date, Carly has had over 1200 hits on her website. A few more and I think she gets a set of steak knives.

Since her hair has just started to fall out in dribs and drabs, she is going to shave it today. She posted previously about going to a meeting where she asked an older woman about hair falling out, and what to do about it. She was told to laugh.

When I fractured my hip, I had the nurse write on the whiteboard in my room, “Use humor, it helps.” Instead of focusing on how banged up I was at the time, I preferred to find something to laugh about, like having a deaf nurse on the day I lost my voice due to the tube that had been in my throat during surgery. “Speak up, Mary!” No, I don’t think I will.

Carly’s dad was one of the people who helped me out a lot during that time by visiting me, and helping Earl make accommodations at home for when I was released. Now it’s time for their family to get a lot of support.

It’s OK to laugh at cancer. A friend who was fighting cancer at the same time I was an orthopedic train wreck told me that she had a hard time going upstairs, even with her husband helping. I mentioned I had the same problem. We agreed that cancer and fractured hips must be the same disease. Then we laughed our heads off. My friend, Jean, about whom I have written many times, and I shared many a laugh during her treatments. She was visited by one idiot hospitalist that really ticked me off. As her medical power of attorney, she knew I hauled him out into the hall and reamed him a  new one. Jean forever referred to him as “Dr. Bite Me.”

I found a great website, cafepress.com, that has t-shirts, caps and other funny and poignant items for just about any condition or occasion. I bought one for myself that reads, “I’m totally hip.” The P in the word hip is in the shape of my implant. I wear it annually at the Orthopaedic Center of the Rockies “Joint Walk.” When my little cousin started medical school, I got her a shirt that read, “Veterinarians treat more than one species.” Jamie and her classmates had a good laugh about that one.  Jean got a shirt that said “Chemo-sabe.” I sent that one to Carly.

Carly will be OK. She will get through her “speedbump.” Visit Carly’s website and see true courage in real time.

Rock on, Carly!

This day is a day of thanksgiving for us. One year ago, Scooter underwent surgery to remove a huge abscess from his abdomen. Thousands of dollars later, and having had Scooter away from us for over two months following his surgery, the young man is doing just fine, thank you, and had a wonderful summer of mountain riding.

On Feb. 11 of last year, Earl found Scoot lying sternal (on his chest) in an unusual place-by the water trough. We got him up, and Earl noticed that Scoot gave one small kick of his hind leg. This means abdominal pain. We gave him a physical and called the clinician on call. We held off on taking him in to the hospital.

In the morning, I drew blood from Scoot, and delivered it to the CSU lab. In the meantime, we made an appointment to take him in. We didn’t want to wait. As it turned out, being worried horse owners saved his life. A rectal examination revealed a mass the size of a watermelon near the root of the mesentery, the place where the small intestines fan out and are connected by mesentery, a Saran Wrap-like membrane filled with blood vessels and lymph nodes.

The rule outs from an intrarectal ultrasound were an abscess, most likely from the strangles bacterium, Streptococcus equi, or a mass, probably cancer. A cancer that large was not something I was willing to treat, it would have been too advanced. The clinicians at the hospital, Dr. Lutz Goehring, Dr. Gabriele Landolt, and surgeon Dr. Diana Hassel all thought it looked like an abscess. Knowing the cost involved, but the prognosis if it were to be an abscess, we were willing to give Scoot the benefit of the doubt. Surgery was on for 8 the next morning. I insisted on watching, as if it turned out to be a malignancy, Scooter was not to be recovered, and I would perform the euthanasia on my sleeping boy.

The surgery went well. The experts were correct. It was an abscess. I remember Dr. Goehring running samples to the lab so we could find out that it indeed was bastard strangles. Dr. Hassel performed the surgery aided by first-year resident Dr. Annette McCoy. They got over a liter of pus from the abscess which they believe was an infected lymph node right at the root of the mesentery. They never opened the abscess, that would have killed him. They carefully tied a suture into the abscess wall, inserted a trocar into the abscess, tighened the suture and suctioned off the pus. Then they closed the purse-string suture, so nothing was spilled. They flushed his abdomen, gave massive antibiotics, then took him to the recovery stall. I took pictures of the surgery. Dr. Hassel was elbow-deep in my paint’s belly.

I observed Scoot by TV monitor until he had awakened and could stand. My former workmate at the VTH, Lucien Brevard, a calm surgery and anesthesia tech who had once shod our mares long ago, watched the monitor carefully. It was comforting being with Lu as I saw Scoot come to his senses and try to stand. 

When Scoot recovered from anesthesia, he went directly to the isolation barn, as strangles is highly contagious. His progress was monitored by TV with the staff and student assigned to him the only ones allowed into his stall.

How did he get this serious disease? I really have no idea. Hannah’s pneumonia the previous month may have been strangles pneumonia, but when S. equi is cultured, other bacteria quickly overgrow it. Her bacteriology report said, “mixed flora.” It is strange that both horses were so ill within a short interval of each other. Neither horse had been off our place in over three months. Our neighbor, the only other horse owner for miles, had no diseased horses. It’s a mystery that will never be solved.

We were so fortunate to have a wonderful senior student, Shawn Dixon, take care of Scoot. Only once did we ’suit up’ to visit him in isolation. It was quite the process of biohazard protection. It took so much of her time, that we decided to visit from outside his window. Today, Dr. Shawn Dixon is an intern at Colorado Equine. After Scoot had three negative cultures for strangles, and a negative endoscopic examination of his gutteral pouches, he was moved back into the regular barn. We had open access to him, as long as we suited up for the barn, a much less difficult procedure than for isolation. We walked him, hung out with him and generally loved on him. He was such a wonderfully behaved patient. 

When time for release came, he had to have stall rest and hand walking. This means a closed stall, and graduated exercise by hand. This was not possible in our set up. Scoot went up to the care of Barbara Struthers, a quarter horse breeder and mother of one of the night technicians, Kit Struthers, who had taken care of both Scoot and Hannah. Barb spoiled him rotten. Scoot couldn’t get enough food, as he had lost over 50 pounds. Barb introduced him to horse cookies. She hand walked him in increments, eventually going out for hour and a half jaunts. She told me that he was only the second horse she had ever boarded that she trusted to be in the stall when she cleaned it daily. Scoot also became friends with her pot-bellied pig, Brad Pigg. Brad is hysterical to watch, but he did try to bite me when I wanted to touch his tusk. This reminded me that no matter how small, pigs can be truly vicious. Scoot, always keen for a pretty girl, fell in love with the cute little filly across the aisle. Poor guy, he was gelded when he was two, but still loses his heart to the mares. I call him “Studly Can’t Do Nuthin’.” Hannah is his true love, though.

After he was in better shape, Barb or Kit would train him in their round pen. Kit can work on any horse. His quiet, calm demeanor allows the horse to feel calm. We got our horse back in good shape to try riding in late May, and groomed like a show horse. The warmer barn allowed him to shed his winter coat faster than if he had been outside at home.

A  mid-April snowstorm delayed Scooter’s homecoming for a few days. We hugged and kissed Barb and thanked her for helping to save Scooter. Hannah awaited in the trailer so Scoot would load without trouble. He settled back into his corral after his long stay at the equine version of the Hyatt Regency. We thought he felt he was now slumming it.

Economics is a very real consideration in the world of veterinary medicine, more now in this depression than ever. I came very close to euthanizing my boy not because of cost, but because he may have had a non-survivable cancer. All Scoot has to show of his ordeal is a marble-sized incisional hernia. I check it every time I pet him. It causes no problem, and would be easy to fix if it did.

Had we done nothing, we probably would have awakened to find a dead horse in our corral. Earl’s keen eye on that subtle kick lead to Scooter’s cure.

Every morning when I feed the horses, every time I ride Scootsritealong,  give him a horse cookie, (yes, I gave in) or laugh at how goofy he is, I thank the Almighty that we gave our boy the benefit of the doubt.

More on the Equus article about NorCal Equine Rescue. The article regarding the first Free Euthanasia Clinic goes on to say that it was to save horses from slaughter. This organization did this because people could not afford to have their unwanted horses put down, even the ones that were “overdue” for humane death. Typically, the article on p. 63 said, was that it costs $300 or more to euthanize a horse, including a veterinary call and the renderer’s pickup fee.

Tawnee Preisner, NCER vice president said, “Horses even get left unsold at auction yards. No one wants to buy them; the price of hay is going up.” California state laws prohibiting the sale or transport of horses to slaugshter are not being enforced.

I commend the work of NCER, but I reflect on the issue of horse slaughter. There are many websites to visit to learn the pro and con sides of the issue. There are many videos and pictures that show how a horse is slaughtered for food. It really isn’t that much different that how cattle are slaughtered. Yes as I watched, I imagined Scooter or Hannah being in the line, but then I thought that if, for any reason, I could not keep a disabled horse, one that NorCal could not adopt out, instead of wasting a carcass poisoned with euthanasia solution, why shouldn’t it be humanely slaughtered and be used to feed people and animals? The horse owner would be paid for the animal, and not keep it alive because the owner couldn’t afford euthanasia.

A problem is that many slaughter transporters and facilities broke the rules of humane treatment, which lead to a ban on horse slaughter. I assure you, it still goes on.

No life should be wasted. In a situation where a sick or unwanted horse will die, which is the more useful option: Euthanasia, which costs money and ruins the carcass for anything except inedible meat products (rendering), or slaughter for food where the owners realize a little money?

Dr. Temple Grandin of Colorado State University, has a paper on horse transport and slaughter. Read it here. She is renowned for her work on designing facilities for lessening stress of food supply animals going to slaughter. There is much work yet to be done for horses if they are to be slaughtered for food. I have read her books and heard her speak. She is one of the true geniuses of the animal science world.

This is a difficult post for me. Please research this online yourself. See the pictures and videos. Read the positions of organizations such as the Humane Society for the United States and the American Veterinary Medical Association, both of which I am a member. Decide for yourself. If you are a horse owner, see if there are other ways to hold onto money so you can afford care for your beloved equine friends.