Story Time! Why Sandy doesn't like horses.

I can tell that today is going to be a story day. The kids are working on a short story publishing project (for end of the year busy-ness) and as I listen to them talk as they work I think of stories. Most of them are true. Most of them happened to me. Most of them are ridiculous, but like I said, they happened to me.

To start. The story of how I broke my humorous.

Now normally I don't know dates on stories, just general seasons, etc, but this one I know exactly what day and year it happened. In a minute you'll see why.

The whole mess started on a Friday afternoon, January 31, 2003. This was the day before we lost the space shuttle over Texas that also carried the Israeli astronaut. (That incident is not actually related to the story, but it happened that same weekend...) My father's mother, G'ma as I called her, had been a widow just over five years and had been failing herself for the past two.

Now G'ma was a wonderful lady and I loved her dearly, but she was difficult at best. More often than not she was an onrey "steam roller" as Dad and I affectionately referred to her. As her oldest grandchild and the treasured girl she had been praying for after having only sons of her own, I was therefore her special project. My father was her oldest son, and since the death of his father, the person she most leaned on... or demanded care from. The problem was she really needed to go to an assisted living facility, but she wouldn't leave her house. More than that, considering how miserable she was physically (she was on oxygen the last two years because of lung problems and she coughed so hard her brittle ribs would break themselves regularly) I even thought and said out loud to my father (after a particularly nasty conversation she and I had about how if I would cut my hair, lose some weight and get rid of my dogs, maybe someone would marry me) that what she really needed was to "go home!"

Dad just smiled, and said that while that was true, until she decided to go or God decided to drag her kicking and screaming by her hair, we still needed to try and be respectful to her even if she was a cantankerous old bat. I did mention that we really did love her right?

Anyway, she had been getting worse lately, and we were finally getting her to go to a home. The day she checked in her health began to fail completely. So, that Friday Dad called me to let me know that it looked like God was showing up for the hair pulling and to prepare myself to most likely miss some school the next week for the funeral. I asked Dad if I needed to come home now, over the weekend and say goodbye. He said no, that I had visited her less than six months ago, we had spoken on the phone just a few days ago and that she knew I loved her. He further added that I most likely and she most definitely did not want me to remember her as anything other than the vibrant person she did not resemble right now. I knew he was right, so I went on with my plans for the weekend.

I went to a mission conference in Alabama with some friends of mine. It was a six hour drive, but not too bad and we were in a PT cruiser. Comfortable car. My friends and I spent some time praying for G'ma as we drove, her peace, comfort and her sons who were both with her. It was a beautiful weekend. Clear sky, crisp air, all the cliches.

The camp that the conference was held at was in the middle of nowhere and was actually, additionally a working horse and cow farm. We bunked down, went to some lectures, had dinner and got to bed about midnight in the bunk houses. The next morning I called Dad to check on G'ma. She was pretty out of it at that point and Dad said she had told him during her few moments of lucidness that she knew this was it, but that she knew where she was going, she wanted to be with her husband and she didn't want any of us to be worried or scared. She had further told him she was glad that she had gotten to see me a while ago, and happy that I had not come down now. Dad explained that she had not been awake since then and they expected her to pass in the next 24 hours and that the doctors were simply making her final moments comfortable. Oddly enough, I was not distraught at this point. As I said, I knew she needed to go home and she was so miserable here on earth. Dad also told me, in case no one had news or radio available there at the farm about the shuttle incident.

Now, recognizing that I was not distraught, but I was a bit down, my friend, Dot, who had been to the camp before asked what I thought I might like to do with the free time we were currently enjoying before lunch and afternoon lectures. I asked if we could see the horses. She suggested we ride them instead. I pointed out to her that I was not a small person and that might not be a good idea. She "pshawed" me and pulled me along to the coral. We waited our turn and then I was brought to a large quarter horse whose shoulder was about even with mine. I looked at the horse trainer holding his bridle and said, "I'm sure I'm too big to ride. I'll just wait here for my friend to take her turn."

"Nonsense. Get on the horse."

OK. So I climbed on. She horse actually bent his knees and swayed his backside. I looked at the trainer.

"He doesn't want me up here. This is a bad idea."

"He can carry you and he works for us, we don't work for him, it's fine."

OK. So I turned his head and pointed him toward the line of other horses waiting for us to join them at the bottom of the hill. Now these horses did this little trail in a single file line four or five times a day, which means I'm not really controlling them, they are simply playing follow the leader. Well today, there was a problem with the lead horse, or more specifically the second to lead horse.

The second to lead horse had decided that he wanted to be the lead horse and so he began biting the hind end of the lead horse. The lead horse reacted by speeding up to remove his hind end from the second horses teeth range. The second horse sped up to bring his teeth back into the range of the lead horses hind end and all the other horses began to run to keep up with this mess as well. Now, my saggy kneed horse, saw all the running and didn't want to be left behind and so, still sucking in his sides in an effort shake me loose, he ran down the hill. This was a very upsetting sensation to me. To say the least.

So I grabbed a tree to steady myself.

Yes I am that stupid.

This caused my center of gravity to shift to the non-moving tree instead of the moving horse. I tried to get the horse to stop so that I could re-balance correctly. How did I do that? Well holding onto the tree I couldn't really pull on the reigns so I tightened my legs around the horses body.

Raise your hand if you know this is actually the signal to horses to go faster?

Yes, I am that stupid.

At this point I got jerked backwards out of the saddle by my arm, however my foot was stuck in the stirrup. The horse glad to be rid of me continued to speed up. Now I am hyper extended between the horse and the tree. Also, to solidify this picture, if this horse was as high as my shoulder and I was sitting up straight on top of the horse and I grabbed the tree at my new shoulder height... Yep, I was suspended from this tree about nine feet off the ground. My foot popped out of the stirrup and I fell the distance to the ground, letting go of the tree just before I swung into it and snapping my arm back against my chest.

One of the two most physically painful moments of my adult life (the other is another story to be shared another time/blog).

Now we had a problem. There was no bruising, no swelling and no indication that I had broken it. Plus I was hours from home and well, I hate emergency rooms (which is funny because between being an EMT and my own personal ability to get injured I spend a lot of time in them). So I didn't go. When I talked to my Dad that night to get a G'ma update I didn't mention it to him. He had enough on his plate and it's not like he could do anything about it. I just slinged it and struggled through eating with my left hand.

The next morning, having slept only because I popped a bunk mate's Xanex (thanks again, Cindy, but if I had been thinking clearly I would have warned against the dangers of sharing narcotics with friends...), we left for home, my arm resting in a nest of ice and pillows, driving slowly so that I wouldn't scream every time we hit a bump.

Dad called to tell me that G'ma had in fact passed peacefully and was now with Granddaddy and that the funeral would be on Thursday, but I needed to drive down on Wednesday. As he was talking it hit me. My right arm was out of commission. It would be a six hour drive to get to G'ma's house. I drove a stick shift car with little shock absorbtion.

"Um, Dad, seeing as you will have to fly Lee down from Chicago, any chance I could fly too?"

"Is something wrong with your car?"

"Uh, no, I just had this rather unfortunate incident with a horse and um, well, my arm is kind of out of commission for a while."

"The doctor thinks you broke it? How bad."

"Well I didn't see a doctor, per say, there is no bruising or swelling, it just really hurts."

"Why no doctor?"

"Dad, it's not broken and they will just make me wait forever, pay for a bunch of X-Rays and then go home with nothing accomplished. Anyway, I'll figure something out. Don't worry, I'll be there on time."

Then my Dad laid the most amazing guilt line on me I have ever heard.

"Sandy, as soon as you get home, I need you to go to the emergency room. I am not worried or upset about my mother, I know exactly where she is and how she is doing. The only thing I am concerned about at all now, is your arm. Promise me you will go to the ER as soon as you get home."

Like I'm gonna tell him "no" the day his mother died?

So I went. They referred me to a orthopedist. Dad made plane reservations for me and my brother (Lee changed planes in Atlanta so we could even ride together on his last half). I went to school on Monday, all slinged and mildly drugged up (In needed the hard stuff to attempt to be able to sleep at night), having caught a cab into work and set up my classes for the next four days (one day for doctor's appointments, two days for funerals and one day for the Thespian Conference in DownTown Atlanta that I was chaperoning for the weekend). Tuesday the doc told me I had a torn rotator cuff, needed an MRI and orthagram to be able to plan the surgery and that I had 18 months of rehab ahead of me and would probably never have the full range of motion back again anyway. Wednesday I allowed myself to take some of the now prescribed narcotic painkillers only after I was fully in my brother's custody and we were off to G'ma's house. Thursday I made it through the funeral with only two people trying to shake my hand and only close family hugging me so hard I squeaked. I also apparently, according to my stepmother, proved that while my brother was the minister, I was the better public speaker when all four of us (me and bro and our two younger cousins) had to read bible verses for the funeral as per my grandmother's instructions before she died. Then I flew home. Friday I got up, caught a ride with a colleague and rode the bus into Atlanta with 75 hyperactive teenagers to join up with 5000 hyperactive teenagers for a Thespian Conference. By Sunday I was so tired I no longer needed the drugs to sleep and slept for 24 straight hours before getting up on Monday to go to work. Through all of this, every day, three times a day, I would walk my hand up the wall, taking my arm, screaming with it, because we had to make sure that the muscle did not tighten up as it healed. They told me this would get easier over time. It did not.

It took two more weeks to get the MRI and Orthagram done. An Orthagram is when they take a needle the width of a pickle, jam it into a joint and fill said joint with 16 oz of idionized fluid all while you are lying on top of the X-Ray machine. (No I am not making this up.) then you go to another room for the MRI where even though you can feel your shoulder sloshing you cannot move for an hour while they spin huge magnets over your head.

The next morning I did not go to school I was in so much pain from the trauma of the orthagram and MRI. I still could not drive and I had begun getting cramps in my lower arm, almost as painful as the injury to my upper arm, because of having to hold it so still all the time. Therefore I was home to get the call from my doctor.

"Stop walking your arm up the wall."

"But you said that was crucial to getting as much range of motion back as possible."

"I was wrong. Good news, your rotator cuff is intact, though clearly traumatized. No rehab and you should retrieve full range of motion."

"Then what's wrong with my arm?"

"It appears that you split the bone down the middle from the top of the shoulder to about 2/3 down your arm."

"So I need a cast?"

"No, it's hairline and seems to be healing on its own. Just stay in the sling two more weeks and no heavy lifting for six."

"Just to be clear, you are telling me I didn't tear my rotator cuff, I have split my humorous?"

"Yeah, isn't that funny?"

The upside of the whole thing was I learned that I can write effectively on the board with my left hand. My words are a bit wavy, but my printing was very clear. It only took me about 25% longer to write it as well. One student, (it was her first day in my class) watched me write the homework assignment slowly, carefully on the board. Then she looked at me and said, very seriously,

"So, Ms. X, did you go into teaching because of your learning disability?"