My horse broke into a canter (unasked) and humped up his back, trying to knock me off. One time. Two times. Three. I held on, scrambling to pull his head up. He threw his head back and way up, and I thought it was over. But no. His head went way down this time -- rodeo style -- and his bottom went high in the air. I landed on all fours. Pain kept me still as he skidded away. I heard Risa tell my daughter: "Go get him. Quietly. Slowly." I sat back on my haunches, my stomach, fist-like, and my head, full of sparkles. My wrist was bent up like a car that has rear-ended a truck.
Risa helped me to the edge of the ring. She had been giving a lesson, and the child's father was standing there. He touched my arm, feeling it's length. He sent Risa for some magazines to make a splint. He was an orthopaedic doctor or nurse or something. I wasn't clear. The pain dominated me, and I was breathing like I had when giving birth. Risa asked for phone numbers. I could remember nothing. My daughter and step-daughter helped reach my husband and mother, who set out for the barn. Risa loaded me into the car to take me to the closest ER at Trident Hospital, which I thought was a good choice. I was to find out differently.
The nurse took one look at my arm and walked me right back. No waiting. A woman doctor with kind eyes examined me, and not long after, William, my nurse, showed up with a syringe of pain meds. But that shot barely touched the pain. Risa called after him as he trotted down the hall: "When is this supposed to take effect?" Another shot. My husband arrived to takeover for Risa. X-rays. More pain meds. The doc with the kind eyes told me surgery is likely. Not a clean break. Crushed bone. And "You'll need pins or a plate to set the bone."
We waited. And waited. Then the doctor showed back up, clearly unhappy.
"We're going to do a nerve block and put this bone into place. That's what the orthopedic doctor on call wants us to do."
"What about surgery?"
"You'll need to see him in his office next week."
I was confused. And as I kept asking questions, she became more uncomfortable. She was doing as she had been told, but she clearly didn't agree with it. I was told I would need to make an appointment with the orthopaedic doctor next week.
More waiting. The attending doc (not the one with kind eyes) arrived, and I also asked him my questions. He explained that referring patients to the private offices of doctors on call often happened. He said the hospital wasn't really set up for that kind of surgery. That there was no need for the on-call orthopaedic doctor to come in because I wasn't at risk of dying, and, really, it wasn't like I had a bone sticking out or anything. I held back screams as he shot up my fragmented bones, readjusted them, and left. My nurse splinted my arm, and I was released. I never saw the orthopaedic doctor.
What a difference a few years can make. I broke the same wrist 13 years before, in a similar way. I was run off the road on my bike. I landed on my left palm as I tried to break my fall. And I also had crushed bone. It was on a Sunday, too. But then, at Cabell County Hospital in Huntington, WV, the on-call orthopaedic doctor left his weekend activities to see me. He actually met with me, examined me, and arranged for the surgery that evening. By the next day, I was recovering and on my way to returning to the college classroom where I was teaching.
Now, it is Wednesday, and I have been waiting to see the orthopaedic doctor for three days. All of his patients from the weekend were scheduled to see him in his office at the , and I had to wait even longer because mine was the less life threatening of the group. I will see him today at 2:45. Health care has changed.
But so has my body. When I was younger, I jumped right up when I fell off a horse. Now I don't bounce, I break. I also bruise. Color is coming out in broad brush strokes on my arms and legs. I ache all over. And I can't button my own pants. I am feeling my age.
Some friends have posed the question: is it worth it? And my knee jerk reaction is"yes." Of course. But when I look at the larger picture - how I am missing days from work. How my mother has disrupted her plans to stay here and become, essentially, me in the care of children and the household. How my husband has had to take on additional duties. How I didn't get to take the girls school shopping or to their first day of school. Then I begin to wonder.
When it was just me, I could take bigger risks. But as part of a family, I don't think I can justify it. I won't give up riding, as some have suggested. But I can be more careful. I can decide to give up the more risky jumping for the less dangerous dressage. I can make sure my horse gets the extra training he needs. I can rethink how I ride, so I can keep riding into my old age.
I can adapt - so that my body holds together through a lifetime of loving horses.
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