Dog Years

Seven years ago I went out for what I thought would be a quick ride on my mare Wish, knowing nothing about how that ride would end and that I would be facing a new reality by the end of it.  It's a fine irony that some of our most significant life experiences start off with hopeful serendipity.  I guess the point of serendipity is that we don't know the outcome before we begin.

Seven years is 49 in dog years if what we’re told about dog-time is true. I joke about dog years fairly often (usually when people ask how long Pat and I have been married) and in case you’re wondering, it’s been 170 dog years. Seven years ago I took that ride which ended in a life-altering accident and the diagnosis that my back was so badly broken it would be my own personal miracle if I woke from the complicated surgery able to walk again.

I woke from that 9 hour surgery and I do walk, and today I remember.

Almost seven years later to the day, Kai, Scout, and I are walking down the hill to move the old horses. The old guys get segregated so that they can eat their food in peace. We’re all seven years older and I can see the change of those years quite clearly in the winter when keeping their weight up becomes a daily challenge. I watch Kai, our love-full Golden Retriever, follow me happily down the hill we fondly call ‘Buns of Steel’ hill.  He smiles as he runs but I can see that his back end hiccups occasionally as he hurries to catch up to me. He too is older. He’s 10, and I have no idea how achy hips have caught up with him already and where all the time has gone. He shows those 70 dog years on days like this and my heart catches as I see the inevitable before him, before us. Run-down hips got the final say of my sweet Golden Retriever CJ, my dog side-kick of my college years. We were inseparable. CJ was so popular my friends used to borrow her to take her with them on adventures. CJ was one of those once in a lifetime dogs and when her 14th year caught up with her, I knew that the time had come to help her pass with gratitude and grace. I was pregnant with our first son and it seemed such a painful irony that while Pat and I were looking forward to the future, CJ and I were saying goodbye. We were fortunate enough to have a compassionate vet who came to our house out in the middle of an orchard and help her pass on while in my arms, in her home. Writing that tears my heart again the same as it did that day; our hope and excitement for the future as we would welcome our son Max into the world in less than a month competing with a terrible grief and gut-wrench which physically doubled me over as I said goodbye to my loyal friend.

Life. It's not often what we were thinking it would be.

I think about what lies before Kai, what lies before us all, fully cognizant of the knowledge that life is just too often too damn painful.  I remind myself that love is worth the cost. Love is worth the vulnerability that comes with opening your heart knowing that it will suffer bruises and cuts and holes and remind myself that the joy that bubbles through those spaces and courses through your blood is worth any cost.

Seven years and 49 dog years later. Today I remember and honor this unexpected journey of what has felt like a moment, and at the same time, like a lifetime. I experienced my own miracle and today I send up prayers of gratitude and am thankful for the second chance.  In spite of the damage to my spine, in spite of my blown-up L1 vertebrae,  the audacity of neurosurgeons and the love of my family and by the very grace of God I am walking down Buns of Steel hill and heading toward horses that I am fortunate enough to be riding again.

Sometimes love and redemption comes from unexpected places. Rewinding time I would never have imagined the journey before me: a journey of wreck, wonder, and recovery filled with lessons learned from horses, dogs, birds, and even cats. I would never have learned the beauty of brokenness, of how by letting go of my expectations and embracing vulnerability that I would find a new way to live and that new and unexpected life would be so full.  Today as I do my chores with my two dog sidekicks (although it’s much more likely that I am their sidekick and they are the super heroes) I wonder how so much time has passed so very quickly. I feel the time drop through the crevices of my hands just like sand and I remind myself once again to live in this moment.  

Breathe. Treasure. Love.

It’s rare that any of us end up where we thought we would.

Six year old me had confidently declared that grown up me would be a veterinarian, comedian, and a tap dancer. I’m none of those things, even if I do crack myself up on a fairly regular basis. None of us know the day or time we’ll breathe our last breath. Anything can happen on this spinning planet. Can and does. I’ve seen enough to know from my time spent in ICU. But for me, right now, right here, on this day I’m good. This journey has given a day at a time a new meaning, but that’s how I needed to do it. It’s how we all need to do it. I had prayed during my anxious nights and finally one morning I woke with words that the Lord had put on my heart. He uses as few words as possible in conversations with me, probably because He knows that four words is the max I’m able to process. “Today you’re good." Those few words helped me process all the anxiety and fear into one tiny sentence.

Life. It’s not often what we were thinking it would be, but my heart feels raw and wide open to the uncertainty and mystery and the blessing of second chances.  And today, seven years later, I am good.