Catching up with old, fuzzy Friends

Good evening everyone!

      Today was a good day.  There was intermittent pain, but it was one of the best days I've had for a while. I was asked to run the morning routine at a non-profit barn where I have been a volunteer for six years. This meant getting up hours earlier than normal (well, at least for Christmas break it was hours early!!), bundling up against the sunless cold, and working my butt of for over 2 hours without compensation.  ...and I wouldn't trade it for the world.  The horses who live there are old, semi-retired schoolmasters, and the most understanding souls I've ever come across.  After spending most of this past summer with them, they think that I myself am a strange biped equine!

      Horses remember everything.  When it comes to people, they never forget the hands that helped them into the world, that buckled on that first halter, that feed them every day, that heal their wounds, that clean their coats, that rub their heads, that sneak them treats, and that pat them affirmingly after a hard day's work.  Each of the nine horses I took care of this morning treated me as if I'd never left for school three months ago. Like continuing a paused conversation, we fell in stride together and picked up where we had left off.  I make a point of always talking to horses like they speak English. From how the respond to me, you'd thing they'd heard every word I'd said.

       Needless to say, these horses have touched me very deeply.  When my symptoms first appeared this past summer, the horses could tell.  They would see me weary and tired, look me in the eye, then slow down to match my pace.  When my hands hurt from the arthritis, I'd stretch them around a horses curved barrel and let the soft heat saturate my being. When I was distraught about my broken state, the horses would let me clutch a handful of mane and bury my face in their necks. One very special horse would turn around to check on me as I wet his coat with my tears.  I could gawk for another 200 pages about that "special bond" between humans and horses, but I think I've made my point.  

Two friends saying "Hello"

     One of these horses, "Dancer," was very lame all summer.  He had a serious history or laminitis and had foundered before, but this round was worse than the others.  He could barely walk at times from the pain in his feet, so he was put on stall rest with thick bedding to cushion his tender hooves.  I was constantly going to the barn to check on Dancer, clean his stall, change out his water, medicate him, and keeping him comfortable as he healed.  He was my healing partner: taking excellent care of him in his weakness reminded me to take care of myself in my weakness.  Truth be told, we were actually taking care of each other.  I received a letter from the stables last week, informing me that Dancer had suffered another round of laminitis and had to be put down.  It was the wise and merciful thing to do, but the barn wasn't quite the same this morning when his fuzzy brown head topped with an ebony mane didn't appear over his stall door.

"Something's Not Right"

Dear ones, I see now that it is unfair for me to go ranting about the questions you ask when you are probably chuck full of real, meaningful questions.  Allow me to answer some of them in a prologue to this web-log. ... hehe that rhymed!

Sometime at the end of spring 2011...

 I had just gotten settled back at home after three weeks of running around (beach, cousins graduation, etc.) when I came down with a server sinus infection.  A hearty dose of antibiotics cleared up my airways quite nicely, but I was still constantly drained and unusually fatigued.  I wanted to blame it on the recent travels, or the fact that I was out of shape, so I did.  After a while, I started noticing my knees and feet were hurting more than usual.  It's probably just the family curse of bad joints getting to me, I thought, so I ignored it.  At the beginning of June, my mother finally looked at me and said "Mel, this isn't you. Something's not right."
     That's when I started to get concerned.  After several Web MD searches and consulting with some close friends, we had several running theories on what it could be.  My aunt said it was a thyroid imbalance, my mom swore it was Mono, and lots of people speculated....
"Could it be family joint issues and a summer flue?" 
 "You're probably anemic - do you eat enough red meat?"
 "Stay hydrated.  It's so hot out, you might have an electrolyte imbalance - I'll that's what's causing your fatigue." 


     Trying to stay positive, I tried some non-medical remedies in case it was something above - I switched to an all-natural high-protein high-complex carb diet..  No change.  I still woke up every morning exhausted and aching.  Perseverance and sheer determination can only get you so far when you're physically falling apart from the inside out, so I gave in and made an appointment with the family physician.
   The physician wanted to pin my symptoms on family history (joints) and depression (fatigue) but decided to order a gazillion blood test, just to be sure.  After 9 days of anxious anticipation,  they called with lackluster results.  Thyroid, electrolyte, anemia, kidney, liver, blood sugar, arthritis tracers, and Lyme's - they ALL came back either negative or normal, respectively.  So, there's nothing biologically wrong with me? ... What...? But why am I in so much pain?  That's when the real fear set it....  Has it been psychological this whole time?


     Thank God for my Mother.  She knows me.  She knows when I hurt, when I'm sad, and the difference between the two.  She made dozens of phone calls to specialists in the area (arthritis, Lyme's, alternative Dr.s) and harassed our family practitioner for references until she got me an appointment with an infectious disease specialist for mid August.  The specialist treated me differently.  He saw me and heard me.  Looking me in the eye, he told me that everything was going to be ok.  My soul breathed a sigh of relief - no one had said that to me before.  Everyone else around me had been just as filled with quivering uncertainty as I was... or didn't take me seriously (but that's a rant for another time).
 (Note: this part should be read out loud with an Indian accent while bobbling the head for the full experience)
     He said that what I had was "probably one of the two dozen or so diseases carried by the tick - most of which are undetectable by our testing methods - all of which are curable with the right treatment. We will put you on 30 days of heavy antibiotics.  If it's Lyme's (or something tick-born) then you will feel worse before you get better.  If your symptoms persist, come see me again, if not, don't bother.  You will be fine."

I have never been happier to receive a diagnosis in my whole entire life.  I'm not depressed after all - I'm just sick- HOORAY!  I cried tears of joy as I left the doctors office.  Its times like this when a label is the most liberating gift one could be given.

I took the blue pills, felt worse, felt better, and left for college.
I thought that this was the end of the story.  But I was wrong. It would be three months before I realized that this was only the beginning.

*TO BE CONTINUED*
wow, sorry for the oober long post, y'all!  :-P