Don't Poke the One-Eyed Pony

My search for the perfect pony has come to an end. An end that required emergency hand surgery.

yes, I found the perfect pony. A 23 year old therapy pony that is so safe retarded kids can ride it. Kids without any legs can ride this pony. Me? No.

I bring the pony down from Northern Calif because it's cheaper to do this than buy a crappy local pony. (all the ones we had seen looked like they had had a box of fireworks exploded in their faces and were permanently psychologically deranged.) Hey pardon my typing errors, but it's one-handed.

So the pony gets here and I hand over a week of grocery money to the hauler guy. Retarded kid pony is here. She only has one eye. Lost the other one in a shipboard pirate battle where it was gouged out by arch nemisis pony and plopped overboard. Or she ran into a stick.

So I know the kids will want to take her out when they get home so after I get the baby to bed, I sneak out to take her on a short bareback trail test ride. She's nice and comfy, a thick dorm couch. I'm cautious, as with any new horse, but she seems fine. Bored, even. That's it, I decide, only these kind of ponies forever for me and the kids.

I head back home and when we're almost there, I decide, well, I'll try to canter her and see how she does. They did it on the video I saw of her, I'm sure she'll be fine. Uhh. $5000 mistake. ch ching.

I kick and the horse trots but nothing else. I reach back and poke her on the right side of her butt, to hurry her up. The blind side.

I don't know what's happening. The world has gone into slow motion, everything around me turning liquidy and surreal like David Lynch movies. I'm on a carnival ride, but not the fun kind. This is what loss of control feels like. The horse is bucking, violently. There is no way I'm going to be able to hold on. I fly over her head and land flat on my back.

I hear wheezing. That's me, I think. I can't breathe. Oh my God. My brain is scurrying ahead, it's okay, you lost your breath, you're not dying, just breathe, it'll come back. Wait. Wait. I sit up on my side. The ground is HARD, man, not bouncy like in the movies.

My breath comes back slowly, and I have to move. The pony is heading back to the house riderless. I see her ambling along. I stagger up. I'm done with ponies, I say.

As I walk, I look down at my left hand. My middle 2 fingers seem to be stuck together. Hmm. That looks like it's gonna hurt later.

I get the pony in, and put away. I walk into the house dejected that I've brought yet another terrible animal into the fold. I pass right by Barry in the office because I'm so disappointed, shaken and upset, I don't want him to get upset and be mad. He thinks I'm nuts anyway.

I lay down with the napping baby. If I had just stayed here... why am I trying to be somewhere else? I was trying to add an element of fun and relaxation into the house and here's what I've done.

My hand is definitely not right. Hurting and swelling. I have to go tell Barry. I have to face my huge error.

We try to go get it fixed at the free clinic, but the line is out the building and around the block. Looks like the DMV or the airport.

We end up in some tall black doctor hand surgeon's office where I see my xrayed broken bone sticking off and he says the words "pins" and "surgery" and suddenly I'm crying. I'm also fairly sure I've seen him on "ER."

I sit in the hallway crying while Barry goes to empty our bank account to pay for this surgery.

Then it's Friday night and I'm in what I'm sure is the abortion clinic, right off a busy street in Glendale, where people whiz by in cars going to the mall and having arguments about dinner, and they're wheeling me into a white room with people I don't know, who have knives. To use on me.

I wake up with a big cast. The guy next to me, named Sunday, cut off the top of his finger on a toilet lid. He didn't get his finger back. I look at my three whole kids who crowd me and my giant hard arm, and that husband who is always there for me. Even when I am lost. I remember what I felt when I lay here for hours before they took me into surgery.

I'm lucky. I'm here.