there are many factors that go into making a photograph successful. The background, focus, exposure, lighting, and of course, the subject. So when I look at pictures of me and barely recognize myself, I wonder if this is how I always look to the outside world, or if one of the key elements is off. I pondered this as I looked into my bathroom mirror, and noticed a blemish. At first, I tried to wipe it off my cheek, but it didn't budge. I added water, even a little soap. Still there. I squinted, getting closer to the mirror. At that point I realized- the spot was on the mirror, not on me.
I looked before my own image at the mirror itself. How long has it been since I cleaned it? I grabbed the paper towels and lavender scented bathroom cleaner. Spritz, and wipe, gentle circles, until all the spots are all gone. The smooth, fragile surface now captured the light beaming in through the bathroom window. I could see myself. Every freckle, wrinkle, imperfection. So this is what I look like, my true self. Perhaps it is closer to how the rest of the world sees me. But in the sunlight, smiling, with lavender lingering in the air- is the version of me I like best.
Sunday, March 18, 2018
Saturday, November 26, 2016
what was the worst part? (Ithaca part II)
If that wasn't the worst part, then what was?
It was the next morning, taking care of only two instead of the three that I was used to.
It's his empty food dish.
It was the stall in the corner that there's no rush to finish now.
It's the pile of blankets and tack that only fit him.
It's knowing that I won't have to worry about hay this year since I will only have to feed 2.
It's the look on my 31 year old horse's face when he slowly, sadly, looks around for his buddy that will not be returning.
It was the texts and emails I sent out the next day to notify Bandit's friends that he was no longer with us. Even though I sent the same message, save a few tweaks, to each person, each time I hit "send" and received a reply. He had a lot of his own friends (maybe more than I do?) that I wanted to hear the news directly from me. Each conversation brought the raw emotions back, experiencing the pain over and over again.
It's the bruise on my left thigh from his front hoof. He would never kick me on purpose, but he heard the animals in the next corridor being fed and knew he was missing dinner, so he absentmindedly struck out towards the stall door. (Normally equines don't feel like eating when they are this sick, but the wonderful pain medication allowed him to forget the discomfort and for a moment, feel hungry). He has always had poor depth perception, due to the blindness in his right eye, so the hoof hit my leg instead of the stall. It hurt a lot. Each time I rested my hand in my lap or brushed something against my leg, I felt it. The pain lasted almost a week; the purple mark is still there.
It was the phone call the following Monday from the attending veterinarian on his case. She was calling to tell me the results of the teaching necropsy, which I had requested, to have some closure. Once I answered the call from a restricted number and heard her voice, my fantasy world came crashing down. They did not decide to save him. I did not leave him at Cornell to live a better life. He was gone, forever, and they cut into his body to find out exactly what killed him. Though I wasn't really absorbing the information, I do remember her saying part of the small intestine was hung up inside his abdominal cavity. It would not have resolved without surgical intervention, I made the right decision. That helped a little.
I wanted to ask if he went peacefully. I wanted to see if they took him outside past the very young calf who was crying when we went for a walk earlier. This calf scared my big, brave boy. I wanted to warn them that he was afraid of the baby, who was lonely and crying for company. If they had to walk him past the calf, hold on tight. I didn't ask though, as it wouldn't matter now.
It was a strange, white, bubble wrapped package that appeared in the mail a couple days later. The return address label was from Cornell. I wondered what I had left there that they felt the need to mail back to me. My husband opened it; a braid of his hair tied at both ends with ribbons. I have yet to touch it; it's on the table next to the place where my dog's ashes (she passed away almost two months ago) sat in an engraved wooden box, in a fancy paper bag, up until a few days ago, when I finally got up the courage to move it to a shelf.
It is all the reminders and memories that will not go away. The anniversary of when we adopted him ( 3 years ago next month), the vet bills for the services of those that worked so hard to save him. The fact that a donation was placed in the name of my late beagle mix, Libby, to Cornell Veterinary Hospital, and we received the card to thank us in the mail less than a week prior to experiencing their services in person. The condolences and sharing from those that knew him. The pictures and memories that will pop up from time to time. It is knowing I will never hear his unique "fog horn" mule bray again. The fact that no other creature on four legs will have such a sweet disposition and loving personality. It's realizing that Bandit the Mule is gone.
It was the next morning, taking care of only two instead of the three that I was used to.
It's his empty food dish.
It was the stall in the corner that there's no rush to finish now.
It's the pile of blankets and tack that only fit him.
It's knowing that I won't have to worry about hay this year since I will only have to feed 2.
It's the look on my 31 year old horse's face when he slowly, sadly, looks around for his buddy that will not be returning.
It was the texts and emails I sent out the next day to notify Bandit's friends that he was no longer with us. Even though I sent the same message, save a few tweaks, to each person, each time I hit "send" and received a reply. He had a lot of his own friends (maybe more than I do?) that I wanted to hear the news directly from me. Each conversation brought the raw emotions back, experiencing the pain over and over again.
It's the bruise on my left thigh from his front hoof. He would never kick me on purpose, but he heard the animals in the next corridor being fed and knew he was missing dinner, so he absentmindedly struck out towards the stall door. (Normally equines don't feel like eating when they are this sick, but the wonderful pain medication allowed him to forget the discomfort and for a moment, feel hungry). He has always had poor depth perception, due to the blindness in his right eye, so the hoof hit my leg instead of the stall. It hurt a lot. Each time I rested my hand in my lap or brushed something against my leg, I felt it. The pain lasted almost a week; the purple mark is still there.
It was the phone call the following Monday from the attending veterinarian on his case. She was calling to tell me the results of the teaching necropsy, which I had requested, to have some closure. Once I answered the call from a restricted number and heard her voice, my fantasy world came crashing down. They did not decide to save him. I did not leave him at Cornell to live a better life. He was gone, forever, and they cut into his body to find out exactly what killed him. Though I wasn't really absorbing the information, I do remember her saying part of the small intestine was hung up inside his abdominal cavity. It would not have resolved without surgical intervention, I made the right decision. That helped a little.
I wanted to ask if he went peacefully. I wanted to see if they took him outside past the very young calf who was crying when we went for a walk earlier. This calf scared my big, brave boy. I wanted to warn them that he was afraid of the baby, who was lonely and crying for company. If they had to walk him past the calf, hold on tight. I didn't ask though, as it wouldn't matter now.
It was a strange, white, bubble wrapped package that appeared in the mail a couple days later. The return address label was from Cornell. I wondered what I had left there that they felt the need to mail back to me. My husband opened it; a braid of his hair tied at both ends with ribbons. I have yet to touch it; it's on the table next to the place where my dog's ashes (she passed away almost two months ago) sat in an engraved wooden box, in a fancy paper bag, up until a few days ago, when I finally got up the courage to move it to a shelf.
It is all the reminders and memories that will not go away. The anniversary of when we adopted him ( 3 years ago next month), the vet bills for the services of those that worked so hard to save him. The fact that a donation was placed in the name of my late beagle mix, Libby, to Cornell Veterinary Hospital, and we received the card to thank us in the mail less than a week prior to experiencing their services in person. The condolences and sharing from those that knew him. The pictures and memories that will pop up from time to time. It is knowing I will never hear his unique "fog horn" mule bray again. The fact that no other creature on four legs will have such a sweet disposition and loving personality. It's realizing that Bandit the Mule is gone.
Friday, November 18, 2016
Ithaca
I went to Ithaca for the first time this week. I'm not sure I liked it. I don't know if I'll go back. It's not that it was an unpleasant city. The scenery was very nice. There was a health food store, I'm sure I would've enjoyed it if I had a chance to shop there. Maybe it was the roads. They were narrow with a lot of on street parking, so it was difficult to navigate. The crosswalks were raised a foot or so above street level and covered in red bricks. Aesthetically pleasing, but poses a challenge when you aren't sure where you are going, but need to slow down for each of these beautiful speed bumps while watching traffic,trying to read street signs, and listening intently to the directions from your navigation app. The speed bumps also made it difficult to regulate braking an old truck whose muffler has come loose (not yet dragging, but definitely disconnected by the noise it make each time I accelerated) and the precious cargo being carried behind the truck. Each time I had to slow down for a crosswalk or stop for a red light, I anxiously glanced to my rear view mirror to see if a glimpse of a brown, fuzzy nose, or the red tie rope would be visible. That way I would know he's still upright, still with me. The window into the trailer wasn't very big and the lighting was not great, but when the sunlight hit it at the right angle, I could see him. I knew at that moment, my big guy was back there.
Maybe it was the hills. exhilarating in a small car, motorcycle, or even on foot, but in an old truck with negotiable brakes, not a thing to look forward to. I thought of the races in Ithaca; lots of elevation changes, tough on the quads or whatever muscle group one would try to recruit. Still, I would prefer that over a white knuckle grip on a steering wheel as I hold my breath and pray that my brakes and my mule hold up until I reach my destination, which GPS says will be in five minutes.
Maybe it was the college campus. I had never been to Cornell, so didn't quite know what to expect. I called the friendly person at the front desk, who gave directions that I couldn't write down because I was driving, and couldn't remember because my mind would not absorb any new information at the moment. So I once again relied on a vague navigational tool as I searched for the North end of the campus. For those who come here on a regular basis, either the students or faculty, I'm sure the rolling hills and frequent crosswalks make getting to class an enjoyable experience. But stopping on a near 45 degree angle while students saunter through the well-marked crosswalks, wishing that my brakes and muffler hold out until I figure out which of these buildings I should be turning into, is not the ideal ivy league experience.
Maybe it was the night life. And by night life, of course, I mean the way 6 p.m. felt like midnight because I had been driving and on my feet all day and had eaten and gone to the bathroom exactly once since 7:30 a.m. The way it was raining and made it that much more difficult to see the people in the bumpy crosswalks who didn't wear any reflective gear or lights, even though they were walking around in dark clothing with patchy street light coverage, but still expected a rusty old truck whose muffler now rested in the bed, towing an empty horse trailer, to stop at every crosswalk. How is a motorist supposed to see these people? With the darkness and rain, and eyes burning from tears that started and stopped at a moment's notice, and three-way stops with blind curves and on a hill in a truck with questionable brakes, a trailer whose brake lights may or may not work. An empty trailer. Somewhere deep inside, I suspected I would bring this trailer home empty. I wanted him to make it so badly. My vet gave me a glimpse of hope; sometimes these things will resolve on the ride down. The movement and bumps will help get things back to where they're supposed to be. You have 2 hours, it could happen. When the team of Veterinarians and veterinary students rush out to meet you and usher in your very ill mule, they may find that things are back to normal, and you can turn around and head home. Or, they have the resources and equipment to monitor him and diagnose exactly what is wrong. They can make him comfortable and figure out the best course of action. Yes it is not cheap, but at least you will know for sure. But that wasn't the worst part. Saying goodbye wasn't even the worst part. We had decided we were going to say goodbye and leave. We didn't want to witness his last breath; it is not easy with horses. They are standing and breathing, then they are not. We were able to donate him to the students and curriculum. I am an organ donor and believe in allowing others to study and learn, I'm sure Bandit would be okay with this too. Walking away was easy. The pain medications were at full force so he just stood in his stall and watched us leave. He looked so normal. My mind wanted to pretend that once we left, they would decide to fix him and he would live a long life as the Cornell Veterinary Medicine mascot. I know this didn't happen; his main veterinarian told me it was the right thing to do. She said she or any of the vets there would make the same decision for an animal his age. The surgery would have been painful and most likely not worth it. This was comforting.
So we left Ithaca, with a noisy old truck and empty trailer, and started the uneventful ride home. The navigator took us next to a couple of the finger lakes, along a wine trail, that I'm sure is beautiful in the sunshine and daylight. Maybe I will come back and see these places again. Maybe I will give Ithaca another chance. It can't be all bad.
Maybe it was the hills. exhilarating in a small car, motorcycle, or even on foot, but in an old truck with negotiable brakes, not a thing to look forward to. I thought of the races in Ithaca; lots of elevation changes, tough on the quads or whatever muscle group one would try to recruit. Still, I would prefer that over a white knuckle grip on a steering wheel as I hold my breath and pray that my brakes and my mule hold up until I reach my destination, which GPS says will be in five minutes.
Maybe it was the college campus. I had never been to Cornell, so didn't quite know what to expect. I called the friendly person at the front desk, who gave directions that I couldn't write down because I was driving, and couldn't remember because my mind would not absorb any new information at the moment. So I once again relied on a vague navigational tool as I searched for the North end of the campus. For those who come here on a regular basis, either the students or faculty, I'm sure the rolling hills and frequent crosswalks make getting to class an enjoyable experience. But stopping on a near 45 degree angle while students saunter through the well-marked crosswalks, wishing that my brakes and muffler hold out until I figure out which of these buildings I should be turning into, is not the ideal ivy league experience.
Maybe it was the night life. And by night life, of course, I mean the way 6 p.m. felt like midnight because I had been driving and on my feet all day and had eaten and gone to the bathroom exactly once since 7:30 a.m. The way it was raining and made it that much more difficult to see the people in the bumpy crosswalks who didn't wear any reflective gear or lights, even though they were walking around in dark clothing with patchy street light coverage, but still expected a rusty old truck whose muffler now rested in the bed, towing an empty horse trailer, to stop at every crosswalk. How is a motorist supposed to see these people? With the darkness and rain, and eyes burning from tears that started and stopped at a moment's notice, and three-way stops with blind curves and on a hill in a truck with questionable brakes, a trailer whose brake lights may or may not work. An empty trailer. Somewhere deep inside, I suspected I would bring this trailer home empty. I wanted him to make it so badly. My vet gave me a glimpse of hope; sometimes these things will resolve on the ride down. The movement and bumps will help get things back to where they're supposed to be. You have 2 hours, it could happen. When the team of Veterinarians and veterinary students rush out to meet you and usher in your very ill mule, they may find that things are back to normal, and you can turn around and head home. Or, they have the resources and equipment to monitor him and diagnose exactly what is wrong. They can make him comfortable and figure out the best course of action. Yes it is not cheap, but at least you will know for sure. But that wasn't the worst part. Saying goodbye wasn't even the worst part. We had decided we were going to say goodbye and leave. We didn't want to witness his last breath; it is not easy with horses. They are standing and breathing, then they are not. We were able to donate him to the students and curriculum. I am an organ donor and believe in allowing others to study and learn, I'm sure Bandit would be okay with this too. Walking away was easy. The pain medications were at full force so he just stood in his stall and watched us leave. He looked so normal. My mind wanted to pretend that once we left, they would decide to fix him and he would live a long life as the Cornell Veterinary Medicine mascot. I know this didn't happen; his main veterinarian told me it was the right thing to do. She said she or any of the vets there would make the same decision for an animal his age. The surgery would have been painful and most likely not worth it. This was comforting.
So we left Ithaca, with a noisy old truck and empty trailer, and started the uneventful ride home. The navigator took us next to a couple of the finger lakes, along a wine trail, that I'm sure is beautiful in the sunshine and daylight. Maybe I will come back and see these places again. Maybe I will give Ithaca another chance. It can't be all bad.
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