Once upon a time . . . The dog fell in the pond.

We usually leave our back door open a little for the dogs, especially if it's one of these days:

It's never been a problem.  We've even accidentally left the side gate open and they just hang around out back, do their business, and then come back in when they're ready.

Last night was different.  As I sat on the couch giving Brian a back rub at about 9:30, I kept hearing the neighbor’s Chihuahuas barking.  This was not unusual.  They’re typically forgotten about for periods of time, despite their little chirps to be let in.  Then Cooper barked a couple of times, his ears perked high.  I realized that Mante wasn’t in the family room with us so I called him.  Sometimes he is known to sneak into a bedroom whose door was left open and chew on unattended underwear. (mm hmm.  yeah.)  Cooper started kind of running around the house like he was looking for something.  We figured that Cooper was worked up about the dogs next door.  Then we realized that Mante wasn’t in the house at all.  Finally, Brain asked Cooper to 'Go find Mante.'  He ran outside, barked from the deck, then came back in and barked at us.  I followed him outside and he kept looking back at me as he ran straight over to the pond.  I called Mante’s name from the deck and heard a tiny yelp.

I realized then that the barking I had been hearing was him.  He had fallen through the ice on our pond and was barely able to paddle anymore (just the black of his little nose was still sticking out).  Our best estimate is that he had been swimming for his life for about five minutes.

I don’t know how, but somehow I ran (yes, ran) down the deck stairs (remember the knee surgery?), across the icy patio, through 2’ of snow to the other side of the pond to fish him out, in my PJs with no shoes.  I fell to the ground and held him for a minute or two screaming for Dave and Brian, then back to the patio when they were able to get me a towel to wrap him in.  He was nearly convulsing he was shaking so bad, and making weird low grunting noises and breathing so fast we could barely decipher one breath from the next.  When he finally started to come around, he couldn’t walk well because his back legs must have been so weak.  Dave took him from me and ran inside.  We went straight to our bathroom, where I got into the tub, clothes and all, with Mante while Dave ran luke warm and then gradually warmer water over him.  After about 15 minutes of that, when his convulsions turned to just a violent shiver, Dave wrapped him in towels, and sat in front of the fireplace with him while I changed out of my now soaking clothes and joined them. Brian was googling hypothermia, running towels and blankets to and from the dryer, and consoling Cooper who was completely distraught. 

We felt so bad that he had been out there crying for help and we weren’t there.  It was horrible.  

But, by about midnight, he was alert, jumping onto and off the couch, and walking normally.  We kept the heater turned up and our bedroom door open all night, just in case.  This morning, he was his usual happy noisy self.  

Cooper was truly a hero last night.  He saved his brother’s life.

I love my doggies.

Cooper the Hero

Mante the Lucky

And then this happened . . .

Someday I will run.  I've always wanted to be a runner.  I've never been a runner.  But I always wanted to be one, so I became one.  Well, I was in the process of becoming one.  And then this happened.

Apparently, as I’d been becoming a runner, I screwed up my knee.  It likely started 18 years ago when Sarah and I were in a car accident (that’s another post).  The short version is that the dashboard ended up in my lap, along with my knees.  My right knee required immediate attention, but the left hung on for nearly two decades before finally snapping (literally) on the treadmill.  The patella femoral cartilage (the cartilage plate behind my kneecap), which had been living happily like a shattered but intact windshield cracked and frayed, sending a few little shards into my knee joint.  It hurt a little.

After two months and two doctors and a sore back and hip from my pronounced limp, I decided to get the advice of a knee specialist, the famed Vernon Cooley (yes, the one who fixed up Tiger Woods).  With an x-ray, a few movements, and lots of kneecap manipulation – which also hurt a little, okay I cried – he gave me the definitive diagnosis – Grade III Patellofemoral Chondrosis.  There would be surgical intervention. 

So, the questions began.  Before or after the holidays?  In Murray or in Park City?  How much time off work?  How much will this cost?  I opted for December 16 in Park City, which was a great choice.  Although far away (especially with no hot coffee to drink on the way there – you know, ‘fast after midnight, yada yada yada’, the hospital was gorgeous.

That’s really the lobby.  I promise.  I felt like I was in a beautiful mountain lodge.  The staff was wonderful, especially the first nurse I saw named Nicole (I’m pretty sure that was her name.  Maybe it was Natalie.  Anyway . . .)  Dr. Cooley was wonderful (of course).  The recovery team was wonderful (I assume – I was asleep after all).  Dave helped me into the car and got me home safely.

(Did I imagine the middle-aged Asian man walking along the side of the road through Parley’s Canyon wearing a trench coat, carrying nothing, with no car in site?  Did I dream that I called 911 while we drove to report his mysterious whereabouts?  Perhaps.)

When we got home, Dave helped me into the house, at which point I realized I was likely going to die from the horrific pain.  After nearly throwing up, nearly passing out, and (thanks to the shock setting in) hopping my way from the back door to the bed, I proceeded to sleep for the next two days.  At least I think I did.  I vaguely remember something about taco soup and Sarah telling me that Gabby was coming to give me plane lessons.  Turns out my neighbor did indeed bring taco soup (which I enjoyed again, a few times, after my drug-induced stupor ended), but Gabby was not coming over – Dave was bring me pain medicine.

I had lots of sleep, lots of love from my two- and four-legged family members (the dogs rarely left my side unless they were kicked out so I could sleep), visits from my mama, huge bandages, get-well cards, calls, and texts, and a round-the-clock ice machine that chugged away non-stop for the first three days.

By mid-day on day two, I felt well enough to hobble around a bit, and actually moved out to the family room and did some online shopping for Christmas.  The plan had been to get EVERYTHING-Christmas done before December 16 and I had mostly succeeded.  However, I still needed to send a box with my bestie’s gift to her house, and order the things I’d had my eye on for my three cute nephews in San Diego.  Turns out, the only thing you should be ordering while in a semi-drug-induced stupor is food and more medicine.  Although I know my BFF’s address by heart, I mailed her present to the wrong house (thankfully she lives in a small town and the mailman got it to the right place).  And I sent my nephews’ gifts to myself.  What?  Yes.  To myself.  **Sigh**  I realized both of these mistakes about a week later and was able to forewarn them.  Shannon’s gift made it to her before the holiday, and my nephews’ gifts made it to me.  (I really need to send those to them!)

One day during my recovery, our power went out.  We’d been warned.  The power company estimated we would see an interruption sometime between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m.  They were sort of right.  We were without any electricity from 8:15 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.  Some interruption!  It was worth it because I got to play Star Trek Monopoly by candlelight with Brian.

I got to take my bandages off after the first 72 hours and have a shower.  Man did that feel good! It’s the swelling – I promise. I’m not usually this fat.  At least, not since I started becoming a runner.

Dr. Cooley was certain I would have a relatively easy recovery.  He estimated I would need three days off work.  Did he know that I’m 44?  Three weeks later I’m finally back at work full-time and feeling every single painful second of it.  I took the first full week off completely.  The second week I managed four hours a day.  My pain meds held out, in fact I didn’t use them all.  I did also have to take blood thinners because of my history of deep vein thrombosis (that’s another post).  The swelling took a lot longer to dissipate than the doctor anticipated, so I was given a lovely compression stocking which I was pretty good about wearing, except when I didn’t want to.  Then I didn’t.

I’m going to physical therapy two or three times a week which usually results in slightly less limping for a few hours, and am pretty good about keeping up with my exercises at home although, admittedly, not as good as I should be.  The physical therapist is very optimistic.  Of course, I told him I originally hurt my knee running on the treadmill.  It was actually during a class in the gym at my office called Treadmill Intervals, which I had fallen in love with after the first session.  I’d hit a plateau with my weight loss (that’s another post), and decided to mix it up a bit.  It worked!  I was losing again, and loving finally being a runner.  Well, finally becoming a runner.  So, when I responded ‘to walk without a limp’ to the ‘What should our physical therapy goal be’ question, he balked.  “No way!  Getting you back to your treadmill class will be our goal.  You loved that class!”  Does he know I’m 44?

Someday I’ll be a runner.  There may have to be a clown with a knife behind me or Johnny Depp standing at the finish line, but someday, I will run.