Helpless, I faced death with one thought spinning around in my head: "Oh dear God, is this how I'm about to meet you?"

The day had begun when I told my ailing husband, Ken, I was going out to fix up Smart Ass's fence. Smart Ass was our 800-pound jack donkey who had recently earned the much coveted National Donkey and Mule "Hall of Fame" award. It was all in a day's work atop our beloved 7,000-square-foot mountain ranch.

Around mid-morning, I drove my ATV out to the west pasture, unchained Smart Ass's gate, and shut it behind me. Smart Ass came over for a rub between his ears and then turned to savor new sprouts of grass.

Then in a flash, the donkey turned, and brutally pinned me to the ground. Only my head and right arm were exposed. I attempted to free my left arm, but his 800 pounds had me trapped. My right forearm was being horribly gnawed, and my endless screaming proved futile.

With all the strength I could muster, I freed my left arm, bellowed in the beast's ear, and pressed a shaky hand against his nostrils to block his air. He didn't like that, and quickly got up, but not before rendering severe damage to my shoulder and neck with his hoof. As suddenly as it all began, it stopped. Our much-treasured stallion walked calmly away to resume his grazing.

Why did he do this? We will never know.

Somehow I got to my feet. Holding the grisly remnants of my right arm close to my midsection, I stumbled toward the gate, opened it, and found the presence of mind to chain it behind me. Realizing there was a fence between me and the animal that I had so loved, a feeling of utter relief swept over me.

I steered the ATV across our huge expanse of yard. With head reeling and knees buckling, I staggered onto our deck and opened the storm door, where I simply ran out of blood and collapsed.

I faintly recall beseeching the orthopedist on call not to take my arm off. If my family hadn't intervened, the surgeon would have amputated at the elbow. About this time, our oldest daughter, Molly, requested a bypass, that is, harvesting a healthy vein from my leg to detour the crush. It's a common procedure, but the doctor vehemently refused.

On the third day, my fingers were losing their color, and my family insisted on a second opinion. The doctor rejected the idea, maintaining he was the best there was. The war was on! One of my concerned nurses called Molly at home and encouraged her to have me transferred, and gave her the names of several arm and hand surgeons at a referral center across the state. My angel made arrangements to have me airlifted. Of course, there had to be one incredible last straw. The local doctor refused the airlift, even though the surgeon at the referral center felt every hour was crucial for a successful outcome. So our son, Tim, turned his SUV into an ambulance, while the rest of my angels comforted me on the ghastly four-hour journey.