In the Arms of Angels

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.

We arrived at Deaconess in Billings, amid a gala open house for their board, patrons, and staff, who were celebrating a beautiful new addition. Stares of disbelief followed our little entourage as my angels rolled my bedraggled remains through the lobby. I was barefoot, and clad in a stained hospital gown and ratty old blanket. A flurry of activity and kindness made me feel so welcome, that I found myself crying while the nurses helped me don a gown more befitting my new environment.

The hand and arm surgeon arrived immediately, examined my arm, and ordered x-rays and plasma. Our daughter, KT, asked about a bypass and he looked stunned. "Of course," he replied, "that's what I do for a living!" He patted her hand reassuringly and rushed off to study x-rays. She smiled for the first time in days. Later that evening, the bypass was performed. Even though some of my fingers had begun to turn black, we all had expectations for a miracle.

Each day, while losing one finger at a time, I assessed my options, feeling that three, or even two fingers, would serve me well, but it wasn't to be. My family stood vigil right up to, and after my arm was at last amputated several inches above the wrist. I think we all knew it was inevitable. Excessive delays caused by the on-call doctor had closed the window of opportunity forever.

I spent a good deal of time grieving my loss, and the things I felt I would never do again: keeping books and typing 120 wpm; my oil paintings and needlework that had garnered "best of show." How was I going to play bridge and pinochle with our regular gang? Would friends be uncomfortable around me? How would my clothes look with a big ol' hook hanging out? What about styling my hair? In the end, all these things proved superficial, because all of a sudden the grandkids were calling me "Granny Hook." I dearly loved it.

*   *   *   *   *

Last year I took hook in hook, so to speak, and painstakingly crocheted several sweaters. Then my neighbor pals took me in tow one day and announced, "Okay, Kath, enough is enough! We're going to play bridge today!" And we did – and I beat their pants off.

I still manage to keep a great house, although many of my culinary concoctions land on the floor. And yes, I cry, for just as I was getting used to my electric arms and hooks, my doctor announced that I have rheumatoid arthritis. Just what I longed to hear! Yet, my strength comes from my angels, feeding my soul on our mountain, and thanking God every day for my life.

*   *   *   *   *

Although the first doctor was found guilty of malpractice and mercifully no longer practices medicine, the jury awarded us nothing. We appealed without success. Thus, we take our lumps in life and go on. I continue to be active in our business, play with and ride our geldings, and I've learned to ride farm and play toys with a left-hand throttle. We talk about Smart Ass often, recalling his glory days and wishing we knew what was going on in his head that ill-fated morning.

Best of all though, this granny, with her numerous prostheses, is a terrific candidate for show-and-tell.

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