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Mary meets Candy
HORSE SENSE The publishing company I work for does not deal in shocking stories or astounding revelations. Puget Sound Publishing is a small, family-owned company specializing in community magazines with “good news” stories about schools, volunteerism, and inspiring people. So, I wasn’t prepared for the shock I got when I visited the office last week. Company headquarters are in Renton, Wash. As copy editor, I work over the Internet from my home, 250 miles away. About once a year I drop by the office to maintain human contact. When I arrived I was surprised to see Diana, the publisher, dressed in jeans instead of her usual professional businesswoman attire. She explained that her horse, Candy, has been having some medical problems, causing Diana to check in at the stable a couple times a day. Would you like to go along, she invited. Although the office building is in the center of the city, the stable is only 10 minutes away, thanks to open, rural spaces that dot the otherwise densely congested area. I was introduced to Candy and fed her carrots while Diana tended to her care. I don’t know a lot about horses, but I took riding lessons once and survived a week in the Pasayten Wilderness on horseback. After living for 30 years in the Okanogan, I also know about electric fences. Or thought I did. Since when did they start disguising electric fences to look like the webbing you put on lawn chairs? Trying to be helpful, I picked up the lower part of the gate Diana was closing and yelped, “YEOWWW!” “Are you OK?” she asked, eyes wide. I assured her I was. A few minutes later I realized I was more than OK. I have Reynaud’s Disease, a chronic circulatory affliction. My case is mild – almost insignificant. It affects only the index finger of my left hand. Whenever the hand is cold, the finger becomes numb and white as a corpse. After the electrical shock and despite a cold wind, my problem finger was rosy pink and full of feeling – just like the other nine. I’d experienced a miracle cure! I recalled that physical therapists, for varying reasons and with varying results, had treated both my husband and mother with electrical stimulation, called e-stim. I figured this was like a massive dose of e-stim. I returned to the chilly Okanogan, rejoicing in the absence of Reynaud. Until today. My index finger is once again white as a corpse. Darn. The impact of the shock turned out not to be permanent. It was so nice while it lasted. I could go to the clinic and ask for a referral for e-stim, probably undergo a battery of diagnostic tests, and then mess around with insurance claims. Or, I could make a list of friends who have horses. There are plenty enough so I could visit one a week until the weather warms up. “OH!” I’ll say. “I didn’t realize your fence was turned on.” And go home smiling.
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