Don't Break the Elastic!

My good friend sent me such a great email about the poet Maya Angelou that I'm posting it here instead of writing today. It's an interesting read and I hope you get as much from it as I did.

Don't Break the Elastic!

On her 70+ birthday in April, Maya Angelou was interviewed by Oprah. She was asked what she thought of growing older. She said it was exciting and that she'd learned a lot of important things.

I've learned no matter what happens or how bad it seems today, life does go on and it will be better tomorrow.

I've learned you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage and tangled Christmas tree lights.

I've learned regardless of your relationship with your parents, you'll miss them when they're gone from your life.

I've learned making a living is not the same thing as making a life.

I've learned life sometimes gives you a second chance.

I've learned you shouldn't go through life with a catcher's mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw some things back.

I've learned whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision.

I've learned even when I have pains, I don't have to be one.

I've learned every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back.

I've learned I still have a lot to learn.

I've learned people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

If you do something good today, something good will happen.

If you don't, the elastic will break and your underpants will fall down around your ankles!

I decided I didn't need to take any chances on MY elastic breaking! I put this on my blog for everyone to read!

It's a Good Day When You Can Help Someone

I took my husband's parents, Mom and Dad, out to two banks, to the hospital to get yarn so Mom can make baby hats, booties and blankets for the babies in the hospital and to Walmart. It was a fun day.

Both Dan's parents are in their 90's. They are sharp, funny and like to get out and around but they don't drive any more. They call and let me know when they have some things to do and I take them wherever they need to go.

It's a good feeling being able to help out when people need you.

February 21, 2010

Today was a sobering day. I drove out of the Farms and headed into town. I like going down the farthest road west because it is so quiet and pretty. Everything was fine until I came to Indiantown Road. There had been an accident. It was a motorcycle/vehicle accident. I had to pull over because there was no way to get around all the cars. A motorcyclist was laying beside the road and people were working on him, doing CPR.

I realized I had a sheet in my car and grabbed it, thinking that if the man was in shock, he needed to be kept warm. As I walked up, I asked other people to step back so the men had room to do what they were doing. I covered the man with my sheet and stood back out of the way. Some people were directing traffic, others, concerned, were asking what they could do. Several 911 calls had been made and within five minutes a sheriff appeared. Right behind him, we could all hear the sirens coming.

When the paramedics arrived, there was nothing that could be done for the man. He was gone. All the people there were visibly and deeply upset.

The officers and firemen put up crime scene tape and the rest of us backed our vehicles up and moved out of the way, finding our way out on another street.

I felt so sad that on such a beautiful Sunday, this man had gone out to enjoy the day and was now dead. My husband Dan is a motorcyclist. It made me think about his safety. He has ridden most of his adult life and has been in every state, including Hawaii on a motorcycle. But it just doesn't seem safe here any more.

Back on Indiantown Road, I drove into town to pick up my mail and run some errands, still thinking about the accident scene I had just left. I also began to think about the letter that waited for me in my post office box.

For several months, I had been communicating with an adoption agency in Jacksonville, FL. I was adopted as an infant and my mother had given me my adoption papers a long time ago. She was always OK with the possibility that I might want to find out about my birth mother but, for some reason, I never did.

After my Mom died in October, I started thinking about looking into it and wrote an email to a wonderful lady who helped me by doing tons of research. Waiting at my post office box was a letter she had written me providing the "non-identifying" adoption information I had been waiting for.

I opened the envelope and read her cover letter. I decided I would go to one of my favorite breakfast places and, while waiting for my order, I read about the people who were related to me by blood.

It was a curious sensation. I read about my mother, my father, my grandmother, my older sister, aunt, uncle, grandfather and great grandparents. There were general descriptions of height, weight, eye and hair color and some of the things they liked or were important to them. It was like discovering a new planet.

When you are adopted, you always feel you don't really know who you are. I had great, loving parents, grandparents and a wonderful adopted brother. But there were deep personal questions, a haunting mystery I had always wanted to pursue. Today, I received the first clues to that mystery. I discovered I have family that I never knew. I want to find anyone I can locate. I want to meet them, talk to them, learn all about them and hug them. It is now my personal goal, my mission, my quest. Today was a sobering day.

Later, on my way home, my brother David called me. For more than four months, we have been living through all the complications and intricacies a parent's death involves. This has included attorneys, trustees, trusts, wills, putting our childhood home up for sale and all the minutiae that entails. It has been a long, difficult and emotional journey.

My brother was checking in, giving me an update on what was happening with the trustee while I updated him on the (non) sale of the house. As he said goodbye, he mentioned that today was the fifth anniversary of his accident. I felt embarrassed because I had not remembered. We always say "I love you," when we say goodbye on the phone. We are the only ones left now of our immediate family and we are close. After I hung up, I thought back  to what had happened five years ago. 

I remember driving for 13 hours to Winston-Salem, North Carolina's Wake Forest University Baptist Medical Center. My brother had been taken there after he fell three stories at a construction site. David's mother-in-law had called me to ask me to come to the hospital because the doctors didn't know if he would live or die.

On the second day after his accident, David was placed in an induced coma because, when he was conscious, he would thrash around and become agitated. His spinal column had been severed. The next day at noon, after I had seen David for the first time, the doctors told David's wife, Christy and I that they wouldn't know anything for sure for two days. We were only allowed to visit in ICU for 15 minutes every four hours. It was the most difficult two days I've ever experienced. Christy and my brother have a beautiful, two year-old daughter, Ellie. Christy's family and friends were at the hospital the entire time, supporting her or babysitting Ellie while Christy stayed near the hospital. Boone, their home, was more than an hour and a half from the hospital.

Christy and I stayed at the same hotel. We slept there and spent most of each day at the hospital for 9 days. At the end of the two days, the doctors told us they held some hope David would recover but he would be a paraplegic. We concentrated on the first part, the part about recovering. Later the reality of what being a paraplegic meant would eventually sink in for all of us.

On the tenth day, I had to go home. I never saw my brother conscious or was able to talk to him the entire time I was there. Christy kept me up to date by phone. We didn't tell my mother until we could give her the good news that David would most likely recover. It was difficult for me to tell her over the phone but she handled it well. She was not able to travel and it was very hard for her to sit at home in Florida wondering what was going on with her son.

My brother did recover. He learned to manage his handicap, drive again and helped take care of his daughter while Christy worked. My brother is a fine man who has accepted what life has given him and made it work. It has been tough on him, his marriage and his world but he gets up and lives every day the very best he can. I am immensely proud of him and privileged to be his sister.

Sobering is an appropriate word for a day in which I witnessed a death, gained new insight into who I am and remembered the anniversary of my brother's most devastating, life-changing event. Lots of prayers will be said tonight. Some of them will be for a man I don't even know and my new family people I have never met. But my fondest prayers will be for the bravest man I know, my brother David.

Stella, Queen Corgi Mix

Stella was born in April, 2000. She had a brother named Riley. The two puppies were adopted from a feed store in Palatka, FL by two of my dearest friends, Adele and Stacy. One weekend in May when I went up to Salt Springs to visit them, they showed me the two puppies and I fell in love with both of them. Riley was my favorite but he had already been spoken for by Stacey's son, Chase. The other pup, a female, didn't have a name. I asked why they had gotten two puppies and they told me one was for me.

I was scheduled for breast cancer surgery that June and the last thing I thought I needed was a puppy. Having just gone through a difficult puppyhood with Chaos, my wolf-hybrid who was just starting to become a well-behaved one year-old, the thought of housebreaking another puppy while recovering from a mastectomy and possibly more chemotherapy did not excite me. But over the weekend, I couldn't help but fall in love with the pup. I told my friends I would take her home with me and bring her back two weeks later. I knew she needed to be wormed and given her first shots and wanted to help them out because they needed to do the same with Riley and money was tight.

That is how the little Corgi-Sheltie mix puppy came into my life. On my way home, with the pup on the front seat next to me, wrapped up in a borrowed blanket and sound asleep, I decided she needed a name. That was my first mistake. When you actually name an animal you are officially responsible for them for the rest of their life. At least that's the way I believe it should be. As Saint Exupery said in The Little Prince, "You become responsible forever, for what you have tamed."

So I thought about my friends, who had decided I needed a puppy while I was recovering and realized the perfect name for her would be Stella, a combination of Stacey and Adele's names. Now that she had a name, I tried to figure out some way to tell my husband we had a new puppy. I knew that would not be as easy naming her!

When I arrived home, I told him Stella was just going to stay with us for a few weeks until I had to go back up to Salt Springs for an awards banquet. The poor puppy needed to see a vet and I thought I'd help the girls out by getting her first shots and having her wormed.

For my last selling point, I suggested it would take my mind off the upcoming surgery at the end of June. Dan is pretty easy when it comes to animals. That's a good thing because, over the years, I have brought a lot of animals home to live with us. He told me it was fine as long as I was going to take Stella back in two weeks.

I figured by the end of two weeks, Dan would be as in love with Stella as I was. And I wasn't Stella's only fan. Chaos was thrilled to have someone to play with her. At one year, Chaos was pretty big even though it would take her another two years to fully mature. Stella was small and Chaos towered over her, but she was one tough puppy.

Whenever Chaos got too rough with her, Stella would grab a mouthful of Chaos' neck fur and just hold on. Chaos never hurt her but she spun her around quite a bit. Stella was tenacious and brave. She never let go. They were instant pals.

Stella did go to the awards banquet with me but she also came back home to live with us permanently. Dan softened a bit toward the end, constantly asking if I was still taking the puppy back until the day I was scheduled to leave.

"I'm taking her up to Salt Springs but I'm bringing her back," I told him. "The girls want to see her and I want her to go with me. But I'm going to keep her. Chaos loves her and so do you!"

Dan just nodded. He had known all along this was going to happen and secretly thought Stella was great. He just never made it easy for me.

After the surgery, I found out why my friends had insisted I needed a puppy. She really did help me recover faster. I had responsibility plus I had a pal to lounge around with until I felt better. The most interesting thing I learned about Stella during my recovery was that she was a true nurse dog.

Some dogs take care of other dogs but they take care of people too. If there was any unusual sound out of me, Stella was there in an instant, checking up on me and making sure I was OK. She did this from a very early age and has been my nurse for her whole life.

I've had several surgeries since then and Stella always took care of me. Any time I was recovering or sick, I became her number one priority. She takes her job very seriously to this day.

If I'm cheering at some athlete's win or catching my breath at a terrible skiing fall while watching the Olympics, Stella's head comes up and she looks anxiously in my direction. She's still taking care of me. 

Stella is the only dog I've ever had I didn't choose myself. Although I didn't know it at the time, Stacey and Adele knew that little puppy was exactly what I needed. I will always be grateful for their intuitive and loving gift.

I have to go now because it's time for bed. Stella is a little older now and she likes to get her beauty sleep!

(This story is in memory of Riley, who was not fortunate enough to have as long a life as Stella. We all miss his wisdom and his kindness.)


Photo Credits:
Stella and Carol by Stacy and Adele
Stella cruising the Keys in her Boston Whaler by Carol Clark

My Family: "The Boys"

I live with three Arabian geldings. Two geldings are full brothers born on my property with me as the hovering and unnecessary midwife. They are Danzarr Moon, first born and a beautiful bay. He is silly, scared most of the time at his own shadow, but a multi-champion long distance horse who has competed in six 3-day 100 mile rides and even was reserve champion on one of them. He's also won championships at other mileages. He's tireless and brave everywhere but in his own backyard.

The second born is Merlyn's Moon, a beautiful chestnut. He is the image of his father, Crimson Zarr, owned by a dear friend and both of the boys' godmother, Eileen Cornwell. Merlyn is stocky and brave. Nothing phases him. As no two children are alike, no horses are alike either, even if they are full blooded brothers. Merlyn has gone on a 50 mile riding adventure but has not yet done any long distance competition which is sort of my fault. I'm a bit of a chicken at my age and he's so powerful and strong, he intimidates me. I have ridden him but not a lot. But then, when a horse is as beautiful as he is, it is often enough just to stand and watch him charge across a pasture racing toward you at a dead run, putting the breaks on, rearing straight up and coming down in front of you, never once touching you except with a little flying dirt. He's all actor! (Runs in the family!)

The patriarch of this herd is Gandolf. Notice that wizards also run in the family. Danzarr is the image of Gandolf right down to their markings. Gandolf is also a bay. He is a two-time SEDRA (distance organization) Hall of Fame Horse with 3,000 miles of competition. He babysat so many rookie riders and rookie horses in his career that he should get an award for supporting the sport.

Gandolf is kind and gentle. Even though at 24 years, he's a senior and retired from competition, he's still quite a lot of horse to handle on the trail. He is my best friend and has taken care of me for the majority of those 3,000 miles. He did anything I ever asked of him. If you look in the dictionary under "once-in-a-lifetime horse", his photo will be there and I'm standing right beside him. He is my hero and care-taker. He is a true Hall of Fame Horse.

The boys have a definite pecking order. Gandolf is, of course, the boss. He pastures with Danzarr and herds him around the field on their daily routine. Danzarr doesn't seem to mind. Whenever Danzarr gets out with his younger brother, he herds Merlyn the same way Gandolf herds him.

The special thing about these three horses is that they are all related. Gandolf is Merlyn and Danzarr's uncle, being the half brother of the boy's sire, Crimson Zarr. 

Family is family, regardless of the species. They're totally different but they are the same; they argue and disagree, but they love and put up with each other no matter what.

Because they are a part of my family, I know this is true.


Photo Credits: Becky Siler, Gandolf and I, Becky Siler, Gandolf, FL, FHA 100 Mile Ride, Ken Siler, Ocala, FL, FHA 2-Day 50 Mile Ride, 2001 Danzarr Moon and Carol Clark (outside) CC Baron Gandolf and Beth Carlson Lewis (inside). This is the most perfect horse photo I've ever had taken.

My story is for Vikki Keller who patiently rode Danzarr Moon through his first competitive season (1998-1999) and won a Grand Championship on her very first ride. At the end of that season, she and Danzarr won Grand Champion Competitive Horse for the year, High Point Arabian, and was part of our Competitive Trail Gold Medal Team.

Making a Quiche

Only occasionally do I sincerely cook or bake from the heart. Today was one of those days. Quiche is found ready made in all the grocery stores. All you have to do is buy it, take it home, preheat and throw it in the oven. It always comes out perfect.

So why go to all the trouble of making one myself? Just because I felt like it. After watching "Julie and Julia" I became inspired by Julie's commitment to cooking her way through Julia Child's cookbook within 365 days. I decided I could at least make a quiche from a recipe in the newspaper.

So, armed with a puff pastry sheet, (no ready made pie crust for me!) heavy cream, 4 eggs, crispy bacon, scallions, browned mushrooms and grated parmesan and romano cheese, garlic powder, salt, pepper and thyme, I pre-baked my crust (not entirely successfully), and poured the mix into a rather poofy pie crust after sticking a knife in several places to let some of the air out of it.

Exactly twenty minutes after my husband Dan came home, it was ready.

I watched him take the first bite.

"It's OK," he said.

"I was waiting to see if you died," I said.

It was OK, not runny or watery, just exactly the way a quiche should be.

"Can I have another piece?" Dan asked after a bit.

"Sure," I said.

That was my secret indication that he really liked it. As he sat down with his second helping, I told him not to get to excited about me making quiche every week. It was a hard job!

"It's really not bad," he said.

Not bad is his French for magnifique!

Later when he came over to kiss me goodnight, I told him he should give me two kisses for making him a quiche.

He said, "love isn't material things!"

"No," I replied, "but special things can be made with love!"

My Valentine's Present

Sophie, a beautiful black Standard Poodle, was my mother's dog. She came to live with me when my mother passed away in October, '09. Although she settled in with Stella, the Queen Corgi mix and my Alpha female Wolf Hybrid Chaos, Sophie was passive and timid around Chaos. Chaos actually enjoyed this, laying down by the doggie doors so Sophie couldn't come in or go out. All she had to do is growl and Sophie would just stay inside or outside, depending on where Chaos was stationed.

I know Sophie was suffering from the loss of my mother, as I was. Sophie just demonstrated this in a different way. One after another, she dragged two leather lazy boy recliners into the middle of the living room and tore parts of them up. As no other cloth chairs, pillows or furniture were targeted, I guessed she didn't like leather for some reason. She only attacked the furniture while I wasn't home.

Then she started to take things off the tables and kitchen counters. Any object was fair game. A pair of rose clippers had their handles chewed off and a pair of gardening gloves were partially ingested. She destroyed every polymer squeek toy Stella owned. Later on, Sophie became a deluxe nut mix specialist with the ability to grab a can of nuts, race out the doggie doors to her special tree in the back yard, get the plastic lid off the can and have most of the nuts eaten before I could get to her.

I will not physically punish animals. I don't believe in it. But no creature I am responsible for wants to hear my dramatic, professionally projected "loud" voice. Even my horses immediately turn to face me although I am yards away from them with looks on their faces that clearly say, "Who, me? I wasn't doing anything! Honest!"

Sophie began to hear my "loud" voice a lot. It was not enough to stop her grab, run and chew escapades.

I spoke to an animal behaviorist who gave me a bunch of articles to read and some bitter apple organic spray and suggested leaving her outdoors or in her crate when I left her alone. This worked for awhile and then something else would get carried off and eaten. There seemed to be no end to it. Finally, I called the person who had found Sophie for my mother. Doris rescues Poodles and finds good homes for them.

My mother wasn't well when she received Sophie, and gradually started into a physical decline. After their initial bonding, Sophie was cared for by nurses and my mother's housekeeper. She got to go outside only for important business and then back in the house. She spent a lot of time in her crate. Sometimes, the nurses forgot to feed or let her out of her crate. It was hard, but Sophie was there for my mom until the very end. I remember observing the last time my mother acknowledged Sophie's presence by reaching over and patting her on the back. Sophie was on the bed beside her every day until the Hospice people brought in a hospital bed and then she stayed on the floor beside my mother until she was gone. Her loyalty and love for my mom was obvious and I tried so hard to make her transition to my home as painless and fun as possible.

Doris suggested that another home might be better for Sophie where she would be the only dog. She knew a woman on Florida's west coast who had lost her beloved Poodle some eight months ago and suggested I call and talk to her. This was very hard for me to do, but eventually I called and spoke with the woman Doris told me about, explaining all the problems Sophie had and how she needed a lot of place to run and, very specifically, a fenced in yard.

The lady said she was up to the challenge of taking on a dog with problems, telling me she had a dog run and would have her backyard fenced in as soon as possible. She was very excited, saying that this was meant to be because the dog she had recently lost was named Sophie too.

On Valentine's Day, my husband Dan and I made the three and a half hour trip from Jupiter Farms to Dunedin, just west of Tampa. The lady had a beautiful home with elegant furniture and marble floors. We introduced Sophie and sat down in her living room allowing the dog to walk around and check things out. The lady talked to us for a long time about her many surgeries, her severe arthritis and about how hard it was when her dog had died after being diagnosed with cancer. She had difficulty walking and joked about not knowing how much longer she would be able to go on.

I asked if we could see the dog run and her backyard where Sophie would be able to run around. There was no dog run and only partial fencing on the sides of her lot. I started to have a very bad feeling. Sophie was used to running around the two acres closest to my house. This wasn't the right place and I couldn't leave her there.

We went back inside and gave Sophie a drink of water. The lady went to her pantry to find Sophie some treats and I suggested that when she went out, her laundry room might be made into an area where Sophie could stay because of the furniture distruction problems.

The lady acted as if I hadn't taken a long time on the phone explaining about the furniture eating issues and I knew I had. At that moment, I decided that I was not leaving Sophie in Dunedin. Because the lady enjoyed talking to us, I had to wait until there was a pause in the conversation before I could tell her I didn't think Sophie would be safe with no fencing and no place to run.

After a bit more conversation, it was mutually agreed that Sophie would not be staying and Dan and I politely made our exit.

In the car, I told Dan I just couldn't leave Sophie there and maybe it was a sign that she was meant to be with us, eaten furniture and all. He agreed it wasn't the right place and that he really hadn't wanted to give her away because he loved her.

As we turned a corner, there was a sign on the side of the road that read "Valentine's Day Flowers".

"Happy Valentine's Day," Dan said.

"Same to you," I told him. "This Valentine's Day, I got a dog for a present."

And that is how Sophie, my Valentine's Day dog, came back home to live with us permanently.

The Abandonment of Trouble

With the end of daylight savings, winter darkness comes fast to areas of rural Jupiter Farms. Deep in the northwestern part of the county, there are no street lights to illuminate the night. The sun dips, briefly coloring the sky a brilliant orange. Suddenly, the rapid transition to evening and blackness is complete.

The sound of an old pickup is heard as it rumbles over the potholes on the shellrock road and comes to a lumbering stop. A truck door slams shut and a young dog is called out of the truck bed. Leaping down, the 6-month-old Retriever mix pup bounds out onto the road and races around sniffing the multitude of new smells in the air. He turns back to wag his tail at his master.

But the truck is pulling away, accelerating down the rocky road. Puzzled, the pup runs after the truck, barking loudly, racing as fast as he can. Perhaps this is a game. He runs until he is panting and his master's truck is just a flash of red lights in the distance.

The young dog stops. Confused, he makes a sad noise and sits down by the side of the road. Maybe he just has to wait for his master to return. His empty stomach grumbles. After the long chase, he's thirsty. Sniffing the air, he smells water in a nearby canal and the aromatic scent of rotting garbage coming from a bag lying in a ditch.

After a quick drink in the canal, the plastic bag is easily scratched open and its contents spill out. Some chicken bones and some old spaghetti noodles are quickly devoured.

Suddenly a bright light glares in the darkness. A man yells loudly at the pup, terrifying it. Racing for the cover of bushes on the other side of the road and shivering in the November evening chill, the young dog finds a dry place under a pine tree and falls into a frightened, exhausted sleep.

In his puppy dreams, he is in his soft bed in the corner of his master's room. He whimpers softly in his sleep for the man who drove away and left him all alone.

Little puppies are always cute. Sam had allowed his wife to talk him into the pup because he had grown up with dogs. He hadn't remembered until later that puppies chewed and howled and had to be housebroken because when you are a young boy, someone else deals with that. But Jenny wanted a puppy, even though they both worked long hours. She thought they were ready for the responsibility.

That was before the messes on the new carpeting, the chewed-up expensive work boots and the flea epidemic caused by the recent rains. When Sam finally got tired of "bringing up puppy", he simply loaded the dog in his truck, headed west of town, dropped him off and drove away into the night. Problem solved; but only for Sam.

For the pup, the nightmare had just begun. This story has a multiple choice ending. Each ending is legitimate and could easily have happened. You get to chose.

a.    The young dog saw a big white truck pull up and stop by the roadside. A lady climbed out and called to him in a nice voice. He wagged his tail and walked shyly over to her. A leash appeared out of nowhere and snaked around his neck. Within minutes, he was lifted up and placed in a small cubicle in the back of the truck, which then headed back down the rocky road. He could hear dogs scratching and howling from other cubicles in the truck. The pup was taken to a stray animal holding shelter. No one came to claim him and he was not lucky enough to be adopted.

b.    On the fifth night, the lonely pup thought he heard his master's truck coming back for him. He rushed out onto the road toward the oncoming vehicle. The driver tried hard to avoid the dog, but the pup's head collided with the rear wheel. He was killed instantly. The driver stopped and felt the dog's chest for a heartbeat. There was none. He carried the pup to the side of the road and left him there.

c.    Caught with his head inside a garbage can, the pup was startled by a kind voice. He froze. Looking over the top of the can, he saw a nice lady who reached out her hand to him. Warily, he sniffed and slowly wagged his tail. After assuring him she meant no harm, she brought a bowl of water over to him and began to pet him slowly, while gently pulling the burrs out of his sadly neglected coat. Later that morning, after submitting to a bath, the young dog turned around three times on the makeshift bed of horse blankets in the corner of the nice lady's bedroom. He settled down and fell asleep instantly.

All over this country, thousands of animals are abandoned daily. Out of ignorance, people believe that domesticated dogs and cats will fare well in the wild. This is never true, under any circumstances. The most unfortunate part of this story is that, while you have a multiple choice of three separate endings, this pup and so many others like him never have any choice at all.

Previously published in Dog Fancy Magazine
Carol Clark, Copyright, 2/2008

Living Life Is The Best Revenge!

I've survived breast cancer twice.

If you put the face of someone you know on a life-threatening disease, it suddenly becomes more than just a clinical definition. I could be your wife, your mother, your sister, your daughter, your aunt, your grandmother, your niece or your best friend.

In 1991, my first encounter with breast cancer affected everyone around me. With this diagnosis, I became a statistic, a symbol of fear and uncertainty, a woman's worst nightmare.

I had just celebrated my fortieth birthday. For the last year, I'd tried to find out why I had been experiencing breast pain. After two negative mammograms, I had to demand a biopsy and was finally diagnosed with stage two, ductal carcinoma.

The diagnosis was delivered over the phone. I was alone and I remember seeing everything after I hung up the phone through a red haze. My ears rang, I felt heart palpitations and I had trouble breathing. Months later, I laughed when one of my friends told me she thought I had been so brave and strong. Actually, I was terrified, only managing to move through each day because it was all I could do.

I had a mastectomy with reconstruction surgery done at the same time. My surgeon and a plastic surgeon worked together on me. Lymph nodes were removed to determine the stage of my cancer. I remember waking up after the surgery and seeing my father sitting in a chair watching me. He made me feel safe when he just smiled and told me to go back to sleep.

Two days later, my surgeon, plastic surgeon, mother, father and husband all crowded into my hospital room looking very serious. My surgeon explained that cancer cells had been found in my lymph nodes and that I was stage two. Because of the staging, I would need six months of chemotherapy to make sure all the stray cancer cells floating around in my body would be destroyed. All I wanted to know was when I could start.

I remember asking if I could still ride my horses during chemotherapy. I've had horses my entire life and riding is my therapy and my passion. I ride long distance in competition. Along with the worry of losing my very long hair, I was concerned I wouldn't be able to participate in the next ride season.

I started chemotherapy one month after I got out of the hospital. I went every three weeks for about four hours. An IV dripped three different chemicals slowly into my veins. It certainly wasn't any fun, but it was tolerable. And it was a weapon in the battle to save my life.

Each time I went, I could feel the cold fluid moving through my body and across my brain. Because I was afraid I was going to lose my waist-length hair, I was given an ice cap to wear during the treatment. So I sat shivering, stretched out in a Lazyboy wrapped in blankets, feeling the chilling chemicals flow through my bloodstream while the top of my head froze. Because of the ice caps, I only lost half of my hair. That half grew back curly. If I'd known curly hair would replace my old straight hair, I would have dealt with the baldness!

My oncologist is one of the most wonderful doctors I've ever met. She allowed me to play around with my chemo appointments so I could continue to ride in my competitions. Exactly two months after my mastectomy, I finished my first 25 mile ride. While waiting for the vet to check my horse, I passed out. I woke up to find the veterinarian taking my pulse. I was fine, just tired. I continued riding throughout my treatment. I believe the strenuous exercise was the main reason I didn't have any trouble with white cell counts during the six months of chemotherapy.

Every time I went for treatment, it seemed a bit harder and I was more exhausted. I told my husband it was like walking up a steep hill. It's not so bad at first but if you continually fall down and have to get up during the climb, it gets harder to pick yourself up each time. I remember trying to talk my oncologist into letting me skip the last treatment. That didn't happen.

I had two further reconstructive surgeries and finally I was done. For good measure, the post-chemotherapy drug Tamoxifan was prescribed. That was the worst part of the entire treatment. I had every reaction and side effect listed for the drug. Finally, I had to stop taking it.

After the treatments were over, I was tired and depressed. As I recovered from the effects of chemotherapy and struggled to get my life back to normal, I became very anxious. It was as if I had won several battles but the war was still waging and I was no longer doing my part. It took a long time to get past that feeling. I later learned that anyone fighting cancer experiences some sort of anxiety once their treatment is over.

Nine years later, in 2000, I received a call from the clinic after a routine mammogram. An ultrasound was scheduled and a needle biopsy was done. Once again, I was diagnosed with ductal carcinoma. It had not come back, it was a new cancer.

Going through breast cancer the second time is much more difficult. I'd known several women who had died after fighting breast cancer twice. I now realized I could die too. It was a very resigned and solitary feeling. I began having heart palpitations and couldn't sleep. After conferring with all my doctors, I made the decision to have another total mastectomy. If I made it through this, I didn't ever want to deal with breast cancer again.

I discovered knowing how everything would happen is sometimes not very comforting. I started to believe I really had been brave and strong the first time because now I wasn't being brave or strong because I knew too much.

I had reconstruction again. This involved two more surgeries and a somewhat disappointing outcome. As a woman, I think when you are faced with such an overwhelming and personally disfiguring disease as breast cancer, you automatically deny the cancer by making plans to reconstruct your body so it looks as if nothing happened to you.

The thought of waking up and looking at a flat area of skin, bone and scarring may be too overwhelming and anything would be better than that. Sometimes it is and sometimes it isn't. Reconstruction after a single mastectomy is a tricky thing. Balance and symmetry are not always as promised by willing plastic surgeons, no matter how sincere or skilled.

Because I had experienced reconstruction surgeries that were less than expected and one that was a complete failure, I finally became aware of what I should have been focusing on from the beginning. I was still alive. Do I look different? Yes! Is that a bad thing? No! When I looked at myself in the mirror the first time, it was upsetting and sad. But I am still the same person.

I heard on the news the other night that forty thousand women will die of breast cancer this year. But there are also thousands and thousands of women who will survive breast cancer this year. I want you to think about that too. I celebrate every one of them because they are my sisters and my hope!

I am the face of awareness. I am your wife, your mother, your daughter, your aunt, your grandmother, your niece and your best friend. Iam not one of the victims, I'm one of the victors in this war. In the battle against breast cancer, living your life is the best revenge!

A Life with Dolphins, Betty Brothers' Story

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to meet with a woman in the Florida Keys who had spent over 30 years living with two dolphins. It was an amazing visit and I came away with a wonderful story about an incredible woman. She gave me permission to tell her story.

The famous dolphin researcher Dr. John Lilly described Betty Brothers as the only human to have documented such a long term relationship with dolphins. Betty is a feisty little lady with white hair, beautiful skin and sparkling eyes. She has an energy and love of life that belies her age. She's 87 years young.

A resident of the Florida Keys since 1952, she cared for two dolphins in a lagoon beside her home, feeding them twice a day and living with them for more than a quarter of a century.

I read a book she wrote, "Dolphins Love our Florida Keys Home" while on vacation in the Keys. After some research and talking to the "locals", I discovered she still lived there on one of the smaller keys a few miles from Key West.

I called and spoke with her on the phone several times and, because of my interest in dolphins, she agreed to meet with me.

"Feel my muscle," Betty told me, rolling up her sleeve. It felt very strong.

"Swimming," she explained.

For more than twenty-five years, she swam every day with her dolphins in a small bay between two keys.

Her face is animated when she speaks of Dal, the female and Suwa, the male dolphin.

She told me she had one of her books for me and took a copy of "Dolphins Love Our Florida Keys Home" from her book shelf. Asking how I spelled my name, she wrote, "Best Wishes," drew a dolphin and signed her name.

She is an excellent artist and her work is displayed in every room. During the next two hours, she told many interesting stories. I took notes but listening to her was so fascinating I hoped I could remember everything she said.

She spoke about her old Keys home on the Atlantic side. The abandoned house still stands on a spit of land beside US1. She and her first husband, Bern, blasted coral rock with dynamite and excavated the foundation and the rest of their property from the sea. Immediately south of the house, the lagoon where she and her dolphins lived, played and swam still exists, an overgrown, silent reminder of an extraordinary lifetime intimately shared with another species.

She said the roof finally leaked so badly she had to have huge 55 gallon barrels to catch the rain. It finally became too difficult for her to live there because she couldn't go up and fix the roof herself as she had done years before. When a local marina offered to purchase the house, she sold it. She spoke of her dolphins with love. She very clearly recalled two incidents she wrote about in her book.

One involved Dal, doing a scientific experiment on her with sounds. The dolphin made continuously higher pitched sounds until Betty couldn't duplicate them.

Then Dal returned to the frequency she could repeat. The dolphin did this three times, establishing the exact high and low sounds her human could hear. She also remembered one evening when she was forcefully towed back into the lagoon by Dal three times while they were swimming in the bay.

Finally, she decided to stay in the lagoon believing the dolphin knew something she didn't. It doesn't go any further into this story in her book but she told me she later learned what Dal had been afraid of that night. A friend, living aboard a sloop anchored in the bay, had seen and heard several killer whales migrating through the Keys that same evening.

Killer whales eat anything they want. Dal was aware of their presence and insisted her human come back to safety three times before Betty finally acquiesced.

She told me about living in the Keys in the 50's and how they made a living. She and her husband built and rented three smaller cottages which are still there and are still being rented by the marina that now owns them. She also ran her own real estate office.

She sold lots and, when something didn't sell, she bought it herself. She owns a lot of real estate! Her interesting book ends with Dal's first baby dying shortly after its birth. I asked what happened after that, how long they lived and how and where they died.

Betty explained that, as the baby dolphin was being born, Dal leaped out of the water and the baby was expelled. Dal and Suwa brought the baby to the surface several times.

The last time they surfaced the baby was upside down and it was dead. It was quite hard for Betty to devise a way to get the dead calf out of the lagoon.

Dal swam everywhere with its tail in her mouth dragging it behind her. After several days, Betty had to trick the dolphin into letting go of it. The baby was buried on their beach. Her female dolphin never had another calf. Dal died six years before Suwa at the approximate age of 28. She beached herself on the edge of the lagoon by the Betty's feeding dock and where she simply stopped breathing. She had not shown any signs of being sick.

The University of Miami requested that Betty donate whichever of the dolphins died of old age first. She had reluctantly agreed even though it was hard for her.

After many months of autopsy studies, they reported everything they had found. She learned that her female dolphin had cysts on her ovaries which probably contributed to her being unable to conceive again after her first baby died.

Betty believed the calf had died because there were not more dolphins around her during the birth. There is often a "midwife" assisting when dolphins give birth in the wild. Dal's immaturity and isolation may have been responsible for the loss.

After Dal's death, Suwa was not as sweet a dolphin. Betty believed Dal taught him everything she'd learned from her humans in a very short time after he was introduced to her lagoon. As his lifelong mate, she kept him calm and tranquil.

After losing her, Suwa mourned and became aggressive. Betty stopped swimming with him, fearing his behavior would lead to her being injured.

She still spent time with him at the feeding dock and from inside the tiny boat she kept in the lagoon. Because she was worried he might hurt someone else, she put up warning signs and a fence around the entire lagoon so no one would accidentally gain entry and try to swim with him.

A few years later, that is exactly what happened. A man visiting from upstate decided he was going to swim with a dolphin anyway.

Whether drunk or just plain reckless, he was almost killed for his stupidity. Fortunately, his cries were heard at the house. Betty and her family managed to get the man out of the lagoon.

It took him awhile to recover and he was taken to the hospital. A year later, he sued Betty. She said this was a very stressful time in her life. As she waited for the case to go to court, she worried about Suwa being taken away from her.

The trial was set and postponed several times but Betty and Suwa finally had their day in court. With a completely native Key West jury, the outcome was predictably unusual.

The jury stated that Betty was guilty of having a "dangerous" dolphin and she was fined $200. She was then found not guilty because she had posted signs and fenced off her "dangerous" dolphin.

The man was a trespasser on her property who had ignored her signs and fence. He was swimming illegally in her lagoon. He and his expensive attorney returned to North Florida with $200.

It was a wonderful outcome after such a stressful time and Betty made sure that, for the rest of Suwa's life, he was protected and cared for safely.

After the trial, Suwa's health began to fail. A friend who had dolphins on Sugarloaf Key examined him and told Betty he was not well.

After observing the male dolphin, a few experts suggested that Suwa have a shelter to protect him from the sun and they began building a structure.

Before they could finish it, Suwa disappeared. Betty and her family searched for a long time but they couldn't find him. She hoped he had found a pod of dolphins in the bay and gone off with them.

A few weeks later, there was such an odor from the lagoon that Betty realized he had been there all along. They found his decayed body beached on some rocks near the house, as close underneath her bedroom as he could get.

Instead of burying him, she and her family decided they would take him out to the Atlantic and bury him at sea. Extracting him from underneath the house wasn't easy.

She placed a rope around his body, behind his flippers, and he was pulled into the lagoon, through the tiny inlet and out into the bay. As they towed her beloved dolphin slowly behind their Chris Craft outboard, Suwa's body did an extraordinary thing. With one last leap in the air, he appeared to have returned from the dead.

In that moment, Betty realized that dolphins are so aerodynamically built to fly they aren't really leaping out of the waves, they are lifted up by the very nature of their anatomy.

Passing by a tiny resort on Little Palm Island, they heard a party in progress. Lights and music filled the ocean air. Later, when they were out so far that no lights from land could be seen, Betty untied the rope that held her beloved friend, said a prayer and watched him slip below the surface in the darkness. Her long life with this beautiful dolphin was over.

As she told me this last story, twelve long years after he was gone, her eyes clouded for a moment. Then she smiled and it seemed the incredible memories of these two magnificent creatures were enough to keep her from sadness and sharing them with me somehow made them seem closer.

I spent several hours listening to the stories of her incredible life with her dolphins, her travels and her two wonderful husbands. She told me she had the good fortune of finding not one good husband, but a second man, just as intelligent, loving and kind as the first. He too is gone now and she shares her new home with her Rhodesian Ridgeback, a protective dog who barks at every boat on the canal that passes their home.

She told me, at 87, she doesn't have much time left. Before that, I hope we will share many more conversations. She gave me an old framed photo of Suwa, rolling in the water beside a pelican. They looked as though they were flying in formation across the lagoon.

After saying goodbye to her and driving away, I thought about all the stories she shared with me.

It was clear that, although she had the devotion of two wonderful husbands, the true loves of her life were two beautiful, silver gray dolphins named Dal and Suwa.

Copyright 5/30/06, Carol Clark

Photo Credits: 

Suwa and Betty circa 60s photo by a family member

Betty at 87 (and pretty great looking!) by Carol Clark

Getting Started

Wildlife isn't my only specialty. But, as Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' editor once told her, "write what you know", so I'll be following that bit of advice in this blog. I live in Jupiter Farms, a not imaginary place in South Florida that is home to equestrians, farmers and nature lovers as well as some newcomers who want it to be their own personal Boca Raton. We'll be leaving them out of the stories.

Sandhill Cranes are yearlong residents of South Florida. They are extremely tall, almost six feet when they stand upright, so they are hard to miss as they hunt for bugs alongside the highways and roads. They mate for life and care for their offspring until they are almost full grown.  My first story is about these elegant, beautiful birds.

In Jupiter Farms, we are fortunate to share our community with an incredible variety of birds, animals and reptiles. We have fox, deer, raccoon, gopher tortoises, turtles of all shapes and sizes, lizards, snakes of all kinds, opossum, otters, bobcats, alligators, Great Horned Owls, Pilated Woodpeckers (the big boys), mini Woodpeckers, Red Shouldered Hawks, Kingfishers, Herons great and small, cormorants, mallards, you name it, I've seen it! Once I even saw two black snakes entwined in a tight embrace on my front doorstep! I think it was spring.

One of the creatures I find most fascinating is the Sandhill Crane. They are so family oriented and take care of their young with both tenderness and ferocity. They make very loud noises in the air and on the ground. Their noise sounds like a bird yodeling. As they fly, they talk back and forth like they are checking to see if the other one is still there.

Recently, I was privileged to watch a pair of Sandhill Cranes performing their introductory mating dance. The first day I observed the couple, only the male was feeling frisky. (Isn't that always the way?) He would hop around a bit, looking quite silly and suddenly I saw him pick up something on the ground and toss it up in the air. His soon-to-be better half pretended that she didn't see him do that wonderous feat at all.

I thought it was amazing! He flicked a stick up in the air like he was juggling. He hopped up in the air at the same time. He threw his wings up and puffed out his feathers and it didn't seem to impress her at all. But it impressed me!

At first, I thought the male was throwing around a small snake he'd captured on the ground. My husband Dan, who was also watching this spectacle, told me it was just a stick.

When they had wandered down the street a bit, Dan walked over to the spot where they had been and looked for the stick/snake. He picked it up, showed me it was just a stick and then tossed it up in the air himself. Can't say that it impressed me any more than it had the lady crane. But it was very funny!

The next day, they were back on the street. Actually, in the middle of the street. I live on a dirt road and it's a dead end. They wandered up and down the road a bit and I noticed now they were both doing their little "jump up in the air, ruffle the feathers, bat the wings, find a stick, show off, land back on the ground" thing. It was even more amusing because they were both in sync. I smiled and went back up to the house to give them some privacy.

I'm sure that some day soon, they'll be back with one or two litlte ones in tow. That should be even more fun to watch.

A long time after this event took place, I was reading a Jupiter Farms commentary/chat online where a woman described watching a couple of kids in a small red truck swerve across a paved road to intentionally hit a sandhill crane on the side of the road. While it floundered in the middle of the road, dying, they gunned their motor and took off laughing.

I was appalled. It made me sick to think someone would intentionally hit such a majestic, stately bird, so well known for its gentleness. I seriously doubt someone who would do something that vicious would actually read this commentary. If you do read this and you took part in the episode above, you now know someone saw you do it and I have now told your parents and the entire community of Jupiter Farms. In psychology, it is a fact that children who start out abusing and hurting animals quite often evolve into psychopathic monsters who hurt their fellow human beings.

My observation of the two Sandhills during those two days was enlightening and almost spiritual. But the terrible, unneccesary event where the crane was intentionally killed made me feel nothing but disgust and shame for those young people who were so disrespectful of life.