I have made it to all of the "visiting hours" for Epona. Her caregivers never fail to take a moment and give me updates, and they have gotten better each day.
She only had to have one IV, and since then has been drinking enough water on her own. They take blood tests every day to make sure that she's staying hydrated.
She is also eating more aggressively, and they said she eats everything they give her, which is timothy hay, milk pellets, and Omolene 300.
Unfortunately, she does aspirate when she stretches her neck to the ground, which is a similar stretch to nursing. Everything she eats and drinks has to be at her chest level. Hay doesn't seem to bother her, though--at any level.
She still does not receive antibiotics, as we're waiting for the culture to come back, but she hasn't spiked a fever, coughed, or shown any signs of being sick.
They put her in a stall that is front and center to where they do all their work, and that keeps her busy watching them all day. It also puts more eyes on her, something her doctor really wanted.
This morning, I went in and groomed her.
She whinnies as soon as she hears my voice approaching, and as I leave for the day. I do miss her when we're apart! Home isn't home without her anymore.
We had a chance to go hiking today, looking for huckleberries, and something miraculous happened. Honestly, I needed something miraculous, because yesterday I was really down. I had come to realize that the universe is, indeed, teaching me something this year. It is teaching me that I have no control over things. No. Control. I like control, and it isn't easy to come to such a realization. If not control, than what?
I wrote a short poem, as I tried to make sense of it. My feeling is that when I really learn the lesson I'm being taught, I might cease needing it reinforced. Here it is:The universe told me
Our hands are empty,
They do not contain miracles
Or, even wise words.
Moment by moment,
The brokenness of hearts,
A temporary rise to our feet,
As if to help,
But we didn’t–Did we?
Because our hands are empty.
'Tis whiter than an Indian Pipe –
'Tis dimmer than a Lace –
No stature has it, like a Fog
When you approach the place –
Not any voice imply it here –
Or intimate it there –
A spirit – how doth it accost –
What function hath the Air?
This limitless Hyperbole
Each one of us shall be –
'Tis Drama – if Hypothesis
It be not Tragedy –