One of my life goals is to practice hippotherapy. Hippotherapy is when a PT, OT, or an ST uses riding a horse to achieve certain therapeutic goals. Also, although the research is slim, animal assisted therapy has shown to improve therapeutic outcomes for a variety of populations, including stroke patients and students on the autistic spectrum.

Basically, it’s therapy WITH A HORSE. Because HORSES ARE AWESOME.

I don’t know very much about hippotherapy, to be honest. I’m just at the beginning of this journey. And I know nothing about horses.

My town has a therapeutic riding center, and when I moved here, the first thing I did was call them up to see how I could be involved. I got pregnant, however, and the pregnancy was high enough risk that I couldn’t do much. So, I dropped it.

But now my daughter is in Kindergarten, they need volunteers during the day, so I volunteer there twice a week, taking small baby steps towards my goal.

I’m learning a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean that I learn something every single day I go. And it’s not just stuff that was stored somewhere in my brain that I am pulling out again, it’s BRAND NEW information that I’ve never known before. I can practically feel my brain rejoice as new neural pathways are formed to handle all this new stuff.

It’s also sort of refreshing to not know anything. I have absolutely nothing to prove to anybody. Everybody knows I don’t know anything about horses, everybody knows that I need to be taught everything from the ground up, and I know that every single person I work with knows more about horses than I do. Instead of trying to impress them with some knowledge I have, or try to pretend I know something that I don’t, I find that I am hungry to learn everything they have to teach me, and when I am corrected (which happens a lot), I don’t feel defensive or attacked, I’m grateful for the learning experience. I come back from my time there tired but relaxed, refreshed in spirit and soul.

I think it’s the absence of pride.

I think about my time at this center a lot, and trying to think why it makes me happy. Apart from spending time with horses, which is just a naturally feel good kind of experience, I’ve decided it’s because I am so eager to learn. I am teachable, I’m malleable to whatever these experts have to tell me. I try to be as observant as I can so I can learn as much as I can so when it comes my turn to do something on my own, I can do it the right way and be successful.

I think that’s the opposite of pride.

I compare it to other jobs I’ve worked at, and I realize that it’s an entirely different dynamic if you are in a position to always want to learn. That hasn’t been the case other places I’ve worked. I would chafe in other jobs when people corrected me, sometimes out of embarrassment if the correction was warranted (which was often the case), or pride because I knew better than the person correcting me (which was also sometimes the case, and which I still find annoying.) I would panic if I came across something in a chart that I didn’t understand, not wanting to ask because it would make me look uneducated or uninformed. I sat through a swallowing exam with another speech therapist once, and she caught something that both the doctor and I missed. That experience haunted me for a while, because I think of what would have happened if she hadn’t been there. And instead of thinking, “Hey, I learned something new!” I just kept thinking, “I didn’t know to look for that. How come I didn’t know to look for that?”

I treated one patient who had been through some kind of cancer treatment. I don’t know very much about cancer or how the variety of treatments work, and I was filling in for another therapist, so this particular patient wasn’t familiar to me. When I reported back to her primary therapist, the therapist asked about what kind of port she had. I had no idea what she was talking about, and sort of fudged around. What I should have said is, “You know, I’m really not familiar with chemo ports, or whatever. What can you tell me about them?” It’s not as if chemotherapy was covered in my graduate program, and I doubt the other therapist would have thought less of me if I had asked. If you don’t have the experience, you don’t have the experience.

I also once watched a doctor who was really green struggle through an exam with a patient. The nurses knew he was green, *I* knew he was green, and he knew we all knew. The room was full of people, and we were all trying to help. Yet every time one of us said something, he shot us all down with sneering contempt. I actually sort of felt bad for him, because he was trying so hard to act tough, and yet it was clear he had no clue what to do. Everything would have gone much better for him (and the patient) if he had turned to the rest of us and said, “Well, what do you think?” Nobody would have thought less of him for seeking help when he was in over his head.

So, basically, I guess I’m saying that in addition to learning about horses, I’m learning about pride, too. Pride makes life harder. And more stressful. And makes you stupider and less effective at what you’re trying to do. And I’m learning that humility isn’t about being self-depricating or modest about your skills, it’s about always being teachable, and acknowledging that everybody has something to offer you, no matter what their position.

Also?

Life is better with horses.

P.S. That is not my dog pictured with this horse. My dog, did, however, have a recent encounter with some horses. He was off leash, and slipped under a fence into a pasture that had 4 horses in it. He charged them, barking with all his puppy ferocity. The horses turned, looked at him, and decided to charge him right back. If my dog could talk, I’m pretty sure he would have said a bad word as he skidded to a stop and watched 4 huge horses come thundering at him at full speed. The word would have been made up of 4 letters.

He tucked tail and ran back to me. What can I say, he gets by on his looks.

(I almost always drive when my husband and I are together during the day. He’s colorblind and pretty much the worst driver in the world. I fear for my life when he drives. He says I MAKE him a bad driver because I’M such a bad backseat driver. Pshaw. Like pointing out that we’re on the wrong side of the yellow line makes me a back seat driver. Whatevs.)

I forgot about the brownies in all of the hustle and bustle. I vaguely remembered them when I was rummaging around the kitchen the next night, looking for something sweet. I couldn’t find them, figured hubby had tossed them, and let it go.

Today, exactly 7 days later, I was looking for my phone.

(Yes, I lost that too. I’m really really good at losing things. And falling into holes. That’s a different story that I probably could have blogged about because it’s actually really funny, but basically, my husband said that of COURSE I fell into that hole, because I’m the type of person who falls into holes. Because there are two kinds of people in this world, didn’t you know, those that fall into holes and those that don’t. I fall into holes. And lose my phone.)

I was looking under the seat in my van for my phone, when my fingers hit the paper plate. What the heck is this, I thought, and lo and behold, I pulled out the brownies. The weather has been fairly cold, so the inside of the car is not unlike a fridge, the ziploc seal was still intact, and they still looked perfect.

I ate them.

Well, not all of them, because they aren’t the kind of dessert that can be eaten in one sitting. In fact, I couldn’t even eat an entire brownie, they are *that* kind of dessert, so good that two or three bites is more than enough to satisfy even the most intense chocoholic.

My husband came home from walking the dog while I was eating the brownies.

(There are LOTS of bloggable stories about the dog, too, but I’m not sure if puppy stories are as fun as hole stories, or even brownie stories. Every blogger out there with a puppy and a laptop has a story to tell. But I ask you, how many bloggers have been stuck in a hole this month? AND had to call their rocket scientist neighbor to get them out?)

My husband ate the brownies, too.

Because we are that type of people. Bloggers who fall into holes and have a crazy puppy and who eat week old brownies that have been sitting under the seat of our car.

Don’t judge me. You totally would have eaten them, too.

And they would have been totally worth it.

I’ve been thinking about this the last few days.

It seems absurd, dangerous even, that these women would so willingly give these men their phone numbers. The facebook comments I read talked about how this could be an example of programming women in the church to say “yes” to men, a result of overemphasis on marriage and patriarchy. It’s scary and crazy and indicative of how brainwashed we all really are.

But, but, but…I know that women are saying “yes” to men in other places than just BYU. And that it might not be a bad thing that these women trust these guys not to hurt them.

Let me ’splain.

I attended Boston University as an undergraduate. When I got there, I was fresh faced co-ed from Salt Lake City, whose best friends in high school were all Mormon. I had a boyfriend for two years in high school who was also Mormon, and the craziest thing we ever did was go bowling dressed in our Sunday best. And while I was aware of alcohol and sex, they weren’t an integral part of how I interacted with my friend or peers, or my boyfriend, for that matter. His desire to go on a mission, an overabundance of chastity lessons, and good old fashioned guilt kept us from crossing that line.

The first weekend night I got to Boston, I went out with my roommate and some new friends. We went to a club down by Fenway park. None of my new friends were 21, but two or three of them had fake IDs, and they managed to get drinks. The rest of us danced the whole time. We stayed until the bar/club closed, at 2am, and then farted around the street for a little while as all the clubs let out, hit a Store 24 for some water (hydration is key when you’re drinking, I’m told), and finally ended up at home at 4am. I had told a friend back home that I would call him after my first week at BU. He was shocked when he got my call at 2:30am Utah time.

The friends I was with were the quintessential college girls. Pretty, young, in excellent physical shape (one was an aerobics instructor), and relentlessly flirty. I was told by one of the girls that they had gone out the weekend before, and one of them, I’ll call her Keisha, ended up going home and having sex with a man she met that night. When I was being told this story, Keisha was engaged in some particularly, um, enthusiastic bump and grind dance with an unknown male, and the friend telling me this story was hoping Keisha wouldn’t go home with a guy again, because it had been a pain in the butt trying to retrieve her last weekend, and nobody wanted to spend their evening chasing down her whereabouts.

In the meantime, I was approached by a guy who expressed his interest in me. He asked my name, I gave him a false one. He asked where I lived, I gave him a vague response. He asked where I went to school, and I told him BU, and he said, “Oh, me too!” He kept pressing for details, then kept pressing ME, and when he said, “Can I have your number? I really want to keep in touch”, I literally wiggled out of his embrace and told him my friends were leaving, and went to find a friendly face.

Over my four years at BU, this scenario played itself out several times. I didn’t put myself in the situation often, as dancing as clubs isn’t all that fun when you’re sober, but sometimes even when my friends and I were just messing around, we would get propositioned in some way or another. I remember walking through town one night with three of my friends. A car pulled up next to us, a jeep full of college guys. We didn’t know them, had never seen them before. They told us they went to Boston College, that there was a raging party going on, and did we want to join them. One of my friends immediately squealed and hopped in the car. My other friend rolled her eyes, said she’d go to look after the squealer. That left me and one other girl, and I said to her, “There is no way in hell I’m getting in that car, but if you want to go, I’m fine walking home alone.” She agreed to stay with me, and we waved the other two off. I wondered vaguely if my friends were heading off to be raped.

(They were fine, by the way. A boring time and a small hangover were the main results of the evening.)

One semester, I worked at Pizzeria Uno. While working there, I came to understand the definition of sexual harassment, although at the time I was too young and too dumb to know what to do about it. I was an easy target, I suppose, which is why it happened so much. I was also asked out by one of the waiters, and I told him no, saying I wasn’t his kind of girl. He asked me why I thought that, and I told him that I didn’t smoke weed, I didn’t drink, and I didn’t have sex. His eyes kind of got big and said, “So what DO you do?” When I told him that I was happy to go to a movie with him and maybe out for coke (not a coffee or a beer) afterwards to talk, he said, “Talk. Talk? Really? Yeah, I guess I could talk. Really, just talk?” I smiled and shrugged. He never asked me out again.

Also, the BU hockey team was at its height of success as the best hockey team in the country. That made members of the hockey team literal gods on campus. And there was a name for girls who slept with the hockey team. I won’t write the whole thing here, because this is a family blog, but I’ll say it’s a rhyming term that started with the word “Puck.” Remember Keisha? She was ultimately branded with that title. She had sex with a random hockey player on the countertop of a pizza place (after hours, of course. The hockey team had keys to the pizza restaurant across from the rink, an arrangement I never fully understood).

I write all of this not to paint Boston as a city full of degenerate sex addicts, or even to say that non-Mormon men are demanding sex all the time. Waiter-boy aside, I dated some awesome, amazing, wonderful men who were nothing but absolutely 100% respectful of my beliefs about chastity. I write this to show that women saying “yes” to strange men is happening in more places than at BYU, and in more dangerous ways than just giving out a phone number. I also write it to tell you the mindset I was in when I showed up there.

I took a few classes at BYU the summer before my junior year at Boston University. I did it for a few reasons: 1) I was trying to decide if I really wanted to stay in Boston, and I thought a change of pace might help me decide. 2) I was hoping to study abroad in Germany, and wanted some extra boost to my language skills. 3) I was just curious. What was BYU like?

I roomed with a girl I had worked with the summer before. It was an apartment with 3 other girls, 5 of us total. One night, I was the only one home when there was a knock at the door. A guy stood at the door, asking for my roommate. I told him she wasn’t there, that I had just moved in. He smiled, introduced himself, and said, “Hey, a group of us are going rollarblading, and then out for ice-cream afterwards. Do you want to come?” I started to turn him down, a knee-jerk reaction I had developed in my time in Boston, because I had always felt like with a strange man, you never knew where the evening would end. But I realized that with this guy, this nice returned missionary Mormon guy, he really was asking me to go rollarblading and out for ice-cream afterwards. So I said yes. And we had a great time.

I dated a few guys during that semester at BYU, and every time I felt a palpable sense relief that I was dating somebody who wasn’t expecting something at the end of the night. I said yes to many people I would normally have said no too, simply because I trusted that these Mormon guys wouldn’t do anything too creepy, or anything to hurt me. (Not to say that I didn’t have embarrassing or humiliating encounters. If it wasn’t embarrassing and humiliating, then you couldn’t call it dating.)

I’m not saying that Mormon men never ask for or expect sex. I’m not saying that people aren’t having sex at BYU (indeed, one of my roommates at BYU got as much or more action than my non-Mormon roommates at BU). And I’m definitely not saying that a Mormon man isn’t capable of assaulting or raping a woman. But I’m saying that the cultural taboo of sex before marriage in the Mormon world, for better or for worse, makes it easier to say yes to a cute stranger who asks you for your phone number. And that when somebody says, “Wanna go rollarblading and get some ice-cream?”, the chances are really high that the night will end with you standing on your door step, licking a double scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough ice-cream while the guy gives you a half hearted squeeze around your shoulders and says, “See you next time!”

And that’s not a bad thing.

The number is 391!!

Her name is Mindi P!

I couldn’t be happier.  I know Mindi, she is a lovely lovely person.

In fact, I think everyone who gave is a lovely lovely person.  I know this is a terrible time to have a fundraiser.  I know so many people’s paychecks went down with the new tax changes.  I know you are all working on your taxes and yet nobody’s received their refund yet.  I know paying for the holidays is still stinging, and I know there are many New Year’s Resolutions to stick to a budget and save more money.

So I just want to say thank you.  THANK YOU.  I got many people who said “Sorry it’s not more.”  Well, technically I could be sorry it’s not more as well.  It would be great if everybody could throw thousands and thousands of dollars to cure my disease.  But I am not sorry.  I am just happy.  We raised right around $1200, and that, my friends, is $1200 Dr. Faustman didn’t have before.

So THANK YOU once again, and CONGRATULATIONS, MINDI!

It came to my attention because somebody I know entered my email in that spot instead of forwarding me her receipt. Then when I did not respond, she wondered what her ticket numbers were.  I hadn’t received a notification of her donation.  I am not sure when MGH sends those notifications, but it would appear that they are not automatically generated.  I’m guessing they do it once a month?  I am not sure.

So,  if you have donated, but have not received an email from me with numbers on it, please forward me the copy of your receipt so you can be entered to win the Ipad mini.

Here are the steps:

1. Go donate.  Every $3 gives you one “ticket” number.

2. Receive receipt. (This IS automatically generated.  You will get a lovely notice about how you are keeping medicine alive and whatnot).

3. Forward me the receipt.  (Your credit card number is NOT displayed.  I will not spam you.  I am a nice person.)

4. My email is heidithewiz at gmail dot com.

5. Receive email back from me with magic numbers on it.  (They’re not really magic. No beanstalk will grow if you plant them.)  I am fairly good at emailing back in a good time frame.  It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.

6. Keep receipt for your tax records.  Deduct amount next year.  You know, if you remember.

7. Come back to my blog on Monday to see if your numbers actually were magic and caused an ipad mini to appear in the mail.

This giveaway closes on SUNDAY, FEB. 3 at MIDNIGHT (Arizona time).  At that point, I will put all the numbers into random.org, and display the winning number, along with the winner’s first name and last initial.  As in “Congratulations go to #0 HEIDI K.” (Which I won’t actually say, because that’s me, and I’m not winning my own contest.  That would make me a NON nice person.)

SO BASICALLY, IF YOU HAVE DONATED BUT NOT RECEIVED ANYTHING BACK FROM ME, PLEASE EMAIL ME.

The end.

See original post here.

“Want to work out with me?”

“No.  I can’t work out this late.  I’ll go hypo all night.”  (Diabetes as excuse.  Nicely played.)

He begins his insanity.  I continue to play games on my phone. (I’m really good at Scramble.  Want to play?  I will destroy you.)

“Can you find the remote for the ceiling fan when that round is done?”

(staring intently at my phone)  ”Sure”.

After my round is done, I totally forget, and like a good wife, leave the room to get some water.  My sugars were a little high, and I was thirsty.  Then I remember like an ACTUAL  good wife, and so I go back in to get the ceiling fan going for him.

The outside door was open.  (We live in Arizona.  It’s acceptable to open doors in January.)

He’s there doing his jumping jacks and all the other whatchadoos and stuff.

“A bird flew in.  It’s either in the corner or Suzy is eating it.” (he continues his squats and pushups)

“What?  There’s a dead bird under here?”

“Not (puff) sure. Check the (puff) corner.”

Suzy is one of our dogs.  I don’t want to get too graphic about what was under the bed, but let’s just say the score was easily Bird: 0.  Dog: 1.

And still, he’s working out.

I feel I have to make a statement.

“I AM NOT DEALING WITH A BIRD CARCASS UNDER THE BED.”

And so he stops, and we remove the mattress, box spring, maneuver the bed, and proceed to clean everything up that was under the bed.

After, of course, luring the dogs outside. (She won’t come out! Get a piece of meat!  She’s EATING a piece of meat! Ew!)

My husband’s company has kindly donated an ipad mini to the cause.  It can be yours.

I know, it sounds spammy, but it isn’t.  Here’s a pic of me holding it. Don’t we look cute together? I will mail it to you, possibly. Exciting, isn’t it?  Do you feel the excitement?

(Don’t ask me why I’m not smiling.  More drama, possibly?  I don’t know.  It is what it is.)

So, here’s how it’s going to work.  You go to the website and donate.  For every $3 you donate, I will assign you a number, a virtual “ticket”, if you will.  So, if you donate $9, you get 3 tickets.  However, if you donate $10, you still only get 3.  The extra dollar is just because you’re nice.  So, if you donate $50, you will get
16.  (But if you go up to $51, you get 17). Basically, take what you donate, divide by 3, and voila.  There you have it.

Once you donate the money, Massachusetts General Hospital will email you a receipt.  This is automatically generated.  I have received several of these receipts, and I know what they look like.  Your credit card number is not on it.  As proof of your donation, you need to forward me a copy of this receipt.  Please send it to heidithewiz at gmail dot com.

Once I receive your email, I will email you back telling you your number or numbers.

That’s it.  In one week from today, on February 3rd, I will use random.org to generate a winner.  I will then announce the winner, and mail you the ipad mini.  (Assuming that you’re the winner.)

This is in time for Valentine’s Day, so if you want to give your sweetheart a really cool gift…..I’m just saying, s/he would be impressed.

A few extra things.  Your name and address will be on the receipt. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, but if you win, I would need that info anyway to send you the ipad.  I promise I am not building a mailing list.  I will not spam you.  Massachusetts General will not spam you.  (I even signed up to receive email updates, and I don’t get very many).  Please do not pay pal me any money. I am not a non-profit, so you need to send it directly to her. I don’t want your money, I want Dr. Faustman to get your money.

Also, please keep your receipt, as your donation is tax deductible.

I am told to be as legal as possible, I have to have a “no purchase necessary” option.  And so, if you would like a number and be entered in this giveaway, but don’t want to donate, please write me an essay of at least 300 words about diabetes.  For each essay, you’ll get a number.  Please do not send me the same essay repeatedly.  I am trying to raise money here, people.  I am trying to make the no purchase option necessary as sucky as possible so people find it easier to give three bucks.

Stats on the ipad mini:  It is the 16 GB, WiFi only option.  It is black.  My son wants it.  He doesn’t get it.

Odds:  I have no idea.  Depends of how many people enter, and how much they give.

So there you have it.  Please enter, and May the odds be ever in your favor…..

Actually, it was almost 4 years ago. On Sunday, it will officially be 4 years. 4 years ago TODAY I was just feeling like total crap. I was sleeping a lot, and could not get enough liquid in me to save my life. Plus I couldn’t see very well. All classic symptoms, really.

And so, to “celebrate”…on that day, I will be doing an online fundraiser for Dr. Faustman, the researcher who’s work is the most exciting to me. www.faustmanlab.org

The prize will be an Ipad mini.

It sounds spammy. It’s not. I’m staring at the ipad right now. I kind of want to just open it and keep it, but I won’t. My husband’s company kindly donated it.

So come back on Sunday. Tell your friends. And if your pancreas works, be grateful.