As we approach Labor Day, I am glad to be rid of this summer. It’s been a doozy.

It started out beautifully–perfect temps, sunny days, no bugs (which to horse people is a blessing), and a ton of projects and hope.

Nothing lasts forever. The temps went crazy like a terrier in a room full of squirrels. It rained. And rained. Enough that my sand riding ring is now a weed-filled lawnscape that needs to be mowed.

At the end of July, Hubby and I took a trip out west. For the first few days, we spent our time in the Truckee/Lake Tahoe area to visit my son. I don’t get to see him often enough, so it was a treat to have that time, especially since his partner is expecting their first child. Yes, I am going to be a grandmother. Wrapping my head around that fact.

The second half of the week we planned to spend with Hubby’s brother.

But as we headed to the Reno airport, my phone rang. It was a friend who had been staying at my farm while she competed nearby. “I think Tucker broke his leg.”

Those words took a second to sink in. In all the years I’ve been around and owned horses, I’ve never had or even seen one break its leg (except Barbaro on television-which was horrific).

Although I wanted to deny it, hope she was wrong. I knew she wasn’t. So, from approximately 1295 miles away, I called the vet and another friend to help. Hubby called a neighbor with an excavator. By the time we’d gone through security at the airport, my red boy, my Tuckerman was gone and buried.

That fast and the landscape of my barn changed. And I wasn’t there to say goodbye.

But even broken hearts beat on.

There were high points to the rest of the vacation. Literally, since I was able to go stunt flying with Hubby’s brother (it’s wonderful to have a retired Navy Top Gun pilot in the fam). Hubby’s family suffered a tragedy as well, reminding me to embrace the good while I could.

I came home bruised. It took me a bit to adjust to his empty stall. And since my fancy jumper was now a fancy trail horse, I hid at my friend’s barn where I’d moved my Percheron-cross mare so I could ride (remember all that rain?) in her indoor ring.

Fast forward a week. I got an invitation to a Baby-Q in honor of my son and his partner to celebrate their impending parenthood. Though the date was barely over a month away, I made the decision to go and booked the flight.

And here’s where Karma decided to kick my ass again.

The Tuesday before I was scheduled to fly out, Beyla, my Percheron-cross mare, you know, the one I could still ride? Yeah, she came down with a strange fever. The vet came, gave her meds for the fever, took bloodwork, and we waited to see.

But the fever was persistent, despite two medications it kept creeping back up. We started antibiotics. Beyla’s usually robust appetite decreased even more. By Thursday afternoon, she started showing signs of colic.

For those that don’t know, colic is serious business. Horses can’t vomit, so everything must pass through their digestive tract and out the back door. Sometimes it’s gas that needs to work its way through. But being the thousand-pound toddlers they are, most horses in that kind of pain want to throw themselves on the ground and roll.

That’s bad.

Very bad.

By Thursday night, Beyla was at that point.

I was supposed to leave Saturday. I wasn’t sure I would leave Saturday. I didn’t want to leave Saturday.

I’d already lost one horse while away. I couldn’t imagine it happening again within a month.

At that point, with my vet and friend’s strong encouragement, I got my trailer and took Beyla to the emergency clinic. I was hopeful they would fix her.

Friday happened to be the worst day of the year for me. August 25th is the day we lost my mother and aunt to a drunk driver. It’s always a sad day for my family. I’m always emotional and fragile.

So, when the phone rang that Friday morning, I hoped for great news. I needed great news.

I didn’t get it.

Beyla needed surgery. Extremely expensive surgery.

Add in the fact that Beyla is and 18-year-old horse (high middle age), and that surgery is risky, that they might find something unfixable, or she could die on the table. After surgery there was no guarantee she’d live a normal life. And again, it would cost a bucketload of money.

But on that anniversary of a devastating loss, still grieving Tucker, I had to give her the chance.

Beyla went to surgery. I went to California.

I don’t regret either (though I will a bit when I have to budget in that vet bill).

Beyla is back at my friend’s barn to convalesce.

I am trying to catch up with too many projects.

This summer has knocked me down plenty. But I’m going to keep blowing on that ember of hope and getting back up.