The First Abu Dhabi Good-Bye

Last Thursday afternoon, in equal parts disbelief and denial, I sat in a metal chair beside the nurse's desk at Khalifa Urgent Care Clinic in Abu Dhabi.

"What brings you here?" an unsmiling nurse asked me.

"I was riding. I fell off a horse," I said, showing her the swollen middle finger on my left hand.

"Your first time?" she asked.

I began to feel as if I were in the confessional.

"No, I've ridden for a while," I said. "I broke my right arm in February - also falling off a horse."

"Not a very good rider," she said.

"You could say that," I said, nodding my head. I'd earned that one: my left middle finger turned out to be broken.

I had broken my right arm two months ago, in February. When I got the cast off after six long weeks, I told myself I wouldn't ride again. The healing process had been more difficult than I'd anticipated.

But over subsequent days, even as I decided to quit riding forever, the demands on my time/energy were mounting. Our eldest needed advice on which college he should attend. The mail needed sorting, the house needed de-cluttering, and the younger boys needed to organize play-dates. The height of the laundry began to rival the Hajar Mountains.

My inner self yearned for something just for me.

I got the okay from my doctor for riding, and I set up a private lesson. Sitting on the slowest horse in the stables, I was exuberant to be back in the saddle.

"I haven't that much fun in a long time," I told M that evening, smiling for the first time in weeks.

Last Thursday, my horse made an abrupt stop while cantering. I went over his head and onto the ground. I didn't do anything wrong, my teacher said. But accidents happen. My finger was killing me. I didn't yet know it was broken, but I knew I had to quit this sport.

I looked at my riding instructor. I felt very sad as I began my first Abu Dhabi good-bye.

I wished this gentle man much happiness and success in life, with his job, with his wife and his new baby. He wasn't a personal friend, but I liked him very much. His workday began at 6 a.m. every day except Friday. He grew up in Morocco, where his father had been a showjumping trainer. He was endlessly patient and an excellent rider himself. He spoke Arabic, French and English - sometimes all three in one lesson.

Over the time I knew him, I'd enjoyed hearing about his baby: it was the one area where I felt I could return the favor and offer him advice. I was leaving Abu Dhabi this summer. I knew I'd never see him again.

I mumbled good-bye and left, saving my tears for the car ride home.

Horses Are Beautiful

People look at the cast on my right arm, which I broke while riding, and they ask if I will ride again.

"Of course," I usually say with a smile.

From that point, only people who love riding think I am sane. The truth is, I miss it. But this injury has been more challenging than I anticipated. So I am on the fence as to what I'll do if this cast ever comes off. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)

I thought I'd post a few pictures of horse shows we attended (as viewers) this year and last year. All photos were taken by M at the Abu Dhabi Equestrian Club.

Third Trip to Emergency Room

Yesterday's riding lesson started out well but ended painfully.

I was excited because recently I've felt really comfortable riding and jumping. This is an activity I'd done a lot in the past but had left behind after college. Lately, my horse and I were like one going around the ring and gliding over the fences. I think I was happiest about the fact that I had no fear, that the whole exercise was a challenge I could meet.

But yesterday morning, about four paces after I cleared a fence, I lost my right stirrup. I couldn't slow my horse because I'd given her too much rein. I tried to hang on but I couldn't. Down I went into soft sand. I felt hurt but I tried to get up and crawl away from my horse in case she might step on me. Then I saw she was standing still, about two feet away. (Oh how I love that horse!)

"Frances, are you okay?" my teacher asked.

"I don't know," I said, feeling I shouldn't make too big a deal out of it.

He helped me stand up and brush off the sand I was covered in from head to toe.

"I think you're okay. Get back on and we go again," he said.


My teacher is a very nice man and an excellent instructor. He is from Morocco and speaks Arabic, French, and English - sometimes all three in a group lesson. I knew he wanted me to put the fall behind me by having a good finish to the class. But my right arm was killing me.

I drove myself to an emergency room and waited in the females' waiting room with about 12 local ladies covered in black. I closed my eyes and tried to keep my tears from spilling down my dusty face. Once again I found the emergency-room care to be excellent, though everything did take a long time. After two rounds of x-rays it was determined that I broke my arm, about two inches above the wrist, in three pieces.

About seven hours later I was ready to go home, my arm in a cast from the middle of my upper arm to the ends of the knuckles on my fingers. M drove me home and has been an angel ever since.


I can't ride or run or write long-hand, or do pretty much anything, for eight weeks.


But as usual, there's a silver lining to my incapacitation.


"I wish I could make you feel better, but I honestly don't know how to comfort the comforter," my 17-year-old said last night.


Everyone has been icredibly kind. My dear neighbors brought me chocolates and offered rides for our kids. My ten-year-old says he'll lead the kitchen clean-up for the next week. My 13-year-old daughter helps me dress and will wash my hair. My rambunctious eight-year-old says he will follow me from room to room, seeing what I need. What more could I ask for?