The first time one of our young patients remembers your name is wonderful.  It’s the moment when you start to feel like you’re doing something special, making a difference.  You’re not just a sidewalker, a header, or a horse handler, you’re an individual, and someone would like to know why you’re not wearing your red baseball cap today.

The very first patient to remember my name was a little girl with a memory that could rival even the most astute of elephants.  Standing barely taller than her horse’s belly, she easily climbed the steps of the mounting block and upon settling herself on the horse’s back, turned towards me and asked my name.  Though she’d go on to ask that same question every ride for the next month, it was the only time she needed a response, and when told she already knew my name, would dutifully reply with the correct answer.     

The recollection of a person’s name is so much more than merely recognizing a face; it’s recognizing a person’s entire set of idiosyncrasies, past interactions, and inherent personality.  It’s saying I remember you; you’re the person who sings that ridiculous song about a whale with a polka dot tail, that’s my favorite, will you sing it again?  And then they smile, and it’s the most beautiful smile full of tiny white teeth, and it seems as if it’s just for you.

It’s easy to feel as though you’re one of an endless sea of volunteers or staff, easily replaced and then soon forgotten.  But if you think of all the times you’ve made a child happy, a child who might otherwise feel imperfect or marginalized, you’ll come to realize that you’re of vital importance.  Only you can get that little boy to stop saying no and start saying yes.  You’re the person who can lead Valentine while counting to ten in Romanian.  It’s you who knows why Pluto isn’t in his TeePee on the sensory trail (he’s on vacation is Disneyland).  You’re special and we will always remember your name.