We used to lay sheepskin blankets over our horses’ backs, protecting patients’ gastrostomy tubes from catching on the nappy felt pads. We learned to work with G-tubes, tracheostomy tubes, AFOs, and hearing aids, and at some point our sense of normal was flipped on its head. Looking past the medical baggage we would see a two-year old learning to tell her horse to go and stop, or a pair of teenagers talking movies while they warmed-up their horses for a group lesson. Mundane and ordinary, our conversations rarely touched on their so-called disability. But every now and then an event would occur to shatter these attempts at normalization, and all too quickly we’re faced with a truth both sharp and dangerous.
“I had a clean MRI.” She’s a little peanut of child fresh from her day at summer camp, still wearing the hand written name tag proclaiming her assignment to the orange group. She refuses to be called Miss or Princess, she’s just herself and you better remember it. “Whatever happens, I know it’ll be okay because I’m not going to die.” She delivers these statements while clipping oversized ladybug clothespins to her horse’s mane, casually throwing it out there as if we’d asked her favorite ice cream. You realize despite the headband and floral appliquéd shirt this is not a child, this is a person who is grappling with the very adult reality of life and its fragility.
Working with a survivor is akin to a crucible, an experience that acts to distill you into your most pure self. You want to be the very best person you can be, to do everything within your power to be worthy of the person in front of you. You stop acting and start feeling. Smiles aren’t forced, laughter isn’t faked. For the next 30 minutes you give all of yourself. The session inevitably comes to end, she dismounts, goodbyes are exchanged, and the horse is led back to its stall. The saturated reality of life and death begins to fade, replaced with something softer.
Each week isn’t an epiphany. But each week we come a little closer to being worthy.
