That which doesn't kill you

Robyn gathered the reins taught on the bit, gripped the inside rein against the neck of her pony, changed her lead and turned her eye ahead to the jump, guiding her pony out of the turn and into a straight five strides before the spread, or a long four, or a short six. Out of the turn, Robyn must have hesitated her leg. Rosie was a 13.5-hand pony, a short strided, stocky, broad barrel of mottled red with a feisty shetland attitude carried out with a long-legged grace normally seen in horses of taller stature. Robyn hesitated; Rosie hesitated. Long four? Short six? They chopped two strides after a too-short fourth and crashed through the three-foot oxer with a solid three-foot panel, and a six-inch solid pole behind the brush.

I remember the dust clouds, red and thick, blocking me from her. I remember Rosie tumbling over and scrambling from her back, standing up and shaking off. The reins over her neck, lying still on the ground, the saddle slipped down onto her rib cage, her neck arched to the ground, stunned but taking the opportunity to graze. The front panel of the fence was shattered like glass and Robyn over and across the back rail of the spread, snagged as if tossed and caught there. Dangling loose, lifeless.

Between that moment and the next time I saw her, a lot happened. I don't remember a minute of it. I've been told what happened, been told I tried to get her off the rail, been told the volume of my scream, my instructor pulling me back. I remember being told so many times that the words have become the memory itself, but the truth is that I do not remember living it.

For eight weeks I visited Robyn every day in the hospital. Bless my mother for the routine that was ours after school. She'd taxi me to the barn where I would school my horse, then she'd taxi me to the hospital where we would visit Robyn, then she'd taxi me home. Seven days a week for eight weeks.

Robyn was not wearing a helmet. Her head hit the solid back pole of the oxer. Her brain was swollen from the impact. She did not know who I was, who her mother was, who she was. She'd glance up from her hospital bed, her long hair falling across her eyes, her face, and look at me like an intruder she did not fear but wanted to ask What the hell are you doing here? She was 12 at the time, as was I. I dutifully made posters of horse show results, clipped photos of us from the barn, glued pictures I'd take of her beloved Rosie in her stall. Robyn would look at my weekly poster boards, look at me, and look at her perfectly still and curled feet as if they were all foreign. Not a glimmer of interest in her eyes.

And then Robyn would scream. She'd scream loud and high, terrified and angry. Her fists would go round inside themselves and she'd toss her head back, and kick her legs against the covers. The first time it happened, I froze. Staring at her, hearing that scream, I could have sworn that the Devil himself had crawled inside of her and made himself at home. Mom grabbed me by the shoulders and in a movement she would call guided and I would call thrown, I was suddenly out of the room. Nurses rushed in, the door shutting me out.

It happened often. Robyn's mother would come out to the hall, worn and tired, her hair falling from the barrette she always wore neatly at the nape of her neck, an order she couldn't achieve elsewhere in her life. She'd lost her husband years before in Vietnam, alone raising Robyn, their only child, she was tired in a way I couldn't begin to comprehend at the time. She would step outside while the nurses subdued Robyn, and run her fingers through my hair, tears in her eyes, and tell me that everything would be okay. She'd explain each day to me that Robyn's brain was swollen, she couldn't understand what was going on but it meant so much to her that I was there. Robyn's mother meant to say it meant so much to her, but she directed it to me that it meant so much to Robyn.

As quickly as Robyn's brain swelled, it returned to normal. Over night. Everyone said it was a miracle. I walked into her room, newly made poster in hand, and she was sitting in the chair. Hey, she said, with a smile. She didn't remember anything she'd been through, not even the accident. She did not know the eight weeks that had passed. She knew Rosie, she knew me, the other horses and riders at the barn, but not the detail of that day. We swallowed it whole, the other riders and I. Not a word was spoken. We had instructions and we followed them to the honor of our 12-year old ability. Not a word, ladies, or it could upset her.

The thought of upsetting Robyn gave me pictures of a swollen brain cracking through her skull, while she screamed that scream. I never said a word. Not even years later when I saw her stoned out of her mind at a Heart concert. I bought her a beer, but spoke not a word of that time.

This morning at the rehabilitation center, the therapist gently insisted that Mom stand up and use her walker to get to the bathroom. Mom gripped the arms of the wheelchair, tried to stand up and could not do so. She cried for a minute and then screamed a scream I hadn't heard the likes of since hearing Robyn. A scream of fear and anger, frustration and desperation, loud and bloody and angry. Everyone on the floor looked up and I imagined birds flying from the trees outside the building. I imagine cars screeching to a stop, traffic lights blinking, my own heart stopping. I remembered Robyn's mother with her fingers in my hair, telling me it would be okay, that Robyn's brain was swollen and she couldn't understand but knew I was there. I looked at my mother and realized why I went through this with Robyn, that I was years and years ago prepared for this moment.

In a calm voice, I told the Physical Therapist to let me take care of it. It's okay, Mom, I love you. I need you to look at me and stand up.

Mom looks at me and stands. There you go, I have you, don't worry. There you go. It's okay, I have you. Mom looks at me, and decides to trust me. It's more mental than a feeling, but she chooses nonetheless.

In my hair, I feel Robyn's mother placing her fingers as I guide my Mom in her walker, arm around her waist, shuffling to the bathroom. I hear Robyn's mother tell me it will be okay, as I tell my own mother, it's okay Mom, I have you. I'm here, it's okay.