Some of the Story behind the Horses

My first word was horse, except it really was a word I made up that meant horse.  Doi-Doi’s.  My brother, Mike, is probably the only one that remembers that.   My mom really could never let it go.  I remember saying to her once, “Mom.  I’m forty-three.  I call them horses now.  My point is that I’ve always loved horses.  One of my earliest memories, is my dad picking me up out of bed when we were staying with our aunts in San Luis.  He put on my pink furry coat over my pajamas and took me out on a frosty fall morning  to the big old sky blue Ford 150 we had back in the day.  I was little enough for a car seat, but that wasn’t a thing when I was growing up, instead I stood on the seat next to him, kind of tucked behind his shoulder, with my arms around his neck.  He drove me for what seemed miles over rutted dirt roads out to see wild horses that have been between San Luis and Manassa, Colorado for four hundred years.  I’ll never forget dad standing me on the tailgate of the pickup and handing me his binoculars (he called them field glasses) so I could see the horses in the distance.  They weren’t running, but kind of milling about a stream–all colors and so graceful and beautiful.  Even though I was so little, they took my breath away.

Everyone knows what a daddy’s girl I was.  To me, he was always everything.  I sometimes try to write about him but the tears just stream down my face until I can’t even see the screen.  For some reason, it’s easier to accept mom’s death.  Maybe because I was there when she asked for the machines to be turned off.  Maybe because I got to hold her hand during her last moments.  But dad died alone.  I try not think, “what if,” but my mind goes there anyway. What if I answered the phone call when the accident happened, instead of not letting it disrupt my bike ride?  What if I got to the hospital before they took dad in for surgery?  What if I told the surgeon about dad’s low blood pressure and past history during anesthesia?  Would I have been able to help save his life?  Would I have been able to say I love you one more time?  So everyone reading this knows my truth now.  These are the questions I live with every day. Add the fact that I loved my dad more than anyone on the planet and the result is living  in this crazy place of pain that I don’t even know how to face.

When my parents died, I waited for them to come to me in a dream.  Not that I was sleeping much.  Shayne was going through his first full blown psychosis and he was pacing around at night, talking to himself and I was alert and tense, because I just didn’t know what to expect from him anymore.  And when I did close my eyes, I’d see images of my mom being squeezed by the compression cuffs, or dad wrapped up in white blankets, already cold and that’s not the kind of dreams I wanted.   I was afraid to sleep.  But when the dream did come, Mom and Dad were on an island and they were happy, walking on the beach, hand in hand. There were wild horses standing around in the sea foam.  And I felt peace.  That made sense to me.  Mom grew up by the ocean.  My dad loved to fish.  Maybe that’s a funny vision of heaven, but I’m not one for angels and harps.

A few months after their death, I left everything behind for a few days, Darian in her sorrow, Shayne in his insanity, the dogs, my job, the mounting medical bills, and calls from the insurance agents and lawyers and flew to the East coast to meet with my brother, Kevin.  We sat in his hotel room until late remembering our childhood and then the next day, I drove to the beach.  It was rainy and cold and the hurricane of 2015 was already on the radar.  I walked for hours on the frothy edge of the sea, letting the spray and foam soak my skin.  I watched a boy cast his line off the pier, sinking it deep in the water.  He was tiny, but strong.  I stayed long enough to learn his name–Bobby– and he showed me a blue crab in his bucket. We shared a smile and it made me think of dad.  He would have loved to fish like that.  I flew back to Colorado, renewed, ready to face the challenges again.

When I found out that I had cancer, I kept thinking that I needed to get to the beach again, get back to that place of peace one more time.  So after my surgery, but before radiation, I took the kids to Chincoteague Island in Maryland.  Wild horses roam the shores.  It’s kind of a miracle that the horses can thrive on brackish water and rough sea grass, but they do.  They are tough and resilient because that’s what it takes to survive.   Sitting in the middle of the horses on the beach, I watched the kids diving in the water.  In many ways, it’s a miracle the three of us have made it this far, intact.  As much as I miss my parents, there are things I’m glad they have missed.  And I am super grateful that my dad didn’t have to watch me face cancer.  My pain would have been a lot for him.

The big horn sheep sculpture is for my father.  It’s a tribute to the land he loved and the beauty he found in wild things. Wild horses symbolize freedom, but also limitless possibilities.  And if I learned anything from my father, it was to work hard for your dreams.  I know he wouldn’t want me to feel guilty over his death.  He died the way he would have wanted, fast and without a lot of fuss. He was brave and kind and crazy strong.  I hope one day that I’ll be strong enough to brave the pain of losing him and be able to write and talk and laugh about all my memories.  But for now he’s in my heart every moment, getting me through…