I never would have gone up in a helicopter if it hadn’t been for Shirley MacLaine.
Standing in a small bookshop in the Los Angeles Airport on a stopover to Tucson, I noticed a prominent display of bestsellers stacked in a tall pyramid just inside the shop. At the top stood Shirley MacLaine’s book, The Camino.
Having read a couple of MacLaine’s earlier spiritual journeys, I had found them charming, if not altogether believable. Imagining that this would be more of the same, I picked it up and examined the front cover.
A woman wearing a suede hiking jacket and sturdy jeans walked determinedly through the tall grass, swaying in the breeze. She bore the burden of a giant backpack and carried a long, curved, birch branch. A wide-brimmed hat was tilted down over her eyes, which studied the path in front of her. Snow-capped mountains and billowy white clouds graced the background.
The picture seemed a little too perfect. Turning the book over, I read the jacket copy.
"This is the story of a journey… that began with anonymous letters imploring Shirley to make a difficult pilgrimage along the…Camino in Spain."
Shaking my head in disbelief, I wondered what the people who wrote the anonymous letters did for a living.
"People from St. Francis of Assisi and Charlemagne to Ferdinand and Isabella to Dante and Chaucer have taken the journey … a nearly 500-mile trek across highways and fields, mountains and valleys, cities and towns. Now it would be Shirley’s turn…"
Ugh. Only Shirley MacLaine would rise to the level of St. Francis of Assisi and Dante and Chaucer and everybody else to take a 500-mile trek across God knows where.
"…A woman in her sixth decade completing such a grueling trip on foot in thirty days at a rate of twenty miles per day was nothing short of remarkable…"
It just figures that Shirley is in her SIXTH decade. Here I am in my forties, afraid to drive from New York to New Jersey. What normal person could possibly make a journey like this?
I put the book down, purposely not replacing it on its pyramid perch. Envious of Shirley’s courage, spirituality, freedom, and money, I pouted for the rest of the flight to Arizona, thinking of my own insecurity, lack of spirituality, family responsibilities, and financial needs.
In the Tucson International Airport, my husband went to get the rental car while my daughter and I waited, stopping at a rack of brochures. I took one for the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum and the Saguaro National Park, put one back for the shopping mall in Phoenix.
My hand soon rested on a bright orange and blue pamphlet reading: Grand Canyon Helicopter Flights. A white helicopter with a tail bearing the colors of the rainbow was shown flying through the red rock gorges of the Grand Canyon, amazed tourists peering from the curved windows. As I clutched the brochure, my heart started beating faster.
I have to do this. I need to take that helicopter flight. For an average forty-three-year-old woman from upstate New York, that would be my “pequeno camino” (my little journey).
Move over, Shirley MacLaine!
Not wanting to take the flight alone, I spent the next two days badgering my family to go up in a helicopter.
“Mom, why do you want to do this? You’re always afraid of everything,” said my eleven-year-old daughter.
“Because I’m tired of being afraid of everything…” My daughter and husband exchanged knowing looks. They agreed to stop at the heliport on our way to the Grand Canyon.
As we drove into the first place with a sign proclaiming “Helicopter Rides,” I felt anxious. Plain helicopters surrounded a tiny white building. The scene was nothing like the picture on the brochure.
The second heliport was worse, looking almost abandoned. We continued on, my dream of the journey diminishing.
Hope emerged as we drove down a long narrow road toward the third heliport, bright colors visible through the trees. Reaching a clearing, I could see about twenty shiny, white, futuristic helicopters with huge windows and rainbow-colored tails, some taking off, propellers whirling, excited tourists smiling from inside.
“This is it!” I cried.
My family took me up on the offer to make it my Mother’s Day and birthday gift. We were each given a card with a number on it. Mine was number one.
Preparing to load us into the helicopter, the guide beckoned to me first. The realization struck me that I was to sit in the front seat right next to the pilot. I waved to my husband and daughter in the back, mouthed the words “Thank you” and sat back.
Was it scary? Yes. Empowering? Yes. Unforgettable? Yes. I was above the most beautiful amazing red rock world, gliding over endless canyons, gorges, precipices and spires.
At touchdown, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment. Although I had not trekked five hundred miles across mountains and fields, I had done something I had never imagined doing, conquered fears, perhaps taught my daughter and myself to take risks, discovered a new sense of confidence, and shared it all with my family. Not bad for an average woman from upstate New York.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Dissection
In the dark of night, at the age of forty-one, I should have been nestled in my husband’s arms, listening for my daughter’s even breathing in the next room. Instead, I lay on my bed, very still, eyes tight, my face pressed to the sheet, thoughts focused on just continuing to breathe. I had never felt such pain. I could hardly lift my head off the mattress. A repetitive, rushing sound echoed through my ears with every heartbeat.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Sliding to the floor and crawling to the bathroom, I urinated then threw up. Breathing shallow and rapid, hands and lips tingling, head in agony, the room spun. My husband, Bob, on the cold tile floor, cradled my shivering body with his arms as I leaned heavily against his chest between bouts of sickness.
My moment has come, I thought. Funny how difficult it is to imagine a medical emergency before it happens. I always thought mine would involve crushing chest pain or a hard lump in the breast. I never imagined it would be my head.
Back in bed, I held my afflicted head in my hands, trying to block out the pain, noise, and fear and fighting to think only of my nine-year-old daughter, Lily.
I can’t be sick. I will not be sick. I refuse to be sick.
Wanting desperately to go anywhere but the hospital, I was terrified that I would never come home.
Please don’t take me to the hospital.
In the emergency room, the doctor’s expression changed from an unconcerned smile as we explained I had an excruciating headache, to a look of gravity when I added there was a whooshing noise in my head. A day of tests—brain MRI, carotid ultrasound, blood tests, and X-rays produced no answers. Then, the neurologist came in.
“I’m afraid the noise in your head indicates that you probably have a venous malformation in your brain. If so, it will require surgery.” A venous malformation is a congenital problem that can cause bleeding.
I know I should have felt relieved to have an answer, but instead, I felt angry. I did not want to hear his words. Until this moment, everyone had been smiling and hopeful. All of the tests had been negative. This doctor was serious and unwavering and was telling me I needed brain surgery.
Brain surgery—something most of us never think we will need. Brains are taken for granted. I could not imagine having brain surgery.
I needed one last test—an arteriogram—in which the artery in my groin would be punctured, a catheter inserted and threaded up through my aorta and into my brain arteries, where dye would be squirted while we all watched it on television.
The test had risks—bleeding, paralysis, death. The neuroradiologist came in with a consent form, assuring me that none of his patients had ever suffered any of these problems. Signing the form, I wondered whether the statistical probabilities were against me.
On the way to radiology, the breeze in the hallway blew through my hospital gown and the thin blanket covering me as I lay on a stretcher, the pain and noise in my head constant. Two male technicians wheeled me into a cold operating room where everything was stainless steel. They moved trays of utensils onto tables laid with white sheets. The table was hard, lights bright.
I tried to joke so they would like me and fight hard for my life. We talked about line dancing, Girl Scouts, local restaurants. They allowed me to sit up even though I was supposed to lie down. One said the neuroradiologist did not think this test would show anything. What did that mean? Should I even have this test?
The doctor injected my groin six times with a local anesthetic. Then he prepared to pierce the artery with a catheter. Having my groin punctured was just like it sounds—someone stabs you hard with a sharp instrument. I endured several stabbings before it was successful.
Once the catheter made its journey from groin to brain, dye was intermittently injected. Each time, I felt a rush of hot, prickling nerve endings dancing on a section of my face. Finally, the rush came to an area in the back of my head.
“You are touching exactly where the pain comes from,” I said.
“You mean I’m making it hurt more?” asked the doctor.
“No, you are touching the very spot exactly.”
The neuroradiologist took pictures from every possible angle in that area of my brain and found what we were all looking for—the vertebral artery was dissected or torn. The noise in my head was caused by swelling in the artery, which was so bad that the blood almost couldn’t get through. Every time the blood tried to force its way through the almost occluded artery, it made a whooshing sound.
Vertebral artery dissection was a better diagnosis because the treatment did not include brain surgery. Given time, the artery should heal itself. However, because blood was having such a hard time getting through the swollen artery, I was in danger of having a stroke.
Being in danger is a frightening thing. My head overflowed with images of the worst-case scenario—paralysis, blindness, my family living on without me. Yet, being obsessed with the unthinkable showed that my brain was still functioning.
The doctors discharged me after one night in the hospital with few instructions: pain medication and bed rest as needed, activity around the house as tolerated, call the office for an appointment.
For weeks, the pain and noise were unrelenting. Nights were worse, as the pain inexplicably intensified, at times making me frantic. Bob fixed cool washcloths for my head, rubbed my back, distracted me, and enfolded me in his arms.
Over three months, the noise in my head gradually disappeared, but I was left with frequent intense headaches. Headaches interfered with my activity and commitments. I kept trying but, at times, had a feeling of suspension, of holding my breath and waiting for my life to get back to normal.
Sometimes, not knowing the extent of your limitations is a good thing. But, eventually, a time comes when it is better to acknowledge the truth—that you are, in fact, altered. At the end of two years, I finally understood that I had suffered a permanent loss. Although my body looked the same, pieces were missing.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Sliding to the floor and crawling to the bathroom, I urinated then threw up. Breathing shallow and rapid, hands and lips tingling, head in agony, the room spun. My husband, Bob, on the cold tile floor, cradled my shivering body with his arms as I leaned heavily against his chest between bouts of sickness.
My moment has come, I thought. Funny how difficult it is to imagine a medical emergency before it happens. I always thought mine would involve crushing chest pain or a hard lump in the breast. I never imagined it would be my head.
Back in bed, I held my afflicted head in my hands, trying to block out the pain, noise, and fear and fighting to think only of my nine-year-old daughter, Lily.
I can’t be sick. I will not be sick. I refuse to be sick.
Wanting desperately to go anywhere but the hospital, I was terrified that I would never come home.
Please don’t take me to the hospital.
In the emergency room, the doctor’s expression changed from an unconcerned smile as we explained I had an excruciating headache, to a look of gravity when I added there was a whooshing noise in my head. A day of tests—brain MRI, carotid ultrasound, blood tests, and X-rays produced no answers. Then, the neurologist came in.
“I’m afraid the noise in your head indicates that you probably have a venous malformation in your brain. If so, it will require surgery.” A venous malformation is a congenital problem that can cause bleeding.
I know I should have felt relieved to have an answer, but instead, I felt angry. I did not want to hear his words. Until this moment, everyone had been smiling and hopeful. All of the tests had been negative. This doctor was serious and unwavering and was telling me I needed brain surgery.
Brain surgery—something most of us never think we will need. Brains are taken for granted. I could not imagine having brain surgery.
I needed one last test—an arteriogram—in which the artery in my groin would be punctured, a catheter inserted and threaded up through my aorta and into my brain arteries, where dye would be squirted while we all watched it on television.
The test had risks—bleeding, paralysis, death. The neuroradiologist came in with a consent form, assuring me that none of his patients had ever suffered any of these problems. Signing the form, I wondered whether the statistical probabilities were against me.
On the way to radiology, the breeze in the hallway blew through my hospital gown and the thin blanket covering me as I lay on a stretcher, the pain and noise in my head constant. Two male technicians wheeled me into a cold operating room where everything was stainless steel. They moved trays of utensils onto tables laid with white sheets. The table was hard, lights bright.
I tried to joke so they would like me and fight hard for my life. We talked about line dancing, Girl Scouts, local restaurants. They allowed me to sit up even though I was supposed to lie down. One said the neuroradiologist did not think this test would show anything. What did that mean? Should I even have this test?
The doctor injected my groin six times with a local anesthetic. Then he prepared to pierce the artery with a catheter. Having my groin punctured was just like it sounds—someone stabs you hard with a sharp instrument. I endured several stabbings before it was successful.
Once the catheter made its journey from groin to brain, dye was intermittently injected. Each time, I felt a rush of hot, prickling nerve endings dancing on a section of my face. Finally, the rush came to an area in the back of my head.
“You are touching exactly where the pain comes from,” I said.
“You mean I’m making it hurt more?” asked the doctor.
“No, you are touching the very spot exactly.”
The neuroradiologist took pictures from every possible angle in that area of my brain and found what we were all looking for—the vertebral artery was dissected or torn. The noise in my head was caused by swelling in the artery, which was so bad that the blood almost couldn’t get through. Every time the blood tried to force its way through the almost occluded artery, it made a whooshing sound.
Vertebral artery dissection was a better diagnosis because the treatment did not include brain surgery. Given time, the artery should heal itself. However, because blood was having such a hard time getting through the swollen artery, I was in danger of having a stroke.
Being in danger is a frightening thing. My head overflowed with images of the worst-case scenario—paralysis, blindness, my family living on without me. Yet, being obsessed with the unthinkable showed that my brain was still functioning.
The doctors discharged me after one night in the hospital with few instructions: pain medication and bed rest as needed, activity around the house as tolerated, call the office for an appointment.
For weeks, the pain and noise were unrelenting. Nights were worse, as the pain inexplicably intensified, at times making me frantic. Bob fixed cool washcloths for my head, rubbed my back, distracted me, and enfolded me in his arms.
Over three months, the noise in my head gradually disappeared, but I was left with frequent intense headaches. Headaches interfered with my activity and commitments. I kept trying but, at times, had a feeling of suspension, of holding my breath and waiting for my life to get back to normal.
Sometimes, not knowing the extent of your limitations is a good thing. But, eventually, a time comes when it is better to acknowledge the truth—that you are, in fact, altered. At the end of two years, I finally understood that I had suffered a permanent loss. Although my body looked the same, pieces were missing.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
A Posh Shop in Westport
A week after you were diagnosed with breast cancer, you walked into a posh shop in Westport, Connecticut—the kind where your shoes sink deep into plush carpeting and gentle music graces the background. When you entered, your heart was pounding. You were afraid that by simply walking in you stood out—an obvious, though invisible, imperfection inside you was certain to be detected.
But the store owner, a thirtyish woman, with dark hair and eyes, was unfazed by your entry. She simply smiled and said hello.
You looked around with your friend Molly, who had accompanied you for moral support. Short mannequin heads with big hair were everywhere, one after the other, in probably 200 different shades of brown, blonde, black, and red.
For a moment you thought about surprising Mike, Dana, and Scott by coming home a glamorous blonde or maybe a redhead. Instead, you began to search for a wig that matched your own frosted brown.
Molly helped you try one on. Your heart sank.
“It looks so much like—a wig,” you told Molly.
“I know. It just seems like so much hair,” she said.
The store owner intervened at just the right moment. She assured you that they did, in fact, have hundreds of shades so they would certainly find one to match your color perfectly. Then, a hairdresser would cut the wig to exactly match your hairstyle so, after you lost your hair from chemo, you would continue to look just like—you.
She encouraged you to pick out as many beautiful or fun scarves and hats as you wanted. The cost of the hats, scarves, and wig would be covered by insurance as medical prostheses.
Amazed, you and Molly actually began to have fun. You tried on so many things and eventually picked out a baseball cap, a silk scarf long enough to wrap around your head three times, and a wonderful straw beach hat with a wide brim.
You were ready to face losing your hair.
It happened at your mother’s house. The kids were inside. You and your mom were lying in the back yard on chaise lounges, feeling the summer sun on your faces, murmuring in conversation. You reached up and scratched your head. A clump of hair came out. You did it again. Another clump.
Your mom hurried inside returning with a plastic zip lock bag. Together, you filled it. When your hair was half gone, you called the kids to come outside and see you so they could get used to the transition. They didn’t think you looked too bad. You and your mom continued to pluck out your hair until you looked like a fuzzy baby bird.
Finally, your mother took a step back, looked at you, and said, “I wonder how many other mothers and daughters are doing this today.”
But the store owner, a thirtyish woman, with dark hair and eyes, was unfazed by your entry. She simply smiled and said hello.
You looked around with your friend Molly, who had accompanied you for moral support. Short mannequin heads with big hair were everywhere, one after the other, in probably 200 different shades of brown, blonde, black, and red.
For a moment you thought about surprising Mike, Dana, and Scott by coming home a glamorous blonde or maybe a redhead. Instead, you began to search for a wig that matched your own frosted brown.
Molly helped you try one on. Your heart sank.
“It looks so much like—a wig,” you told Molly.
“I know. It just seems like so much hair,” she said.
The store owner intervened at just the right moment. She assured you that they did, in fact, have hundreds of shades so they would certainly find one to match your color perfectly. Then, a hairdresser would cut the wig to exactly match your hairstyle so, after you lost your hair from chemo, you would continue to look just like—you.
She encouraged you to pick out as many beautiful or fun scarves and hats as you wanted. The cost of the hats, scarves, and wig would be covered by insurance as medical prostheses.
Amazed, you and Molly actually began to have fun. You tried on so many things and eventually picked out a baseball cap, a silk scarf long enough to wrap around your head three times, and a wonderful straw beach hat with a wide brim.
You were ready to face losing your hair.
It happened at your mother’s house. The kids were inside. You and your mom were lying in the back yard on chaise lounges, feeling the summer sun on your faces, murmuring in conversation. You reached up and scratched your head. A clump of hair came out. You did it again. Another clump.
Your mom hurried inside returning with a plastic zip lock bag. Together, you filled it. When your hair was half gone, you called the kids to come outside and see you so they could get used to the transition. They didn’t think you looked too bad. You and your mom continued to pluck out your hair until you looked like a fuzzy baby bird.
Finally, your mother took a step back, looked at you, and said, “I wonder how many other mothers and daughters are doing this today.”
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Letter to Al Pacino
Dear Mr. Pacino,
You walked into Joe Allen’s, moving faster through a restaurant than anyone I had ever seen. Your fast stride made me notice you. Your oversized black coat also made me look. I knew right away that you were wearing the same coat that enveloped you on the beach in the movie, The Insider. Your eyes stared intensely yet appeared not to see anything. Was it really you?
I asked the waitress, “Isn’t that Al Pacino?”
“I’m not supposed to say, but it is.”
“Sue,” I said to my sister-in-law. “Get up. Leave your stuff. C’mon let's go.” I don’t know why I felt the urge to hurry. It was instinctual, kind of like an adrenaline reaction.
As we approached your table, Mr. Pacino, I became painfully aware that you were not only a celebrity, but a man, like any other man and that I had made a terrible mistake. When you saw us striding toward you, your head jerked to the side and your face grimaced as if you were in pain. Despite what I interpreted as your anguish, it was too late to turn back. We were already standing at your table and I had already thrust a used cocktail napkin and pen at you, which you seemed to accept automatically.
“Mr. Pacino,” I said, “we just wanted to tell you…how much…we have enjoyed your movies…”
“We don’t get out much,” Sue said, trying to explain our behavior.
When the corners of your mouth turned up in a perfunctory half smile and you looked like you might vomit, I tried to take the napkin back. “Oh please, Mr. Pacino,” I begged. “You don’t have to sign that—really! Really, PLEASE DON’T SIGN IT. We just wanted to tell you we are great fans…”
For the first time, our eyes made contact. You began to laugh and your whole body seemed to relax. Mine did too. You signed my battered napkin, then reached out to shake our hands—a firm, friendly handshake offered with a wide grin. Even though I cannot read what you wrote on the cocktail napkin (hopefully, it’s not an obscenity—that’s not why you were laughing, is it?) I will cherish it always because it reminds me that celebrities are human beings and that fame is only a perception.
At first, we thought that nothing could be more memorable than meeting you, Mr. Pacino. But we were wrong. There were more memorable moments during this rare visit to New York City.
A man died on the sidewalk in front of our eyes. Minutes earlier, he had been laughing at a table next to ours in Charley O’s Restaurant. But on the way to the theatre, we passed his body on the sidewalk. People just walked by as two firemen pumped on his chest. His blonde companion stamped her spiky black high heels, repeating, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” But he continued to lie there unresponsive.
We went on to Edward Albee’s play The Goat, about a man who was having an affair with a goat named Sylvia. The wife, played brilliantly by Sally Field, spent much of the play enraged, breaking dishes and vases and talking and yelling about love and hurt and pain and—how could he be having an affair with a goat? The story stunned us with grief and hysterical laughter and we craved a chance to read or hear the lines again.
Okay, I’ll admit it. I spent $95 on a black velvet scarf with red, green, and gold flowers that change colors with the light. I’ve never bought anything so extravagant, but hey, it was New York City and it was Saks.
I saw my best friend from law school who has breast cancer and no hair. I got to wrap my arms around her and hug her like I’ve wanted to everyday since she started chemo. I returned home to my husband and daughter who I am rarely away from. Getting home was the best part of the trip.
So Mr. Pacino, I just wanted to tell you that I understand now what Anna Scott was trying to tell Will in Notting Hill when she said, “The fame thing isn’t real, ya know.”
Life and death are real. Love is real. New York City is real. And you are real.
It was nice meeting you.
Sincerely,
Robyn Ringler
Published in "Women's Letters: America from the Revolutionary War to the Present" edited by Lisa Grunwald and Stephen J. Adler, The Dial Press (2005)
You walked into Joe Allen’s, moving faster through a restaurant than anyone I had ever seen. Your fast stride made me notice you. Your oversized black coat also made me look. I knew right away that you were wearing the same coat that enveloped you on the beach in the movie, The Insider. Your eyes stared intensely yet appeared not to see anything. Was it really you?
I asked the waitress, “Isn’t that Al Pacino?”
“I’m not supposed to say, but it is.”
“Sue,” I said to my sister-in-law. “Get up. Leave your stuff. C’mon let's go.” I don’t know why I felt the urge to hurry. It was instinctual, kind of like an adrenaline reaction.
As we approached your table, Mr. Pacino, I became painfully aware that you were not only a celebrity, but a man, like any other man and that I had made a terrible mistake. When you saw us striding toward you, your head jerked to the side and your face grimaced as if you were in pain. Despite what I interpreted as your anguish, it was too late to turn back. We were already standing at your table and I had already thrust a used cocktail napkin and pen at you, which you seemed to accept automatically.
“Mr. Pacino,” I said, “we just wanted to tell you…how much…we have enjoyed your movies…”
“We don’t get out much,” Sue said, trying to explain our behavior.
When the corners of your mouth turned up in a perfunctory half smile and you looked like you might vomit, I tried to take the napkin back. “Oh please, Mr. Pacino,” I begged. “You don’t have to sign that—really! Really, PLEASE DON’T SIGN IT. We just wanted to tell you we are great fans…”
For the first time, our eyes made contact. You began to laugh and your whole body seemed to relax. Mine did too. You signed my battered napkin, then reached out to shake our hands—a firm, friendly handshake offered with a wide grin. Even though I cannot read what you wrote on the cocktail napkin (hopefully, it’s not an obscenity—that’s not why you were laughing, is it?) I will cherish it always because it reminds me that celebrities are human beings and that fame is only a perception.
At first, we thought that nothing could be more memorable than meeting you, Mr. Pacino. But we were wrong. There were more memorable moments during this rare visit to New York City.
A man died on the sidewalk in front of our eyes. Minutes earlier, he had been laughing at a table next to ours in Charley O’s Restaurant. But on the way to the theatre, we passed his body on the sidewalk. People just walked by as two firemen pumped on his chest. His blonde companion stamped her spiky black high heels, repeating, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” But he continued to lie there unresponsive.
We went on to Edward Albee’s play The Goat, about a man who was having an affair with a goat named Sylvia. The wife, played brilliantly by Sally Field, spent much of the play enraged, breaking dishes and vases and talking and yelling about love and hurt and pain and—how could he be having an affair with a goat? The story stunned us with grief and hysterical laughter and we craved a chance to read or hear the lines again.
Okay, I’ll admit it. I spent $95 on a black velvet scarf with red, green, and gold flowers that change colors with the light. I’ve never bought anything so extravagant, but hey, it was New York City and it was Saks.
I saw my best friend from law school who has breast cancer and no hair. I got to wrap my arms around her and hug her like I’ve wanted to everyday since she started chemo. I returned home to my husband and daughter who I am rarely away from. Getting home was the best part of the trip.
So Mr. Pacino, I just wanted to tell you that I understand now what Anna Scott was trying to tell Will in Notting Hill when she said, “The fame thing isn’t real, ya know.”
Life and death are real. Love is real. New York City is real. And you are real.
It was nice meeting you.
Sincerely,
Robyn Ringler
Published in "Women's Letters: America from the Revolutionary War to the Present" edited by Lisa Grunwald and Stephen J. Adler, The Dial Press (2005)
Hanging with Horses
At twelve years old, my daughter, Lily, wanted a horse. As a trial, we rented a beautiful red chestnut with a white blaze named Dan. The first day, Lily saddled and bridled Dan, slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung her body up with ease. They jogged, cantered, and raced around barrels. Then she slid off and handed me the reins.
I never rode before but—how hard could it be? I had watched every lesson since Lily was five. And watching lessons paid off. With just a flick of the reins, Dan turned left and right and walked in circles. Riding a horse was thrilling—until it was time to get off.
When I thought about getting down, my breath left me. It seemed as if the horse’s legs had grown taller. Lily tried to talk me through it: “Mom, just hold the saddle horn, lean forward, then swing your leg over and slide down.”
I grabbed the horn with both hands and laid my chest against it. It felt safer to have my body close against Dan’s. I swung my leg over, slid down, and tried to jump to the ground.
But I only landed on my toes. Something kept my feet from touching the ground. I realized then that the front of my bra had gotten hooked around the top of the saddle horn. Holding the reins with my right hand, I tried to pry the bra up with my left. It wouldn’t budge.
My breath quickened as I imagined Dan running away with me suspended at his side. I looked for Lily to help. But, when she saw me dangling by my bra, she took a step back and scanned the ring to see if anybody was watching. No one was there.
“Mom…stop it, get off the horse.”
“I can’t,” I said, “come here and help.”
An image flashed through my mind of what I must look like pinned to the horse by my undergarments. I was hooked at the sternum, frantically pulling at the bra with my left hand, clenching the reins with my right. My shirt scrunched into a midriff exposing my belly. The tips of my toes barely touched the ground.
Laughter overtook me with silent, involuntary gasps. Lily’s furrowed eyebrows and entrenched feet only made me more hysterical.
“Mom, c’mon—get down.”
“I’m telling you, I can’t. Lily, you have to help me—please.” I could understand Lily’s embarrassment. At twelve, the sight of my mother hanging from a horse by her bra would have embarrassed me too.
Dan began to walk forward. With each step, the front of my bra slid further down the saddle horn. I tried to say an authoritative “Whoa” but I was helpless with laughter. As Dan galumphed forward, my shirt inched higher and, one by one, my breasts popped out of the bra.
I learned then that an adolescent girl will not help a half naked mother hanging from a horse. When she saw my bare breasts, Lily turned her back and started walking toward the door.
“Lily!” I called. “Don’t go! You have to help me!”
Tears streamed from my eyes, my body shook, and I could hardly breathe but, despite the laughter, I was starting to panic—more so now that Lily was leaving.
The barn door rumbled open. A woman in riding gear strode in. By the time I called for help, my shirt and bra were bunched up around my neck—I was completely naked from the waist up—and still dangling at Dan’s side. She hurried over, struggled to release my bra, and set me free.
Dan stood unfazed.
I never rode before but—how hard could it be? I had watched every lesson since Lily was five. And watching lessons paid off. With just a flick of the reins, Dan turned left and right and walked in circles. Riding a horse was thrilling—until it was time to get off.
When I thought about getting down, my breath left me. It seemed as if the horse’s legs had grown taller. Lily tried to talk me through it: “Mom, just hold the saddle horn, lean forward, then swing your leg over and slide down.”
I grabbed the horn with both hands and laid my chest against it. It felt safer to have my body close against Dan’s. I swung my leg over, slid down, and tried to jump to the ground.
But I only landed on my toes. Something kept my feet from touching the ground. I realized then that the front of my bra had gotten hooked around the top of the saddle horn. Holding the reins with my right hand, I tried to pry the bra up with my left. It wouldn’t budge.
My breath quickened as I imagined Dan running away with me suspended at his side. I looked for Lily to help. But, when she saw me dangling by my bra, she took a step back and scanned the ring to see if anybody was watching. No one was there.
“Mom…stop it, get off the horse.”
“I can’t,” I said, “come here and help.”
An image flashed through my mind of what I must look like pinned to the horse by my undergarments. I was hooked at the sternum, frantically pulling at the bra with my left hand, clenching the reins with my right. My shirt scrunched into a midriff exposing my belly. The tips of my toes barely touched the ground.
Laughter overtook me with silent, involuntary gasps. Lily’s furrowed eyebrows and entrenched feet only made me more hysterical.
“Mom, c’mon—get down.”
“I’m telling you, I can’t. Lily, you have to help me—please.” I could understand Lily’s embarrassment. At twelve, the sight of my mother hanging from a horse by her bra would have embarrassed me too.
Dan began to walk forward. With each step, the front of my bra slid further down the saddle horn. I tried to say an authoritative “Whoa” but I was helpless with laughter. As Dan galumphed forward, my shirt inched higher and, one by one, my breasts popped out of the bra.
I learned then that an adolescent girl will not help a half naked mother hanging from a horse. When she saw my bare breasts, Lily turned her back and started walking toward the door.
“Lily!” I called. “Don’t go! You have to help me!”
Tears streamed from my eyes, my body shook, and I could hardly breathe but, despite the laughter, I was starting to panic—more so now that Lily was leaving.
The barn door rumbled open. A woman in riding gear strode in. By the time I called for help, my shirt and bra were bunched up around my neck—I was completely naked from the waist up—and still dangling at Dan’s side. She hurried over, struggled to release my bra, and set me free.
Dan stood unfazed.
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