Grief catches me off guard, taps me on the shoulder when I don’t expect it. Today at my office in the midst of insurance pre-authorizations, my highlighters and Zebra pen stopped me in my tracks. When I was little, I would sit in my dad’s office and color with his highlighters. He was an insurance agent and his amazing secretaries would make copies for me of a form that had a car on it, that he would use to mark damage when someone came by to file a claim. These were my favorite coloring sheets of all time and I poured a lot of time and energy into coloring these pages to perfection. I remember pulling open his desk drawer and coming across Zebra pens. In my adult life, those are my go-to pens, because they remind me of him. Today I suddenly and unexpectedly thought of my dad. It was minutes after I had submitted our National Aphasia Association bio for edits. It was minutes before I exchanged updates with an SLP at Mayo for my patient who is part of Mayo’s aphasia research. At the end of his life, he couldn’t talk. And because of him, I made it my mission to give that back to people who lost it, with the people who believe in the power of communication as much as I do. Grief catches me off guard, but it also drives me. And sometimes when you least expect it, it taps you on the shoulder.
He sat through the entire competition weekend, even though he had other plans. He was awoken at 5am because it was time to start getting ready, so he put the pillow over his head and he didn’t complain. The hotel room lights got turned on a few times too many, even though we had already set out everything we needed for the next morning, but I forgot to steam the costumes and I couldn’t find the new pack of eyelashes.
He watched dance after dance until it was her turn. For those three minutes, he gave her his undivided and I know I saw a tear in his eye and he looked as if his heart could burst with pride. He complains about the time dance requires, but I know for a fact that when she is on that stage, no one is prouder than he is. He had a game pulled up on his phone through half of the day, just like the other dad who was sitting 3 seats away. I didn’t even care – he still chose to drive across the state with us this weekend so he could be here for her, and he sat through 260 dances.
The awards adjudication had started and he couldn’t remember the award system and I couldn’t blame him because sometimes it doesn’t make sense, like why does the order go ‘gold’ to ‘high gold’ but then ‘platinum’ isn’t followed by ‘high platinum’. The next competition will be a completely different awards hierarchy and he will ask the same questions again and drill us about why they can’t all be the same, becuase this time we want a diamond and not a crystal. He doesn’t understand why she can’t just eat the snacks we pack, but he still drove across town to get her favorite meal.
He is used to sports that are games, sports that have a start time and an end time and a score that isn’t objective. Dance competitions are a marathon. They last all day (and I mean alllll day), but he will sit there all day, because he loves her that much.
He knows the work she has put into getting here. He has seen her get caught up on her homework after a late night of dance. He has watched the sacrifices she has made to be able to do this thing she loves. He also knows what he paid for it. Every year it will be a point of contention, but every year he will watch her on stage do what she loves most. She spends almost every day at the dance studio to prepare for just five weekends. The competitor in him admires that in her.
He doesn’t understand why she has to have a suitcase that turns into a closet and costs a small fortune, but he let her get. He loads it in the car the morning we leave, but he will always make a comment about it’s size and cost. He will remind us of all the things he doesn’t want us to forget, so he isn’t the one stuck making a special run to go grab the forgotten thing, but every single time, we will forget something. He sighs loudly, reminding us he warned us about this, then he sets out to go find a replacement for the forgotten thing.
Dance dads are a special kind of dad. They give up their weekends of hunting or skiing to come cheer on their dancer. We exhaust their patience and deplete their checking accounts, yet they show up early in the morning with the iced coffees and a smile and the best cheering section of the venue, because they know what this day means to their dancers.
Happy Valentine’s Day to the dad we adore. He rarely gets to go eat at the place of his choosing, because he is almost always outvoted 4-1. He always offers to trade one of us when we order something we don’t like. He lectures me on my tank being too low and we both wonder why he bothers because we both know I’ll be too low again next week (but sometimes he gasses it up for me). He goes to the garage to get the tools we need, whether it’s assembling a Valentine’s box or to pump up a basketball. He eventually gets to his home improvements, but it might take a few years, because he is so busy helping everyone else. (And because he refuses to pay someone else to do something he can do.) His dream hunting trips are put on the backburner each year for the sports trips. He will sit through a weekend of dance, even though I know he has a hunting tag he wants to fill. He will never spend a dollar on his own clothes, because he spends it on his girls. (Unless you count Sitka or Kuiu, but he ends up letting me wear his hunting coats at the spring soccer games because I’m never prepared, and I secretly think they’re worth it.) He’s allergic to cats, but he doesn’t tell us ‘no’ when we come across a stray. (He kinda says no, but then kinda changes his mind.) He is our biggest fan. He shows up for us, each and every time, regardless of the day he has had. He coaches our teams and sits at the concerts, clapping the loudest. We are so lucky to be loved by you.
One morning I was visiting with friends at a coffee shop while we waited for our kids’ practice to end. We were talking about how hard it is to run multiple kids to all of the things while being a working mom. One of them said to me, “I wish my mom was more like your mom. She is always there to help you when you need it.” I quietly nodded in agreement. While I knew she had always been a huge help to me, I didn’t realize how apparent it was to others.
A few months ago I was visiting with a friend on the phone. I had mentioned how my mom sometimes browns hamburger for me or drops off washed cartons of grapes, knowing how much her grandkids love grapes. “That’s an amazing gift,” she said. “I wish I had a meat mom.” Sometimes she drops off a home cooked dinner and sometimes she has fresh baked caramel rolls ready for her grandkids. Sometimes she throws in a couple rolls of paper towels, saying she bought too many, when I know she is never one to buy too much of anything.
She naturally does the dishes when she stops over, several of the containers drying in the sink are usually hers. She’s always trying to help lighten the load for me.
She has given me more grace than I deserve and loves me through it all. I didn’t always take her advice, but I have yet to hear, “I told you so”, even when I deserved it. In 5th grade I was adamant I wanted my bangs cut, she told me I wouldn’t like it, and she was right. In grad school I married someone she profusely told me I shouldn’t, but I didn’t listen. Six years later she was the first one there to move me and my kids out of the house the night we had to leave in a hurry. Through the little things and the big things, she never told me, “I told you so,” even when I deserved to hear it. I broke her heart a few times, and she loved me through it. She’s always reminded me that sometimes where we start out is where we were always meant to be. I had to move a thousand miles away a couple times to understand what she meant.
I watched through the years as she was there for friends during their hardest times, whether it was first holidays after a loss or driving them to chemo appointments. She was as wonderful of a friend as she was a mom- always showing up and offering support. She told me to go chase my dreams, and I did, and when I wanted to quit a few times, she told me I came too far to stop now. She was the mom who never missed a thing and now she is the grandma who never misses a thing.
She cheers the loudest, literally and figuratively.
He made it to all of her games this season. He always has. He had a tag he wanted to fill and I know that weekend of the out of state game, he would’ve loved to have gone hunting, but he loves her more. He’s not the dad who stares at his phone, even though soccer was never a favorite of his. He watches every play, sometimes pacing on the sidelines. After her games, they re-cap it together. He always reminds her how proud he is of her and she knows how much he means it. She also knows that to get a compliment from him, she has earned it.
She improved a lot this season. This was her greatest season of growth. He asked her coaches what he could work on with her and then those two put in the work. This season was her favorite one.
She was a newborn when I realized I’d be getting divorced. I spent so much time wondering what it would be like for her and her sister to have a different last name from mine. I thought about how they would never have a wedding picture with both parents, which was a strange worry since we didn’t have family pictures in the first place. I worried about how my decision would forever drastically change their lives and the sacrifices we would have to make.
I wish back then I could’ve had a glimpse of our lives now, even for just a second. I wish I could’ve seen her in that goal, playing the best game she’s ever played, with her step-dad there, cheering the loudest.
I remember the moment we met. You sat next to me in one of our undergrad pre-req classes. You were so beautiful, the kind of beautiful most girls would be jealous of, but you were so sweet and I was in awe. You were funny without trying to be and something about you made me feel as if I had always known you. We became instant friends. What I didn’t know in that moment, is you were going to be one of my forevers.
I don’t know how the years went so fast, but they did, just as everyone warned they would. Somehow that was twenty years ago. (How are we old enough to have adult memories “twenty years ago??”)
We took a college graduation trip and made a lot of promises. We would take trips together for the rest of our days. We had no idea what life was about to be. We had no idea that life in your 40s is not quite the same as life in your 20s.
The night before I left for grad school, you drove five hours to surprise me to say goodbye. Around Thanksgiving you sent a cheesecake to my third story apartment, and it got stolen, just like an episode of Friends.
You were there for my weddings, both of them. You gave me unending grace when I told you I was leaving him, almost a year before I finally had the courage to actually leave. There was never an “I told you so,” even though you knew from the start, as you all did. But you loved me anyway.
You came to their first birthdays. Your her Godmother and you love mine as if they are your own.
The week you had surgery, I drove to you. I could only stay a day, but I had to be there to know you were okay.
Our friendship is twenty years, two divorces, and six kids deep. I don’t talk to you every day, but I wish I did. I wish I knew what was the best part of your kids’ day and I wish I got a chance to tell you an inside joke that only you would understand. Our friendship now is voice text messages and a phone call maybe once a month. You know I’ll never check my voicemails and that I’ll call you back eventually, even if it’s weeks away. That’s the reality of working moms that live states apart.
So today I wanted to remind you that I miss you. I wanted to tell you that when we do get to talk, I laugh until I cry. We don’t take the trips we dreamed at 22 that we would take, because now we are moms. (And neither of us would trade that for anything.) The reality of 40s is a far cry from the dreams of our 20s.
Friend, I love you even more than I did 20 years ago when you sat down next to me on our first day of the spring semester. You are one of my forevers. We are rarely in the same place at the same time, yet I know you’re somehow always here. Our limited weekends together now include zoo trips and a chaotic table for 10 at a restaurant, and by the end of the weekend we are more exhausted than when it started.
Regardless of the miles and the months (sometimes the years), we pick up where we left off.
I just wanted to remind you, you’re one of my forevers.
Tomorrow marks three weeks since surgery and tomorrow morning she returns to school.
I cried hard when I wheeled her white marbled suitcase down the hall out the double doors on the peds unit, my daughter being wheeled out in a wheelchair by a staff member. Our lives would never be the same for many reasons. My child was returning with a new back that would change her quality of life. I felt so much gratitude but also so much absolute sadness and guilt as we wheeled past the others’ rooms. The sweet second grader was waiting on further tests, after inconclusive test results, so she could start treatment. The 14-year old’s parents were saying their final goodbyes to their handsome, athletic son. The 16-year old girl in the room next to us was supposed to get to go home the night before, for the first time since February, but her bloodwork indicated otherwise and she didn’t get to leave. All of these parents were living a nightmare as we just wheeled on out, my husband waiting in the suburban at the curb. I have cried every day since when I think about that moment. Many families are there off and on for years, but our stay wasn’t even a week. We would return home to school and jobs and laundry and chaotic schedules and things I hope to never again take for granted.
We were surrounded in love and prayer our entire time there, I felt it every second. We always say a prayer every night that ends with, “Help us to help others in all of the ways that we can.” For some reason, it just feels a lot different after our time at Mayo.
So I write this for two reasons:
I will never be able to thank everyone enough for every text, every prayer, every comment to remind us that they are in our corner. She almost didn’t get to have her surgery, but thanks to friends, prayers and guardian angels, she did. I saw firsthand the difference a person can make in the life of another.
Please keep the prayers coming to those we left behind at Mayo. They are working and they are felt there. I don’t know how to explain it.
I often hear people say “Hug your babies a little tighter,” when someone endures a terrifying experience. Yeah, we should, but we can do a lot more than that. We can cover them in prayers and add them to prayer chains. We can send care packages or $10 coffee cards. We can make meals to leave in the freezer. We can send a text that doesn’t say “I’m sorry,” but rather “Tell me something you need.”
I’ve spent the past couple of weeks more appreciate of watching my healthy children play the sports they absolutely love. I have more patience and grace. I bought my middle child the specific bread she really loves for her school lunches, instead of just using what I had. I have been in awe of things I just didn’t notice before.
Thank you for your endless support the past few weeks, from our neighbors who made us dinner and the friends who checked in daily, we are so grateful to each and every one of you.
Please continue to wrap the peds floors at Mayo in prayers, too. 🩷
From the moment we walked in, I felt an energy that was unlike anything I had felt before. At the time, I couldn’t find the words for it. The security guards at the main entrance had kindly pointed us in the right direction. There were several people in the outdoor courtyard area, enjoying the beautiful morning. Most were just enjoying the sunlight on their face or deep in conversation with a loved one. Everyone outside appeared to be living in the moment, enjoying it. I thought about how I take for granted the luxury of going outside whenever you want to feel the sun on your face.
We quietly rode up the elevators to the 16th floor, pediatrics. I wanted to ensure that we would know exactly where to go later that afternoon when my daughter would have her imaging done. When we turned the corner from the elevator, I caught my breath as I saw the line waiting to check-in. The line was efficient and moved quickly, but patients kept lining up. The tears started to run down my face after only standing there a few minutes. I wasn’t the only mom who had lost sleep last night, I wasn’t the only one praying for the pre-authorization to go through or praying that today we would hear good news.
The waiting room was beautiful. The ceiling was glowing with different shade of blues and greens, one wall covered in artwork on glass that was lit up. Comfortable curvy couches filled the waiting room, full of families waiting. Bluey played on a TV in the corner, a dozen kids mesmerized with the episode. I remember thinking how wonderful it was that Bluey could be a distraction from reality. When it was finally our turn, I confirmed with the check-in desk that this would be where we would check in a few hours later. He greeted us with such compassion, I wasn’t sure if it was due to my tears or if this is just how he always was, because this was the nature of this job.
We rode the elevator back down in silence, both my girls and myself suddenly so much more aware of what this place is. We got off at the lobby, but then walked to the lower level. I had been told there are tunnels that attach the buildings, but again, it’s something you can’t wrap your mind around until you see it. As we walked, I wondered about the people we walked past. Many were being pushed in a wheelchair by a loved one. Sometimes the patient looked exhausted and sometimes the caregiver did. Some were walking and had to stop often to catch their breath, some had a loved one there who patiently waited for them. Others were seated in the cafeteria, waiting on a loved one to help bring them their tray.
I looked at facial expressions as we walked. So many had a look of weariness, but somehow a look of hope. If you’re at Mayo Clinic, you’re here because there is no one else in your region who can help you with what you need, and it’s as if it is written on everyone’s faces. It’s as if every person there knows how lucky they are to be there. I thought about how the stars aligned for us to get this appointment, as it almost didn’t happen. I thought about those who are still waiting to get the call for an appointment.
We navigated our way from the clinic to our hotel and then went to the mall, which I had promised my girls. I wondered how many other parents were there, shopping as a distraction from what you’re really there for. We didn’t stay as long as they wanted to, I was too paranoid about missing an appointment we had waited so long to get. I remember noticing how kind the cashiers were everywhere we went. Everything felt different in that town.
We made our way back to the clinic. I was sure that this late in the day the waiting room would be cleared out. We made our way back up to the 16th floor again. When we rounded the corner the line was even longer. There were newborn babies and there were teenagers and every age in between. Bluey was still playing in the corner with an audience just as captivated as the audience this morning. The parents in the waiting room had worry and exhaustion on their faces. Some were on their cellphones updating grandparents back home. Some were filling out paperwork. Some were just sitting quietly with their child, taking it all in. There was a little two-year old boy with the most beautiful blonde curls and a newborn baby girl making newborn grunts as she squirmed when her mom reached to pull her out of her car seat. I remember saying a prayer for them, that they would get to live long, healthy lives and do all the things that children hope and deserve to do.
After my daughter’s imaging appointment, we rode the elevator in silence with another family. The mood was not joyous and energetic. It’s a different feeling to ride an elevator with children who aren’t excited about the magic of it. I prayed for that little boy of that family and will always wonder about him.
A hard rain had set in and it was pounding against the windows, but you couldn’t hear it because a girl was playing the most beautiful song on the piano.
We made our way back through the clinic to our hotel and I thought about the PBS special I had watched last summer about the Mayo Brothers. We walked past the Hall of Benefactors. I wondered what inspired them to donate and if some had first been a patient or if this place had treated someone they loved. There were so many names listed in that hall and I was grateful for each and every one of them.
We dropped some things off at our hotel room and then explored the streets that surrounded Mayo. We ate at the Italian place on the corner and it was as wonderful as every review said it would be. There is something I will never forget about walking through that crowded restaurant – not one person was on their phone. Not. One. It appeared most of the patrons were Mayo patients. Some tables consisted of families and some consisted of people dining alone. Everyone appeared to be enjoying the company they sat with. Everyone was taking in the moment, grateful for it. There was no need to be scrolling social media or thinking about a different time or place, the moment we were in was everything we all wanted.
The next morning we woke up bright and early for our last appointment. Again, we were met with a line for the pediatric waiting room. Shortly after we sat down on the curvy green couch, a boy around my daughter’s age was wheeled up along side me by his dad. His mom joined them a few minutes later. He was wearing a faded grey cap, looking frail and exhausted. I remember distinctively thinking that whatever they were there for, if given the option, I’m sure they would trade patient charts in a second with us. I remember promising myself that whatever discussion we were about to have with our physician, I would be grateful that were there for just that. The boy’s mom started talking to him about his dog and their dog sitter. At first he tried to make a few jokes about his dog, but I noticed he was just too exhausted. I felt as if he was trying to put his parents’ worried minds to ease and I admired him for it. I thought about my own son who would had a baseball game the night before, 600 miles away. I thought about how a few days earlier, I had complained that soccer was too cold at 7:30 in the morning. I was suddenly so disgusted that I had ever taken for granted a moment of watching my healthy children play the sports they love. I remember in that moment promising I’ll sit in the snow or the rain or whatever it is, to watch my kids do their things. I prayed that in the near future, that boy will get to be doing whatever he loves, too. The moms in that waiting room wear a feeling I don’t know how to describe. You can feel it in the air.
I instantly loved the physician we had heard so much about. She was every bit as wonderful as I had heard. She gave us a great detail of information, always addressing my daughter first and foremost and checking throughout our consultation with any questions she may have. She was thorough and kind and encouraging. We left feeling nothing but gratitude to have this surgical option. I wondered if she knew she was the answer to this mother’s prayer and how grateful I was for her and whatever path led her to Mayo.
As we walked back through that waiting room, different families filled the couches. It wasn’t lost on me that I was likely one of the luckiest moms leaving there that day. As we turned the corner for the elevator, a family had just gotten on one. The mom put her hand, in the door to hold it for us. I could tell by the expressions on their faces that whatever news was discussed at their appointment didn’t seem to be the one of hope we had just had, yet the mom made sure the door wouldn’t close on us. We rode down in silence, both of us likely processing the morning we had just had.
As we made our way back to the lobby and to the tunnels our adjacent hotel, an adorable, big, white therapy dog was rolled over on his side, thrilled for the rubs he was getting by his admirers. Patients faces lit up seeing this sweet, fluffy dog. Whatever was on their minds moments earlier was temporarily set aside.
I was so surprised how the lobby could enclose so many people, yet not feel crowded at all. It was again rainy and gray outside, but the big, beautiful windows still made everything so bright. We grabbed a drink for the road, even the barista was kind. I realized that through every Mayo encounter we had, from food service to the physician, every one made us feel welcomed. It was as if everyone who worked there was wanting to say, “I know today is hard. How can I make it easier for you?”
On our almost 600-mile drive home, I thought a lot about the energy at Mayo Clinic and the feeling that surrounds you when you enter. The faces of caregivers and patients told so many stories, expressions that were weary but hopeful, but there was something else. It was love. It was a building full of people wanting more time for their loved one or wanting to improve their quality of life. It was a building full of physicians who are so passionate about modern medicine and the science that can give the world the best version of it. It was a waiting room full all day, every day, of moms who want to see their children run on the soccer field or play outside with their dog as they feel the sunshine on their face. It was a community of people who want to be in the moment with those that they love, those who are acutely aware that our days are not infinite.
Today I watched your daughter dance. She was beautiful up there and I wish you could have seen it. She did her own make up today, not because she wanted to, but she’s trying so hard to learn how to do the things you were always here for. After their performance, we would’ve texted about how well they danced. You would’ve made a joke about something that would’ve genuinely made me laugh. Instead, today I drove to your cemetery. I left you flowers. The grass hasn’t yet grown in, a reminder that you haven’t been gone that long. I stood in the rain and I watched the raindrops fall onto the rose petals. My face couldn’t differentiate my tears from the rain. I thought that if I brought you flowers that had been at the performance then it was like I was bringing you a piece of today. I know you wouldn’t have missed it for the world. You never missed any of it. You always showed up for your kids.
Dance would be a particularly difficult sport when you lose a mom. Moms do the make up and the hair and pay attention to the details of a costume. Somehow she gets through it. I love that she gets to dance at the same studio where you danced, too. When she smiles on stage I see your smile, too.
You were a friend I met through our daughters. For years on Thursday nights, you parked three spots to my left. I would pull in and look over to you and you’d smile that smile that lights up a room. And now you’re not there and almost six months later my eyes still blur as I watch her walk out of the studio but not get into your car. She smiles at me, that big smile like her mom, and I see you there. I want to rewind the years and run over to your car and get to know you sooner, better. I’ve realized now that for whatever reason, this is the part of the journey where our paths were supposed to cross. This is the part where I’m here and you’re not, but I will be here for your girl.
What a privilege it is to see where you came from and to see where you were going. There are no new memories to make with you, and I finally got to be a part of your life at the end. I feel like I’m still getting to know you in your postscript. Your people have shared so many stories with me and how lucky I feel to get to know you better, even after you’ve left.
You should see the way your crew gets it done, immensely missing you, but getting it done. Those grandmas are always there to do what is needed and your husband shows up at the practices and waits for her in a sea of moms, just as I’m sure you knew he would.
I once told you I lost my dad when I was her age and I know you truly heard me when I said I’d be there for her. I know how it feels to miss a parent so much that you feel your heart literally break. But I also know how it feels to feel that person right by my side, at every step of the dreams he dreamed for me. I know that during all of those moments your family loves, the ones they wish they could tell you about, that it was probably you that made that moment happen. You are so missed and where there is deep grief, there was great love. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that we end up at the same place, you just got there first.
I know what it feels like to watch the support of a standing room only funeral fade over time. I also know how it feels when others don’t forget. I know how it feels when 25 years later, someone still mentions my dad. Sometimes people are afraid to mention who we lost, ‘in case we aren’t thinking about it.’ As if we ever aren’t thinking about it.
I’ve learned that some of the greatest friends I’ve met are the friends my kids introduced me to. You were one of them. This weekend our team leaves for our first competition and you won’t be there. I miss you and I wanted you to know.
Your kids are incredible. When we see them, we see so much of you.
I will be here to remind them that you’re still there in all they do.
The last text I have from you is you asked if you needed to pack a lunch for her practice. I read your text, realizing it hadn’t even crossed my mind to pack a lunch for that practice. I was so glad you asked – I didn’t know either. That was on a Thursday and on a cloudy Sunday you were gone. The last text I have from you was you always putting your kids first.
The world is better because you were in it. Miss you, friend.
This week we said goodbye to him, the horse that was “the horse”. I’ve always envisioned heaven to be a field under the most gorgeous red sunset, the smell of alfalfa, and my favorite horses running full speed up to the fence, to come say hello.
My mom bought BR Winchester, “Lumpy”, my sophomore year of high school. I had only been competing in cutting for about a year but had been active in horse shows my entire life. My newfound interest in cattle cutting was inspired by the loss of my dad a couple years earlier. (He had loved cutting and wanted me to give it a try, but we had run out of time.) The moment I saw Lumpy, it was love at first sight. He was a short, stout, and solid sorrel. He wasn’t going to win a halter class, but I thought he was perfect. He was a son of Young Gun and while his papers were impressive, his personality was what won us over. An illness as a 2-year-old had resulted in residual lumps on his throat latch and a mane that was only a few inches long, much unlike the gorgeous, long manes of his competitors, hence the name “Lumpy”. On the day he joined our family, neither my mom nor I could have imagined that we would get to love him for 22 more years.
The next summer, Lumpy and I earned the South Dakota State High School Girls Cutting Reserve Champion as well as a trip to the National High School Rodeo Finals. I felt the stars align as we won that reserve buckle at state, the buckle my mom had sponsored in memory of my dad. With his help, I earned an NCHA scholarship. I left for college 900 miles away, which meant it was time for me to say good-bye to my horses, but after receiving the scholarship, my mom decided to keep Lumpy. She started cutting and she fell in love with it as well.
Lumpy had a personality that was unlike any horse I had met. He was laid back and loveable, always greeting everyone. He had eyes that always said what he was thinking. He loved to check out what snacks might be in your pocket. One weekend I came home from college and rode along to a cutting with my mom. Upon arrival, I realized Lumpy had made several new friends while I had been away and they updated me on what his new favorite snacks were. Lumpy was loved by all.
After grad school, I moved back to hometown. Lumpy was my children’s first ride and their first horse. He made a few lead line appearances in AQHA shows.
Larry Larson Photogrpahy
He was the star at a few birthday parties, where little girls were beside themselves for a chance to ride. He was the horse I didn’t have to worry about, which I didn’t fully appreciate or understand until I became a mom. A few years ago, I re-married and bought a property only two houses away from where I grew up. I loved standing in my driveway and being able to see Lumpy in his pasture. I loved driving by, stopping along the fence to say hi to him. He always turned his head to acknowledge me, sometimes with a nicker.
Lumpy went to his heavenly pasture on the last day of our summer, the day before school started. Lumpy always had a way with his timing. My mom was camping at her favorite horse camp with her horses (I can count on one hand the vacations she ever took without her horses). On Sunday morning, she realized he had quit eating and his legs had become too sore. For almost twenty years, she had treated his legs for a dermatitis that was thought to be the result of a possible auto immune disease. His teeth had worn down over the past year, but she found pellets and alfalfa cubes he enjoyed, and she soaked them for him every morning, noon, and night. She made countless trips to the vet to ensure she was doing all she could do for him – and she was, but in that final week of August, his body had had enough. I stood in my mom’s yard as I watched the horse trailer come down our road, knowing this would be his last trip. As he unloaded from the trailer, I could see in his eyes that he knew this was his last trip, too. He paused before he took his final step off the trailer and looked around, as if glad to know his final stop would be home. I buried my face in his neck as I cried, and he wrapped his neck around me, comforting me as he had done for over twenty years. That’s the thing about horses – they don’t need words – they can just feel what we feel. I reminded him that he had changed my life in infinite ways. I told him that he arrived in our lives at a time when we needed him most – the therapy horses give us is unlike anything else. Lumpy helped me find ways to not focus on the loss of my dad, but rather the opportunities that were ahead of me.
The exceptional care my mom gives her animals results in them living longer than most, but even with his borrowed time, it wasn’t long enough. My mom spent the past few years putting countless hours of love and commitment into Lumpy, just as he had done for us. She never gave up on him and did all that she could to make his life as wonderful as he had made ours. As I stood in the corral with him on his final day, my mom walked back into the house to call the vet. When she turned and walked away, he turned his head and watched her, as if to say, “She has been so good to me.” When the vet pulled into the driveway, I swore I felt my heart literally break. The time had come. I knew it was coming, but suddenly it was here. My mom and I walked him to the pasture. I assured him that my dad would greet him in heaven, with the treats Lumpy loved. I was sure my dad wanted to finally meet the horse that had helped raise his family. I reminded Lumpy that his best years were also some of mine. I sobbed and thanked him profusely for the love he gave us. As Lumpy took his final breaths, he took a piece of us with him.
Photo by: Sam Roeber
In his final days, I thought about the doors he opened for me.The NCHA scholarship was a significant help for my undergrad degree; it helped give me the career I had always wanted. A reserve state title was a childhood dream, but the greatest gift he gave me, was the pure and absolute love for horses. And he gave it to my children, too. I loved competing, but what I loved more was sharing my love for horses with those who didn’t have the luxury. (Honestly, back then, I still didn’t understand the luxury of it. I do now.) I thought about the way he helped countless friends fall in love with horses, in a way only a horse like Lumpy could. He made them feel safe. He went on to compete in several state high school finals, long after I graduated. He was the horse that youth would ride in a practice class, just to see what it was like. Until I became a mom, I didn’t fully appreciate how gentle and patient he was.
He was the horse many of my friends rode for the first time. He was the horse who I trusted with my friends’ kids and my kids’ friends. A few years ago, a friend brought her daughters out for their first-ever ride. Her youngest daughter had Williams Syndrome and Lumpy somehow understood that this sweet girl needed his love and his patience. She fell in love with horses that day and still absolutely loves therapeutic riding. The love for horses he gave others reached far beyond the cutting pen and NCHA earnings.
I can’t remember the last time I rode him and I’m glad I can’t – I wouldn’t have wanted to know the last time would be the last time.
This morning as we drove to school, I looked at the freshly dug dirt smoothed over where he had stood yesterday. For 22 years, he watched as we drove by. Today, his pasture was empty and this morning my mom wouldn’t hear the sound of his nose playing with his feed bucket. Today was a hard day of trying to process the grief of a love and heartbreak I can’t explain.
He was there every step of the way. From prom pictures to my kids’ first rides, he was there. During my divorce, I sometimes drove to my mom’s and stood in the corral to hug him – and he just stood there and let me. I reminded Lumpy that he was one of the greatest love stories of my life and that I would remember him for the rest of my days. This summer I realized how much I had missed the horse world. I took a break from the horse world after my divorce, but in his final hour, I promised Lumpy I would come back to it. And I will come back. Although I’ll never find another horse like him, the grief of losing him and knowing it would have been the end of that life I dearly loved is a grief that is too great for me to bear.
Tonight, I noticed the sunset appeared to be a magnificent red, and I was sure Lumpy was running in his heavenly field, with a body much younger than his earthly 27 years allowed.
Lumpy was loved and adored by three generations. For 22 years,he gave us his best. He raised us. He was one of the greatest. My heart is so grateful to my mom who helped give me one of my greatest love stories. How lucky we were to be loved by him. Thanks for the ride, Lumpy – it was a great one.
The sequel was my favorite 