A Love Story

We met under unusual circumstances having to do with horses.

I was a busy woman, with a responsible job, a full-time course load at a serious university, and – just for a break – a once a week horseback riding lesson. My instructor’s boyfriend’s horse was one I rode from time to time, but never enjoyed. We didn’t get along: I never understood why the horse was doing what he did; the horse never understood what exactly I wanted. An hour’s lesson always left both of us sweaty, furious and flustered.

This particular evening, coming to the end of the hour, my instructor told me to kick my feet out of the stirrups and do – I can’t remember what. Because the instant my feet came free, the horse took off. Seriously took off, at a flat hard gallop around an indoor ring studded with jumps. His gaits were always rough; there was no way to get the stirrups back – staying on was challenge enough. Especially when, after two wild circuits of the ring, he cocked an ear toward the exit. That exit led about 20 feet to a T intersection with a stone floor; there was no way either of us would survive that at speed. So I pulled his head away from it, but in the process lost my balance enough that I finally gave up and bailed off. Never good at emergency dismounts, my legs collapsed under me, and I hit hard on both knees and then my hands, looked up and saw that the beast had kicked at me. I could have touched his hind hooves, they were so close. Had he been going slower, he would have killed me, period.

As it was, my right leg was clearly broken. The pain was surprising; I had had no idea that anything could hurt so much. Bundled into a car, I was hauled to the nearest emergency room, X-rayed, and given the news: both knee and ankle were smashed to smithereens.

My instructor had come along, and it was she who told the troubled-looking ER doctors, “Call K--.” Their faces cleared instantly, and they sprinted for the telephone. No more than half an hour later here he came, dressed beautifully for (I learned later) the theater; a charming, urbane, handsome, assured older man, excellent orthopedic surgeon know throughout the city as the go-to-guy for sports injuries. He looked down at me as I lay there streaked with tears of pain and horse poop. His quick gaze was sharp, intelligent and assessing. There was no question who was in charge, and everyone relinquished responsibility willingly – including me. One part of my mind said, Yes, it’s okay; he knows what he’s doing. Another part said, Oh my god. There he is.

Then came consultations, midnight surgery, serious pain killers, then ten days of hospitalization, weeks of recuperation and physical therapy, months of crutches and conversations both light and serious but always professional, and at the end, when I was down to a cane, Tylenol, and hopeless fantasies, the final formal consultation and dismissal with the kind but pointed admonition to never ride again.

The end.

Not quite.