In This Together

by Ann Romney

  I went to see him in the hospital. I was holding his hand, his grip was still strong, and I couldn’t stop crying. He realized he was dying and he was at peace with it. I wasn’t. I needed him. I kept telling him he had to get better, that I didn’t know what I would do without him. “You can’t go,” I cried. “You can’t go. I can’t do this without you.” I reminded him that he had promised he would cure me. I wasn’t cured, so he couldn’t go. It wasn’t fair.

  “You’ll be okay, Ann,” he told me. We both knew he was dying and he was trying to comfort me. “I’ve gotten you ninety percent of the way there.”

  “I know, but that’s not one hundred percent, Fritz.”

  He tried to smile. “You’re on the path,” he told me. “You’ll be good. You’ve learned what you have to do to be well. You have to keep riding. Then you find someone else to get you the rest of the way.”

  “Don’t say that,” I told him. “I don’t know if I can do this without you.”

  “Of course you can.”

  He died three days later. I missed him almost as much as I had missed my parents. I had lost my oompa. When I’d met him my body was in shambles and I could barely stand on my feet for any length of time. After working with him for over two and a half years, I wasn’t cured, but I was leading a real life once again. That was his legacy to me.

  When I finally accepted the fact that Fritz was gone, I started seeing a wonderful Chinese acupuncturist in Park City. He wasn’t Fritz—no one was ever going to be Fritz—but I had learned that I had to keep doing this to maintain my energy; otherwise the fatigue would overwhelm me. I have never found another Fritz, but after we moved back to Boston I found a reflexologist. I don’t see her regularly anymore, but when my body got run down and I started getting those signals I know so well, I’d visit the reflexologist or an acupuncturist for, as Fritz would call it, a little tune-up.

  It would be impossible to overestimate the importance of having Margo and Fritz, Laraine and my family, in my life at that time. Nobody can—or should have to—get through a life-altering transition without the help of family and friends. Each of these people filled an important space in my life. But there was one other person who came into my life at that time who made a huge difference.

  Margo’s equestrian center had become my refuge. I had a whole life there. In addition to riding, I worked with the horses as much as my health allowed. I was involved in every aspect of their care, even clipping them myself. During the winter, horses grow heavy coats to help protect them from the cold. You can’t really ride them like that, because they sweat a lot, and if their coats get wet, they don’t dry easily and the horse will get sick. To prevent this from happening, the coat has to be clipped. It’s done with shears, and it’s hard to do and takes a long time. A lot of people hire groomers to do it; I wanted to do it myself. A good groomer will do it evenly, and the horse will look beautiful. I wasn’t very good at it. Mine ended up looking like a mess, but I didn’t care. I was having the time of my life being in the barn with the girls, working as opera music played in the background. Other people thought of it as work, but for me it was the most fun in the world. The concept that grooming horses was therapy had never occurred to me, but I loved being in the barn clipping away.

  In fact, I spent so much time there that at one point Josh gave Mitt a rubber horse mask, telling him, “Maybe Mom will pay as much attention to you as she does to the horses.”

  It was at that barn that I met the other person who filled an important need, Jan Ebeling. Jan was one of the leading dressage riders and teachers in the country. In addition to operating a well-known center in Moorpark, California, he traveled around the country holding two- and three-day clinics. He would see students at Margo’s center about once a month or once every six weeks. Like Fritz, Jan had immigrated to the United States from Germany. In 1998 he became an American citizen and that same year represented this country in international competition for the first time. I was very nervous about meeting him. But Margo insisted he could help me reach the next level in dressage. There are ten levels in dressage, leading up to the Grand Prix. I was at the basic training level. Even getting to the next level was a challenge for me.

  He watched as I rode around the arena. I did the very best I could, and Margo was supportive. But I learned almost immediately that the only thing that Fritz and Jan had in common was their German background. While Fritz was supportive and consoling, Jan was a taskmaster. While Fritz (and Margo) would pull you to get better, Jan would push you. And he pushed hard.

  What I did not know, of course, was that Margo had told him about my condition, and while to me he seemed very tough, he knew exactly what he was doing and he was watching carefully for signs of fatigue. In fact, without my being aware of it, he tailored our forty-five-minute sessions to fit my capabilities. But there were always convenient breaks in each lesson.

  At that moment, he was exactly the type of teacher, and person, I needed. I had reached the point in which I had to take the next step. For the previous year, everything I’d done had been based on the status of my MS. People like Margo had given me leeway. My performance had been acceptable—for someone suffering from MS. Mitt always understood completely when I couldn’t attend an Olympic function. As much as I did not want to be defined by my disease, there was no escaping it—or at least until I met Jan. I don’t believe at that point Jan had ever worked with anyone with a disability, so there was very little flexibility in his teaching. When we were working, he held me to the same standards as his other students. If I had to sum it up, I would say that at the beginning, Margo provided as much therapy as training, while Jan focused on the training. In some ways he reminded me of the character Tom Hanks plays in A League of Their Own, as I could almost see him shaking his head and telling me, “There’s no crying in dressage!”

  Jan was not interested in excuses; he was interested only in performance. As he will always remind his students, no matter how well you do, there is always room for improvement. That was perfect for my personality. I’m one of those people who just won’t quit until I’m almost dead. A year earlier we probably couldn’t have worked together; physically I wasn’t capable of giving just a little more, doing one more circuit of the arena, or sitting up a little taller. But all the work I had been doing with Margo and Fritz was paying off. I was getting stronger. Margo would push me to the edge of my comfort zone, but Jan pushed me right through my fatigue barrier. The two of them formed the perfect team for me.

  When I first started training with Jan it took us some time to understand each other. There were some difficult moments. But eventually he understood how hard I was working, and while he never stopped pushing me—“do it again, do it right this time”—he accepted the fact that when I put up my hand and said “uncle,” I really did have nothing left. I have been working with Jan for years now, and as with Fritz and Margo, he and his wife, Amy, and their son, Ben, have become extended members of my family. So many vistas have been opened up to me since I started on a new path with my disease—the blessings are too many to count, but I will count them as part of the beautiful picture of my new life.

  Dressage is beautiful to watch, even if you don’t understand the scoring system, but it is a highly competitive sport. And after working at it diligently, sometimes riding twice a day, after watching endless videos and practicing moves and doing exercises and reading books, after almost two years living in Utah, I wanted to compete. When I told Fritz this, he was completely supportive. I was realistic: I didn’t even think about the possibility of winning. Just being able to compete was winning for me.

  There is a disabled category in dressage. It is recognition of the fact that, like me, many people with handicaps have discovered the healing nature of riding. I still had only limited control over the right side of my body, and some of our friends suggested I start by riding in that category. Get your feet wet, they suggested. I knew they meant well; they were worried about me failing. But in m
y mind what I heard was accept your disability. I refused to do that. I wanted to measure myself against a wider group of competitors.

  There are thousands of competitions for riders on every level held across America each year. An event is almost a pageant. It’s held in a beautifully groomed arena with flowers set around the perimeter. Competitors wear traditional riding clothes, the horses are carefully braided. To a new competitor, especially someone like me, who too often focused on my inadequacies rather than my strengths, it can be overwhelming. And knowing that my body was not adjusting well to stress made it even more difficult. I was trying very hard not to get stressed out worrying about becoming stressed out.

  The first big competition for me was in Santa Fe. While Jan taught skills, he emphasized the mental aspect of riding, pointing out that your mind controls your movements. The fact that his lessons were also applicable to my disease did not escape me. “Negative thinking is a pattern you can fall into,” he would often remind me, “especially when something dramatic happens. If you’re focusing on something bad that happened, your thinking can spiral out of control.” About an hour before a test or a performance, Jan would visualize his entire ride in real time, breathing as if he were on the horse.

  I was too nervous, and too inexperienced, to do anything close to that. I’d been through my routine countless times in training, and had shown only in small shows. While I was warming up, I was so nervous that my mouth went dry and I started breathing irregularly. I remembered one of the basic tenets of riding that Margo had taught me: “The horse mirrors the rider.” I knew that if my horse realized how nervous I was, we would be in for a rough ride. I went through my last-minute mental checklist, reminding myself that I had to compensate for the weakness in my right side. Then one of the judges rang the bell, the signal for me to begin.

  The way judges score, Margo told me, was to start with an image of what a perfect ten would look like, and then count off the points as the rider failed to perform to that level. I made it easy for them. I got through my entire routine without embarrassing myself, or Margo or Jan, but I made endless errors. I didn’t control my horse enough to keep it moving straight, my seat was unsteady, and the elements of my performance were sloppy. I would have judged myself terribly.

  The judges were a little kinder. Just a little. But honestly, I wasn’t disappointed. Less than two years after arriving in Salt Lake with my MS at its peak, and having not been on a horse in several decades, I was competing without embarrassing myself or making anyone feel sorry for me. Rather than being dispirited at not-so-good marks, I was elated. Failure had never felt more like success. I couldn’t wait to get back to work to prepare myself for my next competition. I joyfully showed my scorecard to Margo and Jan and asked, “What did I do wrong?”

  Fortunately, neither of them suggested, “Taking up the sport.” Instead they picked the area that needed the most improvement and we began working on it.

  As the opening of the Winter Olympics got closer I was able to measure my progress in other ways. One of them was a gift to me from Mitt. When we’d arrived in Salt Lake, I hadn’t been able to walk all the way up the hill on Main Street. Now I was able to walk up and even down again if I had to. Mitt, meanwhile, had fought the countless battles necessary for Salt Lake to host the Winter Olympics successfully. He had worked more than full-time for almost two years. Once, we went thirteen consecutive days without really seeing each other, even though we were sharing the same bed: Because of my lack of stamina, I already would be asleep when he got home at the end of the day, and I would still be asleep the following morning when he left to get back to the office. His efforts had more than paid off: the funds had been raised, the venues were completed on time, the infrastructure was in place, the volunteers were assigned, event tickets were sold, there was a large surplus in the bank, and there was even snow on the mountains. Mitt was so deeply involved in every aspect of the Games that when there was a tremendous traffic backup on the first day of skiing, he got into the middle of the street and began directing traffic around the bottleneck.

  Part of the planning included preparations for the Winter Olympics Torch Relay, a tradition that began exactly fifty years earlier, in Oslo, Norway. This relay carries the torch from Olympia, Greece, to the site of the games, where the torch for that Olympics is lit. A variety of people are honored by carrying the torch a short distance. In the United States 12,012 people would be selected to carry the torch 13,500 miles, passing through 46 different states. For the Salt Lake City Games the theme of the relay was “Inspire,” and Americans were encouraged to nominate people who had inspired them for this honor. The Salt Lake Olympic Committee was permitted to select 3,500 people—and received more than 50,000 nominations. Many people on the committee felt that Mitt should carry the torch, as his work had ensured the Games would be a success. Mitt refused, and instead nominated me. It was a wonderful gesture, but initially I was a little embarrassed by it. I read many of the hundred-word essays nominating people and was really touched by them. These were average Americans, the kind of people who are never in the headlines, but who spend their time helping others by their work or the example they set. These were teachers and doctors, blind students who tutored others, firefighters who risked their lives to save others, people in wheelchairs living full and productive lives. In our celebrity-based culture, it was gratifying to see these people receive even a little bit of the recognition and appreciation they had earned. And boy, I certainly didn’t feel that I belonged among them, or that I had earned this honor.

  Mitt insisted, and the boys all backed him up. I began thinking about it, and while I wouldn’t compare my battle with those of some of the other people who had been nominated, the chance to carry that torch really meant something to me. It would be my personal victory. I finally agreed, but only if Mitt joined me. I wanted it to be a family celebration.

  Now all I had to do was run it. At the time Mitt nominated me, I really couldn’t run. But I started to train for it. It was only about a fifth of a mile; I knew I could do it. I immediately put on my tennis shoes, got a water bottle, got on the treadmill, and ran for … one minute. That was it, one minute. That definitely wasn’t going to work. The next day, I ran for two minutes, or as I liked to tell myself, twice as long as the day before. I was determined to do this. For weeks beforehand, I jogged and walked as much as I could, trying to increase my distance just a little every day. I had a path that I ran and walked and I would push myself to go a few steps farther every day. Once I had been able to run 5Ks without too much difficulty; now I was counting every single step. Believe me, I didn’t hear the stirring theme from Chariots of Fire in my head as I ran, just my exhausted breath. But whatever it took, I pushed myself.

  After I had been doing this every day for several weeks, my sister-in-law came out for a visit and we went hiking in the mountains. At one point I noticed she was breathing hard, almost panting, and I thought, Wow, I’m the one with MS and I’m doing better than she is.

  Of course, I wasn’t carrying anything in my hand. And there was no one on the sidelines watching me.

  My run was to take place on the sixty-fifth and last day of the torch relay. By the time it reached Salt Lake, the torch had become a symbol of American resilience after the attacks of 9/11. Heroes had carried it through Ground Zero in New York, past the Pentagon in Virginia, and by the field outside of Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Along every mile of the route, people had stood on the sides, often waving American flags, while the runners in their own way paid tribute before handing the torch to the next bearer.

  By the time the flame got to me, it had traveled by cars, planes, ships, trains, dog sleds, skis, snowmobiles, ice skates, and even sleighs. Americans had cheered, saluted, and often cried. All Americans then were sharing the enormous pain caused by the 9/11 attacks, and the relay played a small role in the healing process. We would actually help bring the torch into Salt Lake City. I was thrilled to be able to do that. Mitt and I ha
d moved to Utah so he could try to untangle the Olympics and I could try to recover from my disease. During the three years we were in Salt Lake City, the residents had given us so much that I really was thrilled to be carrying the torch into the city.

  The first thought that came into my mind when I was handed the Olympic torch on a residential street in East Salt Lake City was probably the same thought as the almost twelve thousand people who had carried it before me: Don’t drop it!

  I grasped it tightly in my right hand, held it up triumphantly, and began jogging. I was so psyched up for that moment that I took right off—leaving Mitt, Josh, and his wife, Jen, standing there dumfounded. Where did that energy come from? I was running almost completely on adrenaline. Josh quickly caught up with me. “Mom?” he yelled.

  “I can do it!” I yelled right back at him, “I can do it!” That stretch seemed like the longest distance I had ever run, and also the shortest. My little run took forever and seemed to last a second. As I ran, I saw all my friends from Margo’s barn cheering me on. Her children were holding a sign, “We Love You, Ann!” It was a glorious moment, and I was deeply touched.

  I wasn’t as invincible as I had hoped to be, though. Toward the end, I started getting tired. That torch was getting mighty heavy. Mitt reached over and helped me hold it up, and that’s the way we finished our portion of the run together. It was so appropriate.

  There was one more piece of Olympic business to be done. While rodeo had been an official event in the 1988 Calgary Winter Olympics, to honor the great American West the three-day America versus Canada Olympic Command Performance Rodeo was being held as part of Salt Lake’s Olympic celebration, but not part of the Games. Margo, Jan, and I had been invited to demonstrate some dressage techniques during a pause in competition. For this event, I was riding a relatively new horse, named Baron. Baron had taken the place of Buddy. Buddy had helped me get through the basics of dressage; that was his skill level. But as I progressed beyond that, I needed a new teacher, and that was Baron.