Where There's Hope

by Elizabeth A. Smart

  7

  Our Physical Gift

  Real beauty isn’t about symmetry or weight or makeup; it’s about looking life right in the face and seeing all its magnificence reflected in your own.

  —VALERIE MONROE

  We have these amazing bodies that comport our spirits and take care of us, and we should be grateful for what we have, even if we’re not as skinny as Victoria Beckham or as powerful as Beyoncé. Our bodies are to be celebrated, despite our individual limitations. Dressage has extended the capabilities of my body along with my understanding of my own strength. There are lots of styles of horseback riding; dressage is like yoga and ballet with military precision in partnership with the horse. You have to be very aware and in control, not only of your own body but of the horse’s too, as best you can. Horses don’t care if you’re popular or pretty. When you get up on their backs, it’s a dangerous position to be in. You have to control this thousand-pound animal, and for girls who come from a traumatic background, this is a really big confidence builder. This powerful animal knows nothing about your problems. You are in charge. It amazes me that this huge, powerful animal will allow us to get up there and take control.

  For me, it all started because of my dad. A few years ago, he was looking for doors in the local classifieds, came across some for sale, and made an appointment to go see them. While he was looking at the doors, the seller’s wife came out and saw my dad and realized that he was a relative. My dad asked her what she did for a living and found out she was a horse trainer at a local barn in Heber City, Utah. When my dad got home that evening, he called me and said if I was ever interested in taking dressage lessons, I had a second cousin not too far from me who taught professionally and would be happy to take me on as a student. I’d grown up spending a lot of time on horseback, but I’d never been instructed in riding—other than “Get up and stay up”—but I thought, I’ll give it a try. Why not? How hard can it be?

  Oh, how little I knew then.

  I called and made arrangements to have a lesson. Let’s just say this: Dressage is not easy. But I loved it. The feeling of being up on a horse is unlike anything else. For me, it feels natural and uncomplicated and helps me to step back and look at myself. But honestly, I wasn’t doing much introspection during my lessons. I was constantly trying to remember everything: to keep my feet turned parallel to the horse’s body, to keep my seat bones glued to the saddle, not to have too much tension on the reins, to feel the connection with the horse, not to cut the corners—the list could go on, but I’ll leave it at that.

  My weekly riding lessons became something I looked forward to. I was happy to get up early. I loved being the first one at the barn, grooming and tacking the horse, then being first out on the freshly groomed arena. It’s a strangely satisfying feeling, being able to look back and see the shapes and designs you’ve made in the dirt while riding. (Also your mistakes.) I hadn’t been riding at the barn too long when Annie, my trainer, suggested I consider getting my own horse. It didn’t take much convincing. My whole life I’d dreamed of having horses of my own.

  I started looking on all the different websites at horses for sale and found one not too far away that I thought looked promising. Unfortunately, despite being a very young horse, he had bad feet, the vet informed me, and would go lame very quickly if I rode him in training three to four times a week. So I continued searching. Annie and I even flew to California to look at some horses. While we were there, I rode a beautiful bay German Warmblood mare. She was simply magnificent. It took a lot of convincing for Matthew to finally agree with me that she was worth the money they were asking, even though I’d already talked down the price considerably. Anyone who owns horses can tell you that it’s a black hole for your bank account; you will always put money into them, but you will never get a penny out of them. That being said, if you are bitten by the horse bug—and I don’t mean horseflies—you know that you will happily continue to pay any amount because of the joy horses bring.

  The deal finally closed, and I couldn’t wait to get her shipped back to Utah. When she arrived at the barn that was to be her new home, she was the tallest horse there, standing over 17.2 hands. Every time I saw her, my heart swelled with pride. She was mine. Her name was Bella, and in my mind, she was perfect. I was not a perfect rider, however, so there was a growing period for us—more for me than for her—but we came through it together. There’s a saying in the horse world, “You ask a stallion, you discuss it with a mare, you tell a gelding, and you just pray for mercy from a pony.” Bella and I did a lot of discussing.

  I spent more and more time at the barn and began to know some people and make some friends. One person who made a strong impression on me was Lara Oles. She was so friendly and always had a smile on her face. She’s a petite blonde, and I think I’ve seen her only once when she wasn’t wearing riding attire. At first, I didn’t even notice that one of her arms hangs at a slight angle and one of her legs has a slight drag to it. When I did notice, I didn’t think much of it, because she was always right in there, grooming and getting her horse ready just like everyone else. Lara told me she had moved from Wyoming specifically to pursue her dressage lessons with Annie. She had initially begun with lessons at the National Ability Center in Park City, a place where people who have disabilities can learn to ski and horseback ride. It’s called the Ability Center because the focus is on what you can do, not what you can’t do. In fact, more often than not when I’m skiing in the winter, I see people wearing coats with the National Ability Center logo, and they’re whizzing down the mountain so fast I don’t have a prayer of keeping up with them.

  Lara was driving about two hours both ways twice a week for a fifty-minute lesson at the National Ability Center. Then she found Annie. Lara and her husband decided to move to Heber City so Lara could pursue her dream, ride every day, and get all the training she needed. We shared a tack locker for a while, and as we got to know each other, I learned that Lara’s angled arm and bum leg were the result of a skiing accident. Now she was training to compete on the world stage as a para-rider, maybe even a Paralympian one day. The first horse I knew with Lara was named Slate. He was a beautiful gray horse with a gentle look in his soft brown eyes. I was always impressed whenever I saw Lara ride him. He always looked so put together and seemed to anticipate her every command. No horse is perfect, but he seemed to be, despite a problem with a suspensory muscle and a few other ailments that required constant treatment and eventually a leave of absence.

  Lara didn’t know if she would ever be able to ride him again, but to Lara, Slate was family. She took him home to live with her on her property, along with her two other trail-riding horses, a rescue mini horse, a rescue mini donkey, and her goats, chickens, dogs, and cats. If I were an animal, I would hope Lara could be my owner. She loves them and takes care of them to the bitter end. She began looking for another horse, and it didn’t take long for her to find Bella—not my Bella, a different Bella in a barn down the road, but also a big beautiful bay mare. Actually, the two Bellas could have been twins. Lara didn’t have a lot of money, but because of the immediate connection she had with Bella, the owner knew that Bella belonged with her. He turned down several better offers and chose Lara to be Bella’s new owner.

  Lara and I joked that we were now members of the “big bay mare club.” Sadly, I didn’t stay a member of that club for very long. Matthew and I had decided we wanted to have a baby, and soon after that I was expecting. Then my Bella got injured and had a very slow recovery, so we were both out of commission for a while. After my little Chloé Rose was born, I realized that I was at a crossroads. My Bella was and is a magnificent horse; she deserved to be ridden, worked, and shown. I knew that no matter how much I loved her and wanted to spend time with her, time with Chloé would always trump time with Bella, so I made the difficult decision to sell her.

  I was very sad to see her go, but I knew it was for the best. And saying good-bye to Bella doesn’t mean that I’ll n
ever ride or own horses again. Just not now. To everything there is a season. So for now, I live vicariously through Lara and her Bella on Facebook. Lara and Annie still invite me out for the occasional trail ride, which always makes my day.

  When I think of people who are examples to me of courage, happiness, character, and determination, Lara always comes to mind. When I first emailed her to ask if she would be open to letting me interview her, she said certainly she would, but it took us a while to find a day that would work for us both, because she was competing in shows locally and internationally up in Canada.

  But the day has finally arrived. I’ve been looking forward to talking with Lara and hearing firsthand how everything is going. All I see on Facebook is blue ribbon after blue ribbon being tacked onto Bella’s bridle. My phone is suddenly buzzing, and I look down to see a text from Lara asking if I’d like to go on a trail ride after our conversation.

  I answer, Yes, please.

  That is what I think of as a perfect ending. I’m excited for our conversation, but I’m even more excited for our ride. I throw my beat-up old cowboy boots into the back of my car and drive the thirty minutes to Lara’s house. In reality, I could have gotten there faster, but it’s the kind of drive you’re obligated to enjoy, winding between wooded hills and crooked trout streams. I pull up in front of Lara’s log cabin home. Some of her horses are in the pasture behind her house, and her goats munch tufts of grass in their pen.

  Lara welcomes me inside and asks, “Do you like to be cold or hot? It’s hot up here, or we can go downstairs into the basement, and we’ll be cool.”

  “We might as well be comfortable. Let’s go downstairs.” When we’ve settled in for our chat, I ask her one of those easy get-things-rolling questions: “Lara, how would you describe yourself?”

  “Before my accident, I was a normal horse-crazy girl, but my accident transformed me into a competitive-crazed dressage queen.”

  “How did you start dressage?”

  “It’s always been more about the love of horses, not the love of competition. I never was really good enough at anything to be competitive, but I was born loving horses. My parents didn’t even like animals. We grew up in Detroit, and I came out of the womb, ‘horse, horse, horse.’ I called dogs horses. I loved all animals, but horses were my soul being. My parents couldn’t afford to buy me a horse, but they encouraged my love of horses and took me to lessons. Then once I learned how to ride, my mom’s dear friend of a friend introduced me to this lady who let me ride her horses for free because I knew how to ride. I almost did have my own horses when I was a kid, but nobody had to pay for them except this rich lady. She was my fairy godmother. I used to go and just take off on these horses. I could take any friends I wanted and we’d go through the woods and through the orchards, down on the dunes, gallop along the beaches, and go swimming. I mean, talk about freedom—there were no fences and no ‘No Trespassing’ signs. It was all cherry orchards and open backyards. To the neighbors, I was just a kid on a horse, so they would just wave as I went by. It was ideal.”

  “How old were you when you had your accident?”

  “I was thirty-nine,” says Lara, who really doesn’t look much older than that now.

  “What happened?”

  “I was skiing, and I fell. My right arm hit a post coming out of the ground. It was maybe seven or eight inches. I don’t know for sure. Luckily, it wasn’t any taller, because when my back-shoulder-arm area hit the post, it instantly unplugged my arm from my spinal cord. The three main nerves that run through your arm and connect to the spinal cord—the brachial plexus nerves at C7, C8, and T1—they were just unplugged, like unplugging a toaster. My arm was instantly paralyzed. I knew it when I landed. When I quit sliding, I couldn’t move my arm. I knew I had a spinal cord injury.”

  Lara calmly describes the devastating impact of the accident: ten broken bones, a punctured lung, and a bleed on the brain. A kind stranger skied over and offered to help her up, but even in the moment, Lara had the presence of mind to say, “No! I need to go down on a backboard. Call the ski patrol.”

  She tells me, “The doctors were like, ‘Oh, you’re really lucky. Your arm is bad. It’s probably the worst-case scenario for paralyzing your brachial plexus and your arm permanently, but you’re so lucky because you can walk. You should be really grateful. If that post had been any taller, you’d be dead or a quadriplegic right now.’ Three days after my injury,” she continues, “I got a blood clot on my spinal cord. And then I couldn’t walk. It took several months of intense therapy before my leg could even bounce. It was like someone with cerebral palsy. It’s taken more and more therapy, but I eventually made it to a walker, then a cane, then a really bad limp, and now sometimes I can fake that I don’t have a limp at all. Because my arm is so much more noticeable, people don’t even realize that my leg is bad.”

  But as she goes on, I begin to understand that the unseen effect of Lara’s injuries are actually the most difficult to live with.

  “I have lots of nerve pain akin to somebody who’s had their arm amputated—and in some ways worse, because the pain is so close to my spinal cord. They didn’t tell me this in the hospital, but when I read all the different studies on it, I learned this is one of the most painful nerve injuries you can get. The pain is really awful—like somebody is shoving a hot poker in my back or my wrist constantly. I’ll be doubled over in pain rocking, screaming, and crying. I’ve finally found a medication cocktail that helps.”

  Listening to Lara describe the magnitude of her injuries, I think back to a day when I realized she had magnets that connected the bottom of her boots to her stirrups. Must be nice! I thought then, jealous that her feet were always held in the perfect position. Now that I get it, I don’t envy those magnets at all.

  When I ask Lara about the emotional impact of the accident, she says, “I woke up and I felt totally guilty, because it was a stupid accident. I blamed myself for that. I mean, accidents just happen, but I blamed myself because it was just dumb. I skedaddled, and I fell. I shouldn’t have fallen. I felt guilty that my husband was going to have to take care of me the rest of my life. I didn’t know if I was going to be able to walk again or what I was going to be able to do. The first thing out of my mouth to him was, ‘Sell the horses.’ We had just bought a brand-new truck, but I told Dan, ‘Don’t even bother.’ We had put $400 down, but I thought, We’ll just eat it. Sell the horses. Sell the trailer. You’re going to have a hard enough time taking care of me. At that time, the doctors didn’t know if my bladder and bowels were going to function because of my spinal cord injury. But Dan said, ‘No. We’re not selling the horses. You don’t know what’s going to happen in a year. You could be walking.’ I tended to think of the worst—I’m never going to ride again—and I didn’t want Dan to have to take care of me and my horses just to be nice. Dan repeated, ‘We’re not selling the horses.’ He knew in his heart that they were my heart. They were the only thing to get me out of my funk. I would have withered away emotionally without something to work to get back to. He knew me better than I knew myself.”

  When Lara talks about her long road to recovery and how her horses made it possible, her posture takes on a tensile energy. She takes a conscious ownership of her body while most of us, I think, take it for granted that this arm, this leg, this hand will simply be there when we need it.

  “At the time,” she says, “I still felt like we should just sell them, but then I would go outside and pet them and I was happy we still had them. Horses are special. They have those big brown eyes that stare into your soul. They’re so big, they could kill you with one kick, and yet, most of the time, they’re willing to be with you. They put up with having able-bodied people ride them, but for them to be so forgiving and generous to take paralyzed people to the height of athletics of equine sport—it’s really a miracle. They gave me a reason to get up in the morning. I could go out and hug them or just lie on them. When I was on them, I felt as normal as ever. I stil
l feel more normal, more like my old self, when I’m on them. It’s less limiting. They take me up into the mountains—and now into competition success. They are my legs.”

  Lara is passionate about her horses, what they have done for her, and what they have allowed her to feel and become. And again, there’s that conscious ownership; she doesn’t take that precious relationship for granted.

  I ask Lara, “How did you deal with everything? Surely you felt anger?”

  “Everybody has their own tragedies, right? I mean, I feel like I wear mine on my sleeve. Literally, people can see what is wrong with me, whereas people can’t see what other people have gone through if it hasn’t been physical trauma that can be seen on the outside. I think whatever happens to you—if you lose a husband, a child, or your innocence, or anything—it’s a mourning process and part of that mourning process is anger. You have to go through those stages. I was raised by very loving and supportive parents, I have a loving and supportive husband, and they were able to help me through my accident and recovery. Then the animals—they give me what I call my warm fuzzies. They let me lie by them and feel their heartbeat and stroke their fur, and they look at me like they need me. I deal with a lot of pain, but when I’m on horseback, I do not feel that pain. It’s the only thing that works. I have to take a lot of pain pills, but I still get breakthrough pains. The only time I don’t is when I’m riding.”

  Another thing I love about Lara is that she says what needs to be said with or without prompting. Without further questions from me, Lara continues, “We’re all going to get knocked around in this life, and some of us are luckier than others on what happens. I used to call this ‘my stupid arm’ because I can’t control it and sometimes it does stuff that I hate. My friend said, ‘Don’t call that your stupid arm. That is your lucky arm. It saved your life. It took the brunt of that post—otherwise you would be in a wheelchair or you’d be dead.’ I gave my right arm so I could live. It took me a few years to realize that. I had to get through the anger and mourning. Don’t ever tell someone when they first get injured, ‘It could be so much worse.’ Or ‘You should be thankful.’ If they come to that conclusion, they need to do it on their own.”