Molly called her sisters and close friends to tell them the news. It was met with lots of “Oh my gods” and “I’m so sorry” and “Oh Molly… oh you poor thing.”
None of which, to be honest, were very helpful. Molly had three older sisters, they were five (Patricia), six (Greta) and seven (Frauka) years older than her. A reaction that stuck in her mind was from her sister Patricia, who after the initial news had recounted her reaction saying, “You know, when I heard about this, I was like, that’s it, I’m putting all that stuff between us aside and focusing on being there for you, that’s all that matters now.”
It was very sweet and sincere, so sincere in fact that Molly wondered if Patricia realized what she had admitted, the part about the stuff between them. By the sounds of it, bad stuff. What did she mean? Molly had always felt things, cutting remarks and put-down. Family stuff. But Molly only understood them as the receiver, how they made her feel insecure, unworthy, and stupid. So it surprised her when Patricia blurted out some understanding on her end of bad feelings between them. Molly had never had the courage to ask her, why had she been so harsh at some of Molly’s lowest points.
Molly recalled a time when she about 18 years old and having what she could only describe as a panic attack, about something their step-mother had done, or was doing at the time, she couldn’t remember an exact reason. Molly had broken out in blisters all over her body. She had gone to her sister in tears, to show her the blisters, and for some sisterly advice. Patricia had looked at the blisters, then leaned back recoiling and looked at Molly stating, “You’re fucked.”
And now, Molly thought, she was ready to put it all aside to help her soon to be invalid sister. Molly believed people were inherently good. Patricia was no exception, she had many amazing qualities, a razor sharp wit, the ability to throw an amazing dinner party and to top it all off she was a social worker. But memories ensure we remember the good and the bad. Molly couldn’t help but remember how often they’re relationship seemed out of balance over the years and that she never really understood why, or what she had done. Her sister resented her, there was no question about that, she always had. Be that as it may, the present circumstance had redirected their relationship now that death was apparently looming.
Even Molly’s sister Greta had booked a flight in from Winnipeg, leaving her big job managing the McPhillips Station Casino, one of the big native reserve casinos, to come and see her ailing sister. And her oldest sister Paula, seemed almost giddy about the news, and promised to come visit and care for Molly “when the time came”.
Before her car accident, Molly had been preparing her resume to make a job change. She was ready to move on to her next challenge and take her career to the next level after five successful years. She had been contemplating her relationship with Frank, they had been together for a couple of years and the relationship didn’t seem to be going anywhere.
And now? She was lucky to have a job with enough tenure that she could stay on and get paid for thinking with the capacity of a chipmunk. Frank had turned out to be her rock, answering the phone at all hours, providing infinite, compassionate patience. It was ironic.
“What if I had died in the crash?” she thought, “what would I regret not doing?” It was in that moment a singular thought came, like a bolt from the blue.
“If I had died, I would have never owned a horse,” she heard herself say.
Horses had significance in Molly’s life. Ever single birthday cake candle wish she’d ever made was, “I wish for my own horse.” And blow. A wish not unlike many little girls and boys. Molly’s love for horses was tied to a memory of her mother. Molly’s first memory of her mother was watching her ride her horse, while Molly sat on a fat pony named “Beany”, desperately trying to copy her mother’s equestrian skills. Beany was a babysitter. And Molly was, at the time, very much still a baby at 4 years old.
Molly’s mother, Inga, had grown up in Sweden and had ridden horses there as a young girl. After having four girls, she had decided to buy her first horse, no doubt looking for something of her own after being consumed by children for so many years. She had finally made her dream of owning a horse come true, and purchased a pretty bay mare she called, Sundance. She kept Sundance at a farm not far from their home, run by a kind farmer we called “Mr. Van”. Mr. Van had ponies on his farm that Inga rented for Molly and her sisters to ride while she visited and rode Sundance.
Sundance was a sturdy and athletic Morgan cross. Beany was a black and white, rather lazy pony. Perfect for little Molly. Molly remembered a sunny day, watching her mother trot around on Sundance, while Molly walked in a small round pen with Beany. Molly had wanted to move faster, but Beany seemed immune to the kicking from Molly’s small and ineffective legs. Such great memories Molly thought.
These early experiences evolved into a lifelong need to be around horses, watching them, reading about them, being near them and riding them. After her mother died, Molly would beg to go to a riding camp for the summer, and worked week-ends cleaning stalls to pay for riding lessons, and then summers during school breaks. Molly’s father couldn’t support her ongoing horse obsession but as long as she paid her way, he was always glad to drive her to the barn and faithfully dropped her off and picked her up from the farm without a complaint. The barn work was more like child slave labour but Molly loved it. In exchange for working Saturday and Sunday, sweeping, cleaning stalls and feeding hay and grain, Molly received one riding lesson each week.
Over the years, Molly would incorporate horses into her life whenever and wherever she could, but always with the understanding from her father that they were too expensive to own. Owning horses was for people with money. Molly always found a way to ride though, either paying to ride with her own money or by riding the horses no one wanted to ride because they were free. It was practical, affordable and it worked.
Molly’s thoughts returned to her current situation. “If I had died and never fulfilled this one dream, I would be rolling in my grave, I’d be so pissed off. How ridiculous it that. And why? Because other people get what they want but I don’t because somehow I have to aspire to a higher level of practicality than they do?!”
She began to reason with herself like a child arguing to a parent. Next, she started combing the online classifieds, gleefully signing up for a dozen Facebook groups that listed horses for sale in Ontario. She needed to get an idea of what was out there, she also needed to get an idea of what she was looking for, and what it cost. She had no idea what she wanted and so, she started to ask other people.
The only thing more exhuberant than a person shopping for their first horse, is someone else, helping that person shop for their first horse. It’s not their money, and not their responsibility; win-win! More importantly for Molly, it completely distracted her from her current issues and recent diagnosis.
Molly wanted a safe horse. She couldn’t afford to hit her head again on a high strung horse. The more you hit your head the worse the concussions become, until you’re a mumbling, slurring football player at the age of 45. Not fair, and not cool, but true.
Horse shopping would involve a lot of driving and hopping on and off unknown horses, so she would need someone to go with her. He sister Greta had booked her visit down from Winnipeg, which could be timely for horse shopping, mused Molly. Greta had a horse of her own in Winnipeg and was somewhat experienced having shopped for one before. Molly thought it might be fun it they went together, and perhaps Greta could offer her some advice and experience on how to buy a horse that’s safe and sound.
So with hat, Molly picked out a couple of horses from the classifieds and planned to go horse shopping with Greta the following week.