Day 8: This Aint Her First Rodeo

"Woke up to a phone call from my mom saying Trevor hit his head and was being airlifted to the University of Utah hospital. Got up, got dressed and headed straight to the hospital to wait for his arrival. Scared out of my mind with no idea what happened or what to expect." 

These are some of her first reflections of her second rodeo. 

The first rodeo was exactly ten months earlier, to the day. Trevor, her brother, had sustained what would be his first traumatic brain injury during a rail jam snowboarding competition. She dropped everything and was on the first flight (or series of flights) back to Michigan where the first rodeo awaited her. She had no idea what the next months had in store, but she jumped up onto the saddle, grabbed the bull rope, dug her spurs into the bull's side and dared it to rear. It obliged. It reared in ways that no rider could expect. Faking left and going right. Creating ups and downs beyond the scope of any bull's abilities. But she didn't let go. She moved with it—feeling every up and down, every jar and pull, every twist and every turn. And it was her her ability to move with the bull rather than fight it, that sent her on her way to her first victory. 

After the first victory, she slid out of the saddle, breathless. She stood dumbfounded at what she had just survived, and slowly inhaled, letting her feet adjust to the ground— ground that was solid and was no longer spinning. She exhaled, letting go of the fear— the what ifs that so frequently invaded her thoughts. 

Being new to the world of rodeos, she decided that once was enough, but the universe had other plans. 

"Resident took Larry and me back to see Trevor for the first time. Intense feelings of Deja Vu that I can't even begin to describe. He looked a lot better than the last time around, his head less swollen and bruised. Couldn't believe this was happening all over again. I thought we won the battle, but apparently it was just half-time..."

On Feburary 2, 2010 she was saddling up for her second rodeo. It wasn't an event that she had signed up for, but it was here. And just like she had done before, she jumped up onto the saddle, grabbed the bull rope, dug her spurs into the bull's side and—once again— dared it to rear. Following suit, it reared and it continues to rear. Its taking turns. Left, left, followed by a sharp right. A dip, abruptly matched by a flail. A jolt. A tug. Pounding circles. It continues its dance like the waltz of a giant with four left feet. But instead of falling victim to such a beast, she sits atop it and moves in sync with its every move—every pound, every clash, every shake, stagger, and rock. She keeps a steady grip, refusing to release. She has a white flag in her pocket, like the one we all come equipped with, but she keeps it there. She doesn't wave it over her head. Steadfast, she continues the ride. And when the bull relents, she will take the white flag out of her pocket and wipe the sweat from her brow—all in the name of her brother. 

My best friend fighting, like hell, in the name of her brother is what's right in the world.