All In A Day’s Work
It was last Tuesday. Like any other Tuesday when the cleaning lady comes to clean my house. I go for physical therapy on horseback, or hippo therapy, on Tuesdays, too.
When I was driving home from therapy, I called my brother in California to tell him about the eventful session I’d had that day.
“I fell off the horse today. It’s not as dramatic as it sounds. I didn’t get hurt.”
“It was more of a slide than a fall. I don’t have a saddle or stirrups during therapy and we were doing something complicated, and I got distracted.
The pad I sit on started slipping off to one side and I went with it. The volunteer who was there for safety caught me and slowly lowered me to the ground onto my feet. My shoe fell off.”
“Guess what I did today?”
“I got married.”
I knew my brother was planning to marry the man who had recently moved in with him so this was not a total surprise. He just wasn’t sure how or when he was going to do it.
They had talked about the possibility of going to an Elvis-style chapel in Las Vegas or flying east to do something with family present.
Instead, they opted for a quick, no frills civil ceremony. My brother is 61 years old. I never expected him to be married because he’s gay and gay marriage is a relatively new thing. For those same reasons, he didn’t expect it, either.
At the end of the day on Tuesday, I had fallen off a horse as a disabled woman without getting hurt, and my brother had married a man.
In the context of history, the fact that this type of marriage is now commonplace is a miracle. In the context of my medical history, the fact that I ever even ride a horse is a miracle.
All in a day’s work, I suppose.