The Last Day, but Make it Cinematic

I cried. And cried. And then I cried more. I cried for three days.

I cried because I was going to miss the people, the horses, the kitties, the dogs, the job. I was going to miss my mornings of solitude. My midday moments of quiet bliss. I was going to miss the quiet that I rarely got to experience elsewhere. And honestly, I cried because I was going to miss the blissful chaos.

I cried because of the memories.

I lose myself in the day nearly three years ago, the day I submitted my resume for this position. I took my trusty steed on a not-so-relaxing trail ride (he was an anxious guy). I plodded down the driveway away from the barn and turned towards the house. We sauntered back behind as we usually do, and a huge owl soars up and swoops down right in front of us. I had never seen an owl back here before. I had been questioning whether or not this job was the next step for me, and had asked for a sign. There it was.

I remember the day that I was sitting in my EMT class and pulled out my phone on break. I had a voicemail. I had a job offer. I called back and happily accepted, returning to class after lunch break with a glimmer in my eye, telling my seatmate the news. I remember coming home to my partner at the time. His eyes sparkled happiness for me and he jumped up and down, ecstatic. I had been in a pretty rough patch when I was presented this opportunity, and this was the boost he knew I needed. He surprised me with a little plaque for my next big-girl job. “Jocelyn Doan: Program Coordinator.”

I remember going in on the first day and walking into the tiny little office. I brought coffee and creamer because dang it, I was an adult and I was going to come prepared. And I’m just a much more pleasant and functional human with coffee in my system.

I waited a week until I made it public information that I had started this job and I was so excited. I wore my favorite gray flannel and subjected my poor old man horse to a photoshoot so that I could have a staff picture for social media.

What was even more memorable was the amount of flooding that was taking place that lovely month of May that year. I went out to catch horses as was a part of my new job responsibilities, and within the first week I had already had my biggest and muddiest mishap ever. I asked a gal who would eventually become an incredible partner in crime for a change of clothes if she had them. I received a bright pink pair of booty shorts and sported those for the rest of the day.

I think about the ‘Peaky Blinders’ day that I had. We went on a ride pretending we were Tommy Shelby and his cohorts, acting like mobsters and running the town.

I think about the kids who I’ve shared time with.

I think of the adults who get to relive their youths when they’re on horseback.

I think about those long, exhausting summer days where I had to have smelled like absolute shit but no one had the heart to tell me. Bless their souls. The days that at 8:30 at night, I’d wander out to the pasture, somehow try to get myself up on my horse’s back, and lay there to watch the sunset, feeling his warm muscles contract as he shifted and grazed.

I think about the dirt and grime and slobber and bodily fluids I’ve been absolutely soaked with, and I can’t help but smile with tears in my eyes.

I think about my time spent with Captain America. I think of my first experiences ‘training’ horses and having sore shoulders from a pig-headed but lovely lady named Liberty Bell. I remember the first time I sat on Hurley, I was darn sure I was losing one of my nine lives and more than slightly embarrassed that it was all happening in front of my brand new boss. I think of Corona and the tears I shed as he left. I think about the clients that we graduated. I think of the birthday breakfasts that I’ve shared with other staff.

Seriously, I’m absolutely lost in the memories. Both good, and bad.

I remember shedding tears at how hopeless I felt when I realized that there was nothing left to do to make my horse feel better. That nothing could be done to cure his illness. That I could only do my best to keep him comfortable and will myself to have the courage to make the decision I needed to make when that day would eventually come. And it did. I laid on him for a good three hours, telling him how good he was and thanking him for teaching me so much. For being my companion. Thanking him for being my “suicide horse.” I fed him nearly an entire bag of horse treats because why the heck not, at that point. I remember the sweetest coworker bringing me paint options and a blank canvas to help me make his hoofprint. Bless her thoughtfulness. My coworkers and my mom came. The owner of the facility came. And finally, the vet came. He stood under the trees and then he ran away into the wind. You could hear the woosh of the cottonwoods as his soul crossed.

I remember walking through the pasture trying to feel close to him and picking wildflowers (weeds) to honor him. I remember the teary eyes and the hugs and the lack of words that people had to offer, knowing that it wasn’t words that was going to help ease the pain.

Two weeks after he passed, I lost another life.

A week after that, I helped another horse cross the rainbow bridge and join the herd of retirees waiting above.

I took the time each morning after that summer to walk through the pasture with a cup of coffee, enjoying a few minutes of bliss before the busy-ness of the day that was sure to come. I watched many sunrises and grounded in, I touched the earth, and I breathed the air, and I scared up the deer and the pheasants and the geese.

I formed relationships with volunteers and clients and donors that are irreplaceable, that are priceless. I met some of the kindest people I know. I said goodbye to the people in my life who were becoming toxic to me.

I watched people around me go through some of the best and worst experiences in their lives. I held people’s hands on their tough days, and know that they’d gladly be ones to return the favor should I ever need.

I learned, and I grew, and I broke down, and I bloomed.

So on my last morning as an official employee, I got up earlier than my sleepy-self wanted to, and got ready for work. I drove the same route as I have the past few years and stopped at the mailbox to get the mail. I continued down the long driveway and parked myself in the gravel lot. I took a moment to appreciate the tiny little bit of colors that were beginning to indicate the impending sunrise. I walked in the front door, and did everything just a little bit slower, with my senses all a little more alert. I was greeted by the kitties and I flipped on the lights. I opened the office door, clocked in, grabbed my gloves and headed out to the aisles. I said good morning to the angrily stalled Finnegan and started chores. I opened the big garage door to the sight of the sunrise and the sound of Doc’s winnie. I took extra time to appreciate the horses’ pricked ears while I said good morning. I took my last stroll through the pasture, hearing the crunch of my boots, admiring the colors, and thinking back to when it was all too flooded to walk through. I smiled at the memory of the time I was covered head to toe in mud because I was bulldozed over bringing the horses in in the morning, the first week of work.

The day proceeded. It was a strange quiet, until it was a lively chaotic. I saw glimmers in eyes, that were shiny from tears instead of the typical smiles. I was gifted well wishes and big hugs and honored with the admittances of the way I’d impacted several lives. I guess we never really know the effects we have on people, unless they’re gracious enough to gift us with those insights. I helped with lessons for the last time, at least for awhile.

At the end of the day, I packed my things and moved myself out of the office that I was often teased for “moving my whole house into.” I walked through the barn aisle and then out to the pens where I gave the horses a little extra scritchy-scratch before tearily getting in my car and driving back down the driveway that I’ve laughed, cried, and screamed on many times.

I watched as my bubs’ spirit ran down the driveway with me and I shed a smiling tear and choked out a “thanks for the send-off, buddy.”

And just like that, one chapter of my book was complete.