There's a Pony in There Somewhere

The story is told of twin boys of five or six. Worried that the boys had developed extreme personalities -- one was a total pessimist, the other a total optimist -- their parents took them to a psychiatrist.

First the psychiatrist treated the pessimist. Trying to brighten his outlook, the psychiatrist took him to a room piled to the ceiling with brand-new toys. But instead of yelping with delight, the little boy burst into tears. "What's the matter?" the psychiatrist asked, baffled. "Don't you want to play with any of the toys?" "Yes," the little boy bawled, "but if I did I'd only break them."

Next the psychiatrist treated the optimist. Trying to dampen his out look, the psychiatrist took him to a room piled to the ceiling with horse manure. But instead of wrinkling his nose in disgust, the optimist emitted just the yelp of delight the psychiatrist had been hoping to hear from his brother, the pessimist. Then he clambered to the top of the pile, dropped to his knees, and began gleefully digging out scoop after scoop with his bare hands. "What do you think you're doing?" the psychiatrist asked, just as baffled by the optimist as he had been by the pessimist. "With all this manure," the little boy replied, beaming, "there must be a pony in here somewhere!"

This story has been the unofficial anthem of my journey with cancer and, by extension, the difficult medical experience of those I love and even those they love.

When I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Disease in 1981, my mother's dear friend Stanley Sullivan sent me a small pewter pony, along with this story. That pony stood watch over me throughout that ordeal. When I was once again healthy, I began to share the pony. My best friend Jen had it with her while going through greuling infertility treatments. My cousin Karen had it with her as she fiercely battled, and ultimately lost, her battle with breast cancer. My mother had it with her through her breast cancer and subsequent health challenges. The original pony is now in Oregon, with a close family friend who continues to battle breast cancer, among other ailments. I have given ponies to friends facing tough times. By now there's a sizable herd of them, prancing across the prairies, both in this world and in the next.

Today, Jen gave me a pony. Small enough to be discreetly placed in a pocket or held in a hand wihle talking with doctors, or lying face-down on an MRI table (as I did yesterday - boy those things are loud!). Standing tall and proud, a shetland I think, all of 1-inch tall. I now feel prepared for the battle in front of me. I have my pony to help me navigate the uncertainties, rise above the dung, and charge into the sunset in search of a day beyond cancer.

Yee ha.