The first thing I did when I could remember my name was call a local horse dealer. My Paint mare, Rorschach, had to go. She’d flung me earthward twice in the four years I’ve owned her. Twenty years ago, I’d have laughed about it and kept riding her. But 20 years ago I could tip my head back without getting dizzy; I wasn’t tired all the time; I could follow even the most boring conversation without zoning out; and I didn’t have to search for words, keys, cell phones, notebooks, olive oil or whatever I’d just put down.
And 20 years ago I hadn’t yet written an article for Washingtonian Magazine about an unconventional treatment for brain injury. Which is why the second thing I did after I could remember my name was call Mary Lee Esty.