My friend explained a concept to me I’d never heard of, on our long, horrible ride home from the vet clinic yesterday morning after one of the worst nights of my life. She called it the “Grief Box.” Grief is like a big red button inside a box with a bouncing ball; at first the box is tiny, so the ball is constantly hitting the button, burying you in grief, crushing and immediate. Over time, the box gets bigger, so the ball hits the grief button a little less, but each time the grief is the same, always hitting just as hard.
Last night, safely home but with an empty trailer, it felt like the ball was crushing the grief button and I couldn’t move for it. I certainly couldn’t sleep, as soon as I closed my eyes the gnawing guilt and “What Ifs” tore at me. What should I have paid attention to, what should I have noticed? If I had just a bit earlier, if I’d made different choices along the chain, would my golden steed, my friend still be here?
A week ago I was so fucking proud, so happy and in tune with my horse. We led a trail ride at McIver, hung out with his best horse buddy, and showed we still had some work to do with obstacles, namely sidepassing. But we did it all together and calm, in a bitless bridle on a dry fall day. He was so beautiful and perfect, and though I still had fitness to build post baby, he was fitter than I was but gentle and willing with it.
48 hours ago I was cuddled in the back of the trailer with Cyrus, keeping an eye on Flash in the corrals at the beach in the rain, making sure his hay net and water stayed full.
The next morning the rain let up and Flash was dry under his blanket, demanding breakfast and hollering for a buddy across camp. This is where the what ifs begin. I could see he had eaten all his hay and drunk water, but was it enough? If I had pushed electrolytes here, would that have been enough? He’d never needed them before and we would be riding less than we had last weekend, but riding in sand is harder even for fit horses.
We had a fun shake down ride along the bay with a small group, mostly loosed rein and marching out willingly on a cold but beautiful blue sky day. My trainer captured some beautiful shots of us together, and I will always cherish them, evidence that life was good and we were together.
We had a long lunch in camp, I ate my croissant and shared my apple with him as he munched more hay, peed and pooped and hollered again. I was feeling good enough to try tackling the actual beach solo, just him and me. He was a little distracted on the beach, but it was super busy, and he was convinced the fat tire bikes were just wrong. We rode back up to camp and out a little ways, much calmer and happier than with all the distractions on the beach. I was, in every sense of the word, on top of the world with my beautiful golden pony on a blue sky day, loose reins and a willing forward walk. I’d almost gotten my entire rig and gear right where I wanted it, and was loading up a bucket list of places and activities to try throughout the winter and into next year. I’d already tried a non formal drill team (a blast!), mountain trail obstacles (an hilariously poor showing but still fun), and fit in as many trail rides as I could between pandemic, surrogacy and wildfires.
I knew something was off as soon as we returned to the trailer. I always give him treats after untacking, and he always demands more as his due for packing me around, and oh is that a granola bar, I’ll have that too thank you very much. Plus one extra carrot…nah, another one human! He wouldn’t take anything, and he just stared at me instead of demanding food. His legs didn’t have any heat and his feet looked good, but I took him over to my trainer anyway.
She was just saying he looked ok when he wandered over to some grass and laid down, which I didn’t try to prevent because I always let him roll after a ride, he’s not clipped and he gets sweaty and itchy and his post ride roll is always entertaining.
But not this time. This time he plopped down in a bad, awkward spot and just lay there. Everything from that moment starts to blur a bit, covered with fear and panic and pain. There were plenty of horse campers that were connected to my trainer, so I had many hands and banamine and electrolytes to push…but he still wasn’t himself, trying to lay down and looking like a zombie. We were out on the Oregon Coast, where most vets work out of their trucks and treatment options are limited. Was it the right call to load him up and trailer him two hours away? Should I have called a local vet and tried to treat him on site, without the stress of going down twice in the trailer on the way? Sure the vet he ended up with was one of the best in the state, but still.
The sight we found when we finally reached Oakhurst will haunt me forever. He was down, his head wedged against the door and it almost fell out when I opened the back door. A horse who was tall and beautiful and vibrant just hours earlier, taking 5 people to get him up and out of the trailer to hobble into the barn.
I had already made the decision when I first brought him home that he wasn’t a surgery candidate, in just this eventuality. Surgery on horses is expensive, risky, and only done at a few facilities, one of which was another two hour trailer ride away. But there’s always that one stubborn part of you that has to wonder, would I have eked another year or two with him if that had been our first stop? Would he have even made it there?
That was the most brutal night of my life. Nothing the vet tried seemed to work for long, and his symptoms puzzled the vet. If it had been a simple dehydration, pumping fluids into him should have worked. Instead he had a seizure, his whole giant body shivering and stumbling around, one of the hardest things any of us have ever experienced. A dose of sugar brought him out of it, leading the vet to ask if he was known to have HYPP (not in a million years would we have thought of it). We hung onto the vet’s puzzled optimism, every good sign; good gum color, some gut sounds, decent heart rate, and a definite appetite that lasted deep into the wee hours of the morning. Sabrina and I stayed up for hours while the vet, Adriane and Kiara tried to sleep, pushing saline and keeping him doped up.
He and I did the zombie shuffle together for hours; he would shuffle two steps forward towards the hay, and I would ask him to take two steps back so he wouldn’t dislodge the IV, over and over again. The vet kept saying he’d only lost one horse to colic that had an appetite like him. By 4am we were all zombies and Flash was left blanketed in a stall to rest, and the vet sounded relatively optimistic so I fell asleep on a blanket in the recovery stall. Adriane woke me up enough to move me to my camp cot and take over the vigil…and I should have stuck it out with her.
Sometime between 4am and 8am his system gave up, and I woke to the morning vet giving him an ultrasound while he tried to play in the automatic waterer…to be hit with the news that his small intestines were dead, and it was time. No more treatment options, just our beautiful Flash to make the final decision for.
I managed to hold it together to cut his tail and watch the vets put him down. It was a sunny day, if cold, and the Oakhurst facility and grounds are beautiful. All the vets, all my friends say I made the right calls at the right time, and we still don’t know what was really wrong. But I’m not sure I can forgive myself for taking him to the beach, that “What if” voice telling me if we’d just stayed home and tried another weekend somewhere else I’d still have my golden boy, still have adventures yet to seek and miles yet to ride.
It’s so bitterly unfair. I’d only had him just over a year, a turbulent year of pregnancy, pandemic, wildfires and losses. I’d just dialed in my gear and my rig for trips. We hadn’t ridden Black Butte together, or the Ochocos or the Met Win or tried the indoor trail course at the Oregon Horse Center (Kade rode him there last year while I was pregnant and he was amazing and Kade had so much fun!). We’d just been complimented on our trail ride last week on how far we’d come together, how much more in tune we’d seemed. On Wednesday he cantered and trotted around me for 15 minutes, full of fall spiciness before his farrier appointment. He was as healthy and sound and happy as I and my barn owner and friends knew how to keep him, and now he’s gone and I’ll never shake the nagging feeling it was my fault, somehow, some way, something I should have known.
I only had him barely a year, Adriane and Kiara had him for 15, how could anyone trust me with a horse again? Where would I even find such a wonderful match, a horse who doesn’t mind hauling my middle aged, significantly less than fit butt around, who is so calm for lightsaber duels with my son, who flirts with my husband and willingly lets a panting boxer dog follow at his heels?
Reading all the comments from friends and such on Facebook, each one brings fresh tears. I was a catch rider for so long, loving and appreciating every ride I was offered but holding a bit of myself back, not part of the large and small decisions and daily care of the animals I was privileged to spend time with. I offered everything I had into Flash, thrilled to finally be a part of the horse owning crowd, pouring over research to dial in his supplements just right, spending hours at the barn with him, grooming and playing soccer and sometimes just eating dinner with him and getting slobbered all over. I bought him things we didn’t really need just because I finally could, he was finally mine, why shouldn’t he have a beautiful breast collar, all the best treats, a modified trailer just for his giant golden butt and tack all in a lovely dark blue that contrasted his palomino coloring so well? I researched and debated for hours on hi tie versus panels, which one he’d be safer and happier with. I never got to use the set I purchased for him, not on a trip. I’ve never taken the hi line set I purchased out of the bag, not even to try him out on it.
Yesterday, I let the What Ifs and missed adventures and the stolen years overwhelm me. I did my best to process through the guilt and pain I need to be able to set aside if I’m ever to move forward and ride again, to try again with another horse.
Today Adriane helped with another rough part, the final arrangements, which I will be forever grateful for. She found a beautiful farm that will bury him in a field we can visit later, and I cleared the final bill with the vet. Kade handed the vet a card he’d drawn to thank him for working so hard for Flash, and the vet told me there’s nothing we should or could have done differently, which is helping a little.
Today I celebrate the mere year we had together, all the work we did to improve, all the stupid human requests he tried willingly in search of more carrots, all the compliments I received on how well cared for and beautiful he really was.
Tomorrow it will hurt a little less, until 6pm rolls around and I’m not putting on my boots to visit the barn, to feed him and tend his feet and play soccer with him, to hop on and wander around bareback and watch the sunset through his ears. I miss my friend.
9 thoughts on “The Grief Box”
If I were in need of a home for Reverie, I’d go to you first.
I’d go to you first, knowing she would get better care than she could ever get anywhere else… except barring, maybe, Adriane.
The grief box is a perfect analogy. The box does get bigger. It does, I swear.
But it is so, so, so bitterly unfair this happened to you. I know that fair is a silly term, and that this is part of life. humans have been been partnering with horses for thousands of years and STILL nobody has figured out colic, not really. It’ s a total crapshoot.
I can pretty much guarantee that if you had not trailered him to the best vet in the state, and he’d died in the middle of nowhere with a no-name vet that you would probably hate yourself more than you are beating yourself up right now.
But still. It seems so unfair that you had so little time, after wanting it for so long, and with no chance to really say goodbye.
But in terms of that whole “it’s my fault, I should have known” is just a stage of grief, and nowhere near the truth. And I can’t think of a single horse on this planet that wouldn’t be incredibly lucky to be owned by you.
If there was a way to have saved him, you would have found it. Sometimes life just sucks. I’m sorry you had to end it so hard with him, and that your brain has those nasty images in it, but I really hope that you are able to replace them with images full of life soon.
He was lucky to have you, and you were lucky to have him, and I’m sad you didn’t get more time and a peaceful goodbye you could have planned for… but that’s just the rotten luck this world sometiimes has, and has nothing to do with you or him.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You did all the right things. Some times, all the right things aren’t enough, and this is one of those times. But you did do all the right things.
I’m so sorry.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Flash was a beautiful horse with a great personality. I loved watching you two work together and come along with new skills, and the videos of your light saber duels with Kade were often the highlight of my week. Like many have said before, horses are so incredibly strong but also so amazingly fragile. I’ve had many friends lose horses to colic or have very close calls with colic. The equine digestive system seems almost doomed to fail, but somehow it works most of the time. I’ve also had friends lose horses to microbes that took out their previously strong, healthy mounts in a matter of days. You gave Flash excellent care and nothing but love, and you followed the best path you could to try to save him. We are all so sorry for your loss, and I hope you allow yourself some grace and forgive yourself if you think you did something wrong. We don’t get owner’s manuals with our kids, dogs, horses, or any living things that we care for, but we just do the best we can with the tools we have. Give your heart time to heal, and even though Flash took a giant hunk of it with him, I hope it has room in it again some day for another equine friend.
Kiara and I would never have let him go to you if we doubted you in any way.
You were amazing with him. Did you make mistakes over the year? Sure. I make them all the time. Every horse is different and you figured out what he needed. Some you learned from us, some you figured out yourself. Like the itch relief, we never nailed that one and you did.
You deserve a horse, you deserved him, and we are so grateful that he had so much love from your family.
Those are amazing pictures and to be treasured. You guys got your beach ride.
What ifs are a bane of those who care deeply.
I’m so very glad that we could all be together to get through that with support. To be alone during that night would have been unbearable for any of us.
Kiara, you, and me, he had us and was not surrounded by strangers.
We had Sabrina and Sarah and so much support from others.
You did everything you could in an impossible situation.
The animals we choose to love take big pieces with them when they go. That’s the sacrifice we make, to have them in our lives.
It’s worth it, and he left you with so many great memories.
And without him we would not have met. Our families are entwined because you were a catch rider looking for friends to ride with.
He gave us each other.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Stacy said pretty much exactly what I wanted to say but in a more eloquent way. The grief that I still feel, seven years later, clouds my thinking when I read posts like this that bring it all back to the surface. So thank you Stacy for your post and I’ll ditto that.
The only thing I’ll add is that I feel grief is like waves of the ocean. Some waves are huge so the hurt is overwhelming, knocking you under and making you feel like you’re drowning.
Other times, the grief is just a little wave that laps against your toes. Ride the waves and know there are breaks of respite between them.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, no. I am sad to hear about Flash. I don’t know you personally, and I am new to your blog, but I also know something about the death of a good horse and the dreams that go with him. It is so tough. Whether for a short or a long time, I always enjoy reading about people’s adventures with their horses as I did with yours. Your time with Flash was short and yet you built some beautiful memories and have some wonderful photographs of your time together.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I don’t have the words to tell you how much this touched me. It’s my kiddos second birthday and I’m sitting here in a puddle remembering the day we had to let Bonnie go. My grandfather had raised her from birth to 26 and she helped raise me. It was the hardest day. It was hard for me because I loved her so much but I could see how much worse it was for grampa. I’ve seen colic take lives and I’ve seen some near misses. I’ve worked with you with horses. Read your stories and seen some gorgeous photos of you and your loves. I have sent you hundreds of virtual hugs. I hope you can understand some day that you didn’t cause this. You made the last year of his life amazing. And the last day might have been hard and terrible, but you didn’t make him suffer and you stayed with him. He knew he was loved. You gave him the only thing any of us can hope for it those final hours. You loved him.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You did all the right things. Excuse my language but ….sometimes shit just happens. I have lost more than one horse and each time it is devastating. But the button in that box will eventually be pushed less and less. Don’t despair of finding another horse. As a friend once said to me :”The mother of all horses is not dead.”
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ohhhh nooooo. So much grief in such a short time. Panny and I are so gut punched for you. Flash we miss you.