We Shouldn't Have to Do This Alone

Four days ago I discovered that I was in the process of losing a baby.
Mind you, a baby I didn't realize was there in the first place, but still a baby.

I've never gone through this before.

I assure you, I didn't want to be pregnant. My youngest son--now six years old--was a surprise occurrence after my husband's eight-year-old vasectomy. Obviously the urologist was a hack or we're just freaks of nature, whatevs.

But anyway. Last week I had a four-day fever, and I kid you not... one day break of feeling semi-okay before I thought my monthly visitor decided to pay me a visit.  Except it wasn't.

It was the beginning of losing.

And here I am, sad that I'll miss out on a lifetime with a child that I really wasn't ready to bring into this world. Upset that I've been strapped into this rollercoaster ride again. Feeling pretty awful, energy and cramp-wise. Mad that I can't deal with the bleeding in a convenient way. Frankly, pissed that the bleeding will never, ever end. Annoyed that my life doesn't wait for me to heal--kids still need to be driven places, animals still need to be fed, grandparents still need someone to watch over them.

Hurt that my husband has yet to ask if I am okay. To say he's sorry.

I wonder if he realizes how big this is? How shocking this is?

I wasn't ready to go through this, but it did happen. No one needs to feel sorry for me, but it's okay to ask how I'm doing. I realize this might not be the same for everyone, and that's okay.

But I think it's also okay to admit that, no matter how a woman gets to this place, it doesn't feel good and it doesn't feel fair to go through the losing process.We whisper about miscarriage, but it's okay to talk about it out loud, too. We shouldn't have to do this alone.

Two Years

It's been two years since I last saw my boy living and breathing.  Granted, it wasn't much left of a life, and I wish our good-bye had been something so much sweeter.  But we were together, where we always ended up.

Moe and I at a schooling show, Hoffman Farms 1995ish

Today I celebrated Moe's memory by spending the evening with his two remaining buddies, Trinity and Fansi.  It's what he would have wanted, for me to be happy with his friends, with the sun warming our skin and the breeze kissing our cheeks.  I even snuck Fansi a few extra treats in his honor, just because he would've been the first one pick-pocketing me for his share.

Wherever you are, Moe, I hope you know how much I'm missing you and that my heart's breaking all over again as I write this.  Peace and love, sweet boy.

Trinity and her new bonnet.  She's thrilled.

Action shot with Trin.

Sunset ride on Fansi.  She is skeptical of the shutter sound on the phone.

Life Keeps Going On. 

Right Away, Great Captain!

I'm guilty of turning on an album and leaving it on repeat for days.  Months, even.  My husband hates this about me because he and I tend to have very opposite tastes in music (him:  Anything Country.  Me:  Florence + the Machine, which is totally a genre, by the way!).  Though it's not working at the moment, we had an iPod jack in our room where we could plug in our iPods or phones and play our music over speakers in the ceiling or on the porch.

At some point while Moe was sick, I turned on Right Away, Great Captain and left it on.  I remember walking away from  his still-warm but lifeless body on the grass and wandering back to the house wondering what could possibly be left without him.  The only thing to do was crawl into bed in the middle of a sunny day and cry.  Right Away, Great Captain crooned me to sleep on that horrible, beautiful day.  I let it play on in the days to follow because it held Moe and I together, this thread of mournful music.

Tonight I'm getting ready to say good-bye to one of my characters and I don't want to because it's like letting my boy slip through my fingers again.  My heart hurts and it feels right to play Right Away, Great Captain! again to pull myself back into the grief.  

It's no more than two lines into the first song before I can see him stumbling and feel his slick neck against my cheek.  The curl of dread tightens in my belly as I watch the vet check his pupils and slowed breathing over and over and over until he is satisfied and I know it's done.  I'm broken, with pieces that will never go back together quite right.

Sixteen months and it surprises me how sharp the pain still is and how little it takes to bring me back to that good-bye.  That is the power and wonder of art.

Oh.  How will I ever do this?

One Year

In the cool of the evening I spent a few moments loving on and wandering around with my mare, not asking her for more than either of us could give.  Today I needed to be sure she was happy being with me, not burdened by my presence.  I gave her extra scratches under her chin and on her forehead, and perhaps a few more treats than she needed.

I put aside my checklist of things to accomplish and took a deep breath, remembering when things were as simple as enjoying our time together.  Moe would have wanted that, I think--and a few extra treats.

Miss you so very much, Moe.  I cannot believe it's been one whole year without you.  Nothing about me has been the same without you here.

Waiting

As I led the pony to the mounting block, ready for our ride, my mother yelled from the back porch.  Her voice didn't carry, only the sharp tone of urgency.  Mom-voice.

"Can't hear you!"  I replied as I settled in the saddle and moved my fingers to their mirrored positions on each side of the reins.

"LIGHTNING!"  She tried again, louder.  "Lightning from the clouds to the ground!  We're going inside!"

Were there other kinds of lightning?  I wasn't sure.  My parents, Floridians at heart, couldn't shake the habit of going into hiding whenever a storm hit.  "The lightning can strike a mile on all sides of the storm," I remember Mom telling me during one winter in the South.  This is Michigan, though, and I'm pretty sure our storms are underachievers, like just about everything else here.  Except for the storms that involved Mr. Ohboy's grandpa, who was struck by lightning on two separate occasions as he sat in the same chair in the same house.  That was clearly bad luck--it had nothing to do with the ferocity of the storm or taking proper cover.  Or the fact that he was wearing his tinfoil hat.  (Totally kidding about the tinfoil hat, but it sounded good).

But back to tonight...

Above me the sky reflected back a clear robin-egg blue.  To either side, grey clouds pushed forward with a rumble.  The pony didn't fret like an animal about to be deep-fried by a stray bolt of electricity, but something told me it might be part of her diabolical plan to be rid of me forever.  As the wisps of clouds advanced, I sighed and dismounted.  We waited out the blast of wind in the aisle of the pole barn, which struck me as probably more dangerous than being out in the open, but made me seem more responsible to anyone paying attention.  I'm not widely viewed as responsible.  I blame that on being the baby of the family.  And on being irresponsible, but whatever.

Eventually the sun broke through the clouds, and I led the pony back to the arena.  Our ride went well (in case you cared), though I cut it short because more thunder warned of another storm inching our way.  Before I could finish cleaning up and securing the barn for the evening, the canopy of sky overhead darkened.

Because I had walked down to the barn, I walked home.  The pasture stretched before me, the breeze tickling the tips of the grass, and all I could think of was my vulnerability.  The blackness feathering above me like the wings of a dark angel reminded me of my mortality.

If I died on that very spot, pierced through by pure energy, would my life have meant something?

Yes?  No?  I don't know.

My 35th birthday was a few days back, and I joked that I wanted warning if this was the year of the mid-life crisis.  To be honest, though, I felt like I've been in a mid-life crisis for twenty years.  Nothing is as I thought it would turn out, and that's not a bad thing, necessarily.  My younger self didn't dream, something I've grown to accept as the dreams have continued to elude me.  All I ever wanted was to be a horse trainer, rock star, and hopelessly in love.

My marriage does not resemble a chick flick, and I wish that was different, but we do the best we can clinging to each other as we roll with the punches.  Parents who have been dealt the challenging hand of children with special needs can probably understand.  To those who can't understand what that means to a family, to a couple, to a person--I pray you never have to understand, personally, but that you will understand anyway because others need your compassion instead of judgement.  Somehow, through it all, we're still here.  I don't know why we've been so lucky that way.  And I do know that we love each other, though it's not like 'The Notebook'.

Ryan Gosling.  Mmm.  Oh, sorry...  But, for real.  Ryan Gosling.

I'm not a horse trainer like I always wanted, though I train my horses every day.  In a way, I guess that one's true, too.  Sometimes it feels so pointless, especially when I try my hardest and there's still so much I don't know how to do.  Or when I spend my life building a relationship with a horse only to have to say good-bye, and usually on such tragic terms.  Every loss is a blow I can't quite put into words.

I'm only a rock star when I'm driving down the highway and belting out impossible notes along with Florence + the Machine.  Seriously, I am not sure what that sounds like to people who drive next to me with their windows down.  So, yeah.  NOT a rock star.

Writing was always a dream, but something that felt so utterly out of reach I never put much thought to it.  In this age of self-publishing and vanity houses, it's completely attainable now.  If I died tonight, I wouldn't be published.  For all I know, my manuscript is buried in an inbox somewhere important, awaiting a double-click that may never come.  If I died tonight, I'd spend the rest of eternity wondering if I'd ever have been worthy of an audience.  

In the end, I obviously made it to my home without being targeted by my very own lightning bolt, but the night is not over.  There are countless other things in my life that feel stagnant, blanketed in dust, ignored.  I've been quiet here because there hasn't been much to say, and that's how the inside of my head feels, too.  Still.  Holding.  Waiting.

But for what?

For dreams.  For direction.  For someone to tell me I'm better at this whole life thing than I think I am.  Is this what growing older is like?  Questioning and analyzing how differently it has all gone down?

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!

I haven't blogged in weeks.  Maybe you noticed.  Maybe you didn't.  Maybe you never even knew I had a blog.  Maybe you never cared to know the random things that pass through my brain.  If you didn't care, then I guess you wouldn't be here reading this now, so nevermind that bit.

At any rate, I've not had a lot to say.  A lot happened in April, but the words kept to themselves, mostly.

I lost a sweet horse, Mariah, to a heart-breaking decision I didn't want to have to make.  Her weight was good through the winter, but her joints just seemed to give way.  We spent the afternoon before the vet's visit brushing her and stuffing her full of the treats she loved so much...  After I had to chase her back to my property when she turned tail and ran through the neighbor's hay field.  That burst of spunk caused me to second-guess myself up until the moment she walked away from the barn for good.  Really, there wasn't anything to second-guess.  Even with her halting gait, she nearly bowled me over to go through the gate for the last time, never to return.  My step-dad says I'm reading too much into it--she was just a horse, after all--but I think she knew her time had come.  She was ready to be whole again in some other place.

Two days after we said good-bye to Mariah I began what I assumed would be the long process of horse-hunting and test-rides.  That day we looked at two ponies and bought the second one, a grey draft pony named Ellie.  She reminds me a lot of the pony I had when I was a kid, another horse I loved and lost.  Thank goodness I can think of that pony and smile.  The wounds are still a bit too fresh from losing my Moe and Mariah nine months from each other.  Back to Ellie, though--she is talented and quick, so I've been working at slowing her down and getting her back in shape for the kids to ride.  I've been riding a lot, for me, at over two hours a day in the saddle.  I'm one tired muchacha, most days.

My step-dad decided the tack room in our barn was in need of a major overhaul, so they began that project around the time they purchased the grey pony.  Now instead of dust, cobwebs, and mouse droppings, we have wood paneling, fluorescent lighting, and linoleum.  There are cross-ties for three horses instead of only one.  It's super-fancy.  You know, I've been riding for the past 30+ years in squalor so I don't know how to behave in nice places.  I might have to let the mice and birds into the tack room to relieve themselves, for old time's sake.

Yesterday my sister also bought a horse, a bay Tennessee Walker gelding.  His name WAS Henry, but he has been renamed "Romeo".  Despite my mare's (Trinity) best attempts to scare the bejeebies out of him with her crazy front legs and ear-splitting squeal, he is not very concerned with the goings-on of our barn.

The reintroduction of my family to the barn has been difficult.  For decades it has been my safe haven, the place I go to escape everything.  One by one, the horses are being replaced.  Board by board, [beautiful] improvements erase the little bits that remain of my memories of horses past.  The air is laced with the conversations of others instead of the whisper of the breeze.  It is all changing.  The changes are not all unpleasant, but, to me, they are all related--directly or indirectly--to losing a loved one.  I'm still grieving.  Not with the intensity I did when I lost Moe, but it's still there.  I'm crying for all of them.  There's little emotional leeway for much else.

Things have been happening in my non-horsey life, too.  A while ago I entered a contest attempting to attract the interest of a literary agent.  My submission didn't make it past the slushpile readers whose job it was to wade through all of the entries for the agents.  At the conclusion of the contest we were given a second chance to submit a Twitter pitch so the agents could see what they'd missed.  My Twitter pitch received requests from one agent and a brand new publishing company.  The agent ended up passing once she read my query and first several pages, but the publishing company requested my full manuscript two weeks ago.  Last night as Mr. Ohboy and I walked back from feeding the horses, I checked my e-mail and found a message from the publisher saying they were interested in signing me.

This afternoon I talked with the woman who runs the company, firing off questions and concerns and sharing our mutual disdain for "50 Shades of Grey" for over an hour.  The premise of the company is promising:  Treating writers with respect, fostering community amongst the authors in this house, allowing authors as much control as possible, and a lot of other things that made me feel comfortable about possibly letting this company help me bring my stories to the world.  The biggest problem?  They are so new their first round of acquisitions isn't set to publish for another month or so.  They are a total unknown.  On one hand, it's flattering to be considered for this fledgling company, getting in on the ground floor, so to speak.  On the other hand, I worry that once things get moving they will discover that their nice ideals and flexibility aren't making them money and all of those "pros" will disappear.  What if they don't survive?  What if they take my reputation with them?  I'm not sure if any of that makes any sense, but I've been processing it all day long.

The next step is to lay my eyeballs on their contract and figure out if it makes any sense to me.  It won't.  It's completely written in legal-ese.  I barely speak redneck-tinged English.

And then I think of this publisher, someone who doesn't know me from anyone, who personally read my manuscript and saw something of value in it, and in me.  Enough that she'd be willing to take a chance by bringing me in to be part of the building effort for her company.  It's scary and humbling, all at the same time.

I've not signed anything or given a commitment of any kind because all I've had is a nice phone conversation with a stranger.  Maybe I will wake up tomorrow and this will all be a weird dream, but tonight I will smile remembering her compliments.  I don't get enough of those, do you?

Also on the writing front--In April, I participated in Camp NaNoWriMo.  My hopes had been to add 30k words to a project I've been working on, a Young Adult thriller tentatively named "In the Middle".  With everything else going on, I managed about 10k.  This big "miss" did give me time to think about the plot a little, so look for more happening with that story in the near future.

What else?  Oh, I have a new nephew!  He's adorable and I need to visit him.  Other than that, I haven't had time for much else.  What about you?  Anything big happening where you are?

Last Day On Earth

If it were my last day on earth I would dream under the stars.
I would lay down in the grass and let the sun warm my skin.
I would cherish each breath of air as it weaves through my hair.
I would sing along with the familiar melodies of the birds.

If it were my last day on earth I would lose my way in the trees.
I would splash and play in the dancing waters.
I would shift and slide amongst the soft grains of sand.
I would drench myself with the afternoon rain.

If it were my last day on earth I would wrap your arms around me.
I would bathe in the trickle of our falling tears.
I would wish you remember me fondly long after I go.
I would want you to know you made each day worth living.

When you think of me, with tears or laughter, know that I am thinking of you and sending love in the gentle ways I know how.

~~~

 Mariah, sweet girl, you deserve to be whole again.  Thank you for always being as kind as you looked.  Thank you for trusting me enough to be your vision and, sometimes, your protector.  We will miss your quiet spirit and the cautious way you would sneak up to me to get treats before any of the other horses could chase you away.  Give Moe a big, sloppy horse kiss for me, and run free together the way you never really could when you came to live with us.  

You are loved.  <3

~~~

Mariah galloped across the Rainbow Bridge today at 12:15pm. Rest in peace, Ry-Ry. </3

Looking Over My Shoulder

2012.  I wish I could say with any sort of conviction that I'm ready to see you go.  The truth is, I'm not.  A new year brings yet another milestone that puts distance between me and a best friend lost.  Yes, milestones work in reverse....  Instead of triumphing in growing and becoming, I am painfully aware of the minutes as they tick away and disintegrate what we once had.  The holidays are a time to spend with loved ones, a time to remember loved ones departed.  I can tell you, for me, it's true.  There is an odd comfort in missing him, in remembering and letting the tears come.  The sadness means a part of him is still here.  Maybe when he crosses my mind, it is because he is thinking of me.  I realize perhaps that's a ridiculous notion, but I cling to it anyway.

Hand-in-hand with the passing of my dear horse, this has also been the year of perseverance.  For so long I thought I would never have the opportunity to have a passion other than horses, something that I could pour myself into and possibly support my family... eventually.  We should all be so lucky--to find that thing we love to do so much we would do it for free.  Last year I realized I wanted to write something, just to see if I had it in me.  As the words found their way to the page, a long-dormant part of me awakened.  Purpose.  Life.

And then I lost Moe, and, for a while, my purpose, too.

For so many weeks--months, even--following his passing, I stared at my laptop, fingers frozen in place.  It would take me an entire day to form a few sentences, and even those lacked the spark of joy.  Still, I pressed on, knowing there was no choice.  I kept at it until I completed my second draft in October, took a week off, and dove back in to my next installment. There was no other choice.  I could never be happy with this story left in limbo, one more thing to mourn.

2012 has been a year of dramatic change in my life and in myself.  I've not figured out how to spin it all positively, because some things simply do not have  a silver lining.  But I am still here, and I'm glad you are, too.

May 2013 be a year of restoration and blessing for us all.  I think most of us could use that.

Empty Stall

He's captive in this little box, tangled among all the little things that made me me.  Dew on the morning grass, wings to fly, easy laughter, innocence.  Where he has gone, my joy has followed.  Each day, I struggle to keep the lid shut tight, to hold too fiercely to something that has long since slipped away.  It's all changing--the light, the season, even me.  How can there be a spot of my heart that's left to split?

***

Tonight I fed the horses in the dark.  They were quiet, not hungry and frenzied as they usually are around dinnertime.  I found out that was because they'd already eaten dinner, so the hay I'd thrown out was a bonus feeding.  The sweet aroma of pine drifted to me, and I turned to see my mom had thrown some shavings in one of the stalls for the horses to enjoy.  The stall we'd kept locked since July 10th had been opened, an open invitation for the mares to come in and explore the straw bedding within.  That stall, that very straw was the last place my sweet boy laid his head before we put him down.  He groaned and stretched and closed his eyes almost happily, even though he was in unspeakable pain.  Even though minutes later he would stand, with my help, and be led from the barn for the very last time.

I never intended it to be a shrine to Moe.  It was a waste of straw to be used in the summer for my pasture-kept ladies.  I locked it up with a zip-tie that day, and there it's sat for all this time.  And, yet, a shrine is exactly what it became, in the end.  It was his stall, even though my horses don't have assigned stalls.  Every evening he would rush in there with a gruff nicker while I worked on scooping out his Equine Senior, so anxious to eat he would impatiently come back out of the stall and follow too closely behind me to make sure I was coming.  He'd been losing teeth in those last years, and gumming his dinner took forever, but I wish he was still here.... I'd let him take five times as long if he was just here again.  Soon, the straw will need to be removed, soiled and useless.  One more reminder he was here, that it all happened, will break down and disappear forever.

Tonight that open, empty stall peeled back the corner of the scab.  I know the wound will never fully heal, but I had hopes that, over time, it would become easier.  This is not easier.

He Is

He is...

Spindly legs.

They say he will learn to put each one in proper place as he grows.

They were wrong.



He is...

A velvet nose.

He is sniffing, touching, testing, mouthing all the world has to offer.

And even some things it does not.



He is...

The perfect heart

Child-like, forgiving, trusting, loyal to the final flicker of life.

And loyal even yet.


****

I have been looking at baby pictures of some friends and recent clients.  I am led to flip back through some of my older Facebook photos, where little Ohboy's age could be counted in weeks and months rather than years.  His smile is the same in those photos, only now it is deepened with words and experience.

It makes me wonder about my Moe-Moe.  I've never seen him as a foal, but I imagine him much the same:  Gangly and awkward, hungry and inquisitive.  The idea of my beloved guy as a beloved little guy brings happy tears to my eyes.  What a character I know he was.  These things seldom change, even with age.

Miss you, as always, Moe.  Where you are, a big piece of my heart has followed.

Not Forgotten

My dear human friend,

A door called death has closed between us for the moment.

But could a little thing like that

break the bond of love and understanding between us,

Who have been so close? Of course not. 

Having left behind the body which no longer serves me,

I can be with you always and everywhere;

On long delicious walks, at quiet times, and lively times,

Alone, among friends new and old. 

Let my excitement with life still brighten your days.

As long as there is a place in your heart which is the shape of me,

I will be with you.

One day you too will come through the door,

And we will be together in glorious ways we have yet to understand.
 

--Alexandra Day

Rollercoaster Days

I rode my horse this afternoon while waiting for Ohboys 2 and 3 to be dropped off by the school bus.  The bus driver won't let them off the bus unless she sees someone from our family, so I've taken to riding while I wait.  What other kid gets picked up from the bus via horse?

My horse has been amazing lately.  Today, for the first time in years she decided that she was okay with riding close to the border between the yard and the road, a mass of dark overgrowth chock full of boogey monsters and unspeakable terror.  I've taken to putting pom-poms in her ears to block the noise, which seems to help her from jumping out of her skin but doesn't get us any closer to the bushes.  It's also really helpful if the older gentleman across the street (hidden behind these trees and bushes) isn't out weed-whipping or dragging things around his driveway.  I swear that man has spidey-senses and can tell as soon as I put my foot in the stirrup.  The street could have been completely quiet when I go to the barn, and as soon as I go out to ride, he pops up like a really loud mosquito you're not allowed to swat.  He's a nice man, but I know I've cussed him out in my brain more times than I can count.  Today I won some kind of "perfect conditions" lotto--all things were in my favor.  She did what I asked, even throwing in an automatic lead change as a bonus, until we both ran out of steam.

When I ride, littlest Ohboy sits in the yard with one of his beloved Angry Birds and the iPad, content to watch.  Or at least he's being patient enough to wait without complaining. That little guy is better to me than I deserve.  I always ask him if he wants to ride.  Usually he says no, today he said yes.  While we waited for the bus, I walked my mare around with little guy holding onto the front of my saddle.  He was happy; she was ready to be done with all of us and eat some grass.

As soon as the bus dropped off 2 and 3, they came squealing into the yard.  Ohboy 3 was mad because I would not drive him to the house (because I was still putting my horse stuff away), and he was not interested in walking to the house.  He was jumping and throwing fits, slamming his backpack into things.  I demanded (by counting to three) he ride the horse--poor horse--for four loops around the yard.  It settled him down enough so that by the time we finish he was no longer screaming, but humming to himself instead.  His feet touched the ground and he was okay for a few minutes until he realized that Ohboy 4 had the iPad and he wouldn't get a turn.  At the end of the yard, next to the path that runs up to our private road, I saw Ohboy 3 and 4 in a pathetic competition of who could throw themselves onto the ground and wail the hardest.  My horse was loose, but she was happy to eat the green grass, so I walked to them and tried to figure out what the problem was.  I stopped having workable solutions years ago.

I sent Ohboy 3 home with the iPad, and Ohboy 4 was reduced to random grunting in lieu of words.  The only thing that broke him out of his funk was asking if he'd like to give the horsey a treat.  He did!  Smiles abound!

When I reached the house, Ohboy 3 was famished.  I made them all popcorn for a treat, but it was not enough.  He wanted something else.  I was not fast enough and he laid down to sleep in his room.  I shouldn't have let him sleep, but I did for a little bit, anyway, because it was quiet.  He'd been this way all day, based on word from his first-grade teacher.

Teenage Ohboy (1) was playing video games in his room.  He was a couple days behind on his school work, and bolted from the house when I confronted him about it and confiscated his technology.  Fourteen is a miserable age, and I wonder if we will all survive it with even a sliver of sanity remaining.

Ohboy 2 had spelling homework.  He hates spelling (but loves writing, like his mama!), and he growled and kicked the cabinet the whole time.  They are only learning six words at a time, and except for transposing some of the letters, he's got this.  Spare me the drama.

The boys were all picking on each other, playing with toys they don't actually want to play with just to hear the other kid scream.  Mr. Ohboy had been gone for 11 hours today, with no sign of return.  The zen I had from riding was sucked from my soul, and I'm suddenly acutely missing Moe again, which is random.  I realize that, on some very basic level, he was the steady person in my life.  I could always count on him being the very same, all day every day, and always excited to see me and spend time with me.  He never hit me with a backpack or called me an idiot, not even once.

This will all pass.  Someday I'll be missing this.  Riiiiight?

Waiting In the Wings

Several weeks ago, just after losing Moe, I had to step over this to leave the barn.  I keep forgetting to post it, but I think it was a small reminder that there is beauty to be found even in the suckiest of circumstances.

First

The sun had not quite peeked its head above the horizon, painting the edges of the trees, the barn, everything, with a hint of gold.  We were mostly alone,  save for the others who were turning out horses or tacking up--and my dad, who was documenting it all with a gigantic camcorder that looked like it had been swiped out of the back of a news van.

Nervously, I tried maneuvering Moe through the movements of the dressage test we'd been practicing all week.  We screeched to a halt where "X" might have been, had the wing of a jump standard not been hogging the space.  A pretentious salute, and off we bounced on our way over to "K", where we trotted a lop-sided circle.  Overnight, a storm had turned the arena into a soupy mess, dotted with pond-sized puddles.  Besides not wanting Moe to slip, I'd just bathed him and, for now, his legs were white.  He was more than happy not to get his feet wet, too.   All of this dodging of bodies of water and jumps made round circles hexagon-ish and straight lines squiggles.  Worse yet, I'd been forced to give up my beloved riding crop and learn how to ride wearing spurs instead.  

To up the difficulty a notch, out trudged one of the handful of trainers at the barn, a disheveled and quirky brunette, with her bay Arab gelding.  I thought it was impossible, but somehow she created just enough open space to lunge her horse near the center of the arena.

“Hey, look!” She bellowed, tipping her head in my direction as her dark horse spun around her, “it's 'desert donkeys' on parade!”

Ah, yes.  Desert donkeys.  Our horses were the only two Arabians in the group of horses entered to compete in the combined training event that day.  Not that there was anything wrong with that, except that there was everything wrong with that.  Our horses didn't move the same way the Thoroughbreds and Warmbloods did, and they weren't built to jump high and tight.  Not to mention that Moe had been mostly trained by myself, and I knew the other horses were show horses and been-there-done-that school mounts.  We were the longest of shots, but those were odds we were familiar with.

Too soon, the bell signaling my dressage test time jingled and the two of us recounted a week's worth of drilling.  Letters, transitions, circles, and changes of direction.  Near the end, I lost a stirrup during a canter circle and tried to pretend like I was totally cool with that (I wasn't).  The judge wasn't fooled, and let me know in my test notes that we'd looked a little stiff during that part.  Well, duh!

We had time to kill in between dressage and the cross-country phase, where we'd be in the farm's back pasture jumping rustic-looking jumps and teeny-tiny ditches.  I changed from my forest green hunt jacket and white blouse into something a little more sporty--a coral polo shirt I'd bought at a local horse show.  If I looked prepared for what was to come, it was a small miracle.  I was literally shaking in my boots.  

There was no trainer to give me any pointers as I set off to warm up over the single jumps in the open area preceding the cross-country start line.  My pace was wrong.  Moe was taking off before I was ready, leaving me playing catch-up somewhere in the air.  Or I was attempting to jump the jumps before Moe was ready, and....  it was a mess.  One ill-timed jump too many sent me off-kilter, dangling off the side of the saddle by a single rein and my left ring finger.  I landed on my feet, but knew something was wrong.  I'd broken my finger, no doubt about it.

Our cross-country trip was dismal.  We racked up refusals at nearly every obstacle, which surprised me as our lessons earlier in the week over the same jumps had been uneventful and confident.  Our refusals didn't disqualify us, but we were clearly no longer in contention, between time penalties and countless other deductions.  I'd stopped caring.  My finger was swelling inside of my glove.

Determined to finish, I shrugged back into my hunt jacket, and pasted on a smile for the final phase:  Stadium jumping.  In stadium, we'd be jumping obstacles we'd never jumped before, and trying to do it quickly and without plowing through them.  Face-to-face, those jumps loomed larger than Moe or I were used to, right around three feet high.  The first jump, a strange-looking intertwined contraption called a Swedish oxer, gave Moe reason for pause.  Literally.  It was, by far, the most intimidating jump we'd ever approached.  I couldn't even be mad at him for screeching up to it--I would have done the same thing, if I was in his hooves.  We circled around to approach again, and made it over.

Jump two seemed simple enough, a box with a single red rail.  The Red Rail of Doom turned out to be very, very scary.  Like, boogey-man scary.  So scary, in fact, we found ourselves disqualified from competition after two more refusals.  However, because it was a "fun event", we were allowed to continue the rest of the jumping course, with mixed success.  Moe nearly ran me into the standard of a jump with oddly-slanted jump rails, then proceeded to knock the whole thing down on attempt number two.  At the end of our round, there was polite clapping and murmurs.  Desert donkey on parade.  Nothin' to see here!

As quickly as I could manage, I tucked Moe away in his temporary stall for the night.  My finger was throbbing.  I needed medical attention, I was sure.

It was Sunday, and my father had come to see me at the event in between church services.  Fulfilling his show of support, he'd already headed back for the evening service, leaving my sister and her husband as my responsible parties, the lucky ones forced to chauffeur me up the road to the After-Hours Urgent Care.

The Urgent Care was quiet, with no trace of any of my fellow riders--because, apparently, they all knew what they were doing.  A nurse ushered the three of us back to a open room full of gurneys, then whisked a curtain around us, blocking our view of the beds all around.

"The doctor will be right with you."  She promised, half-heartedly.  Even she knew that she was probably lying.

Several minutes later, shuffling footsteps on the other side of the curtain indicated we had company.  The doctor was right with someone, after all, but he chose my new neighbor first.

"So, Mr. Smith....."  He began, loud enough for us to hear.  "How exactly does one cook turtle?"

A crackly but energetic voice replied with no hesitation, "Oh, you can make soup....  You can fricassee it...."

My new neighbor had a chunk of turtle lodged securely in his throat.  I bit down on my tongue to keep from laughing out loud as I met my brother-in-law's look of amusement.  Suddenly my problems didn't seem so large, but my eyes more than likely did.  All these years later, I struggle to remember the finer details of that day, the show, my injury--but we have never forgotten eavesdropping on Mr. Turtle Soup giving cooking pointers to the doctor.

Moe remembered it all, though.  After that event, each time we visited a certain riding trail that reminded him of the cross-country course, his ears would prick forward, and he would prance, ready to take his turn on course one more time.  And, wouldn't you know, he always came in first place.

Tumbling

I have never, ever seen a needle that enormous, and I'm around needles and IVs all the time.  He snorts as the injection pierces his sleek neck, the whites of his eyes brilliant despite how much sedation is running through his system.  It only takes a second, and his body begins its horrible, final downward spiral.   The veterinarian holds one end of his lead rope, motioning with his free hand that I should stay back.  Moe falls forward, catching his full weight on his nose, the same sweet, soft muzzle that was always so eager to search visitors for goodies.  Now his momentum doubles his neck painfully, nearly flipping himself over.  I yelp partly in anguish, partly in helplessness, knowing there is no bringing him back from here.  Ever.  And he is down, laying on his left side, his breathing deep.

Somehow I manage to choke out words, enough to ask if I can pet him as he passes.  The vet nods, and I wrap my arms around his neck, watching him through tears as his life beats away slowly, slowing, slower, to nothing.  Inches from my face, the vet is checking for a pulse, the dilation of his pupils, those last exhales, but I am lost, burying my tears in his mane.  He is gone, and I feel like maybe I have gone away with him.

~ ~

It's been a month, and contrary to what my blog posts may lead you to believe, most days I feel okay.  I function.  Today it was work as usual.  An interview.  Cleaning my grandparents' house so they don't have to.  Coming home to kids, who promptly inundate me with request upon request.  Working on formatting some business documents for a friend.

It hits me out of nowhere.  A lady who runs a horse rescue I am "friends" with on Facebook was being criticized for being overly-emotional because she was upset about a rescue horse that had to be euthanized.  I guess.  I don't really know what the story was because I couldn't stop picturing Moe tumbling and falling that last time.  As long as I live, I am sure I'll always be able to recall his last minutes.  I'm traumatized, in only the way you can be when you see someone you love so much slip away right in front of your eyes.  It was my choice to be there until the end.  They tried to send me away, to shield me from this pain, but I knew the pain of not being there with him would have traumatized me more.  There was no winning this one, only an endless array of options for losing.

When I see a picture of their horse's weird skin crud someone posts online, I remember the endless hours I doctored his legs.  Horse fungus shouldn't make me cry, but it does.


When I close my eyes to pray in the middle of church, he is there.  If he comes to me in prayer, my heart wants to believe it means something bigger.

I see that silly horse everywhere, and in everything because, for 19 years, that horse was with me for everything.  I talk about him a lot, and most of the time it doesn't make me break down in tears.... but sometimes I do.  And I write about him and about this sadness because I need to, probably more than any of you need to read about it.  Thank you for letting me do my thing and for not giving me a hard time about it--at least, not to my face.

One Month.

If I let my mind be still enough, he always wanders back to me.  Feet dragging, but ears pricked, searching eyes and wriggling muzzle.  In the quiet, his low nicker echoes.  My hand reaches out to trace the swirl of his forehead, but it fades from view.  Then he is tumbling, tumbling until he is no more than a waning vessel, his spirit snuffling the hair at the base of my neck before he turns to go.

That horse embodied all that was good about me as a child, and maybe what was good about me as a person.  I'm not the same without him.

Out of the Mouths of Wild Boys

Today, in what I can only say was a very uncharacteristic move for me considering I'd gotten three very interrupted hours of sleep last night, I took the youngest three Ohboys to the park down the road.  My eight-year-old was supremely mad at the world because I'd interrupted his intense schedule of playing with the iPad.  He informed me of a plan he was hatching that involved running back to our house as soon as we got out of the car.

"Good luck with that!"  I grumbled.  "We're, like, four miles away from home."

His expression changed, suddenly curious instead of crabby.  "Four miles?  Or four feet?" He wondered.

"Yeah, definitely four miles.  It's a long way.  It would take you a very long time to walk from here.  I used to walk here on my horse."  I pointed out. 

He was quiet for a second, then asked, "Which horse?"  

My stomach wrenched.  I hadn't talked about him much with the kids since he'd been gone.  "Moe."

The kids asked me if I was going to do that again with Moe, and I reminded them that Moe was gone, that he was in 'Horsie Heaven', remember?  I hated having to say those words out loud again, especially to my boys.  My voice cracked and I could feel my lower lip tremble.  

He mulled this over.  "I think he is in real Heaven with all the animals, and we will see him again."

Tears sprung to my eyes, and I choked out, "Me too.  Do you guys miss Moe?"

Two of the boys said, "Yeah."

For those of you who haven't met my six-year-old, let's just say he's rather, uh, intense. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, it usually booms from him in low, rumbling voice, as if the words are threatening to rip him from the seams.  

As far as I could remember, my six-year-old hadn't mentioned Moe's passing much, but he surprised me by suddenly growling, "I wish Moe could come back for a few days."  He repeated this several times, growing progressively louder to be sure I'd heard him.  

So, of course, I drove up to the parking lot looking like a bleary-eyed freak, and was able to cross off my daily blubberfest a little early.  My kids had been missing my silly old horse, too.

:(

I miss Moe.  :'-(  I can't help but miss him, especially on the days when he would have cheered me up the most.  Every picture of him I come across, even the most recent ones I've looked at dozens of times--it looks like he will walk right out and be here again.    

Fall of 1995, at the Bridlewood Event.  

 Me, the boy, and Moe - 1999

 Same as above, just a cuter photo of Moses.

 Moe and I, my senior picture.  <3

Miss you, Moe-Moe.  I still can't believe you're gone.

The Eye of the Beholder

My fluffy grey pony was ill, so ill he had an expiration date.  At fourteen, I couldn't wrap my mind around the vet's words, all I knew was that they were scary.  Final.  A year, maybe.

Cancer.

What could a kid do to cure an old, sick pony?  Nothing.  

I didn't know how to deal with this horrible new knowledge, the inky foreboding that lurked at the edge my periphery.  Sadness wrapped its unrelenting fingers around my heart, crushing me from the inside out.  I didn't shower or even bother to change my clothes for several days.  There was no point.  Water couldn't wash away the grief; a new outfit couldn't mask that the world as I knew it had ceased spinning.  

He grew frail, his life ebbing just as the vet predicted it would.  Almost a year from his diagnosis, he had all but faded away.  If one could ever be lucky in losing someone, I guess I'd hit the jackpot.  There was no opportunity to feel blindsided or suffocate under an avalanche of shock at the suddenness of it all, as I had six months prior when I'd happened upon his herdmate peacefully asleep--gone--in a stall.  My pony and I had been saying our goodbyes day after day, for months.

The hunt began for a new horse to distract me, to attempt to replace two horses lost in the same year.  We tried a sweet little bay Arab mare who belonged to a family of a schoolmate, but no spark ignited between us.  Mom called a couple of ladies who owned a breeding facility down the road to see if they had anything for sale.  They did.  A couple half-brothers foaled close together--chestnut geldings named Moe and Patrick.

When we arrived at the farm, there was a blonde girl younger than myself riding a copper-colored horse around in front of the barn.  This was their "arena", and it was edged by a large barn, various farm machines, a big lean-to, and a large pile of two-by-fours waiting to be used in some yet unnamed barn project.

"That's Moe."  The woman indicated with a nod, leaning back against the fence.

He rivaled the shade of a polished penny, his flowing mane and tail several degrees lighter.  His body was overly-compact.  There was barely room to place a hand between his front legs.  His legs were spindly, his hooves big.  Each of his legs were white nearly to his knees, with the exception of his left hind leg, which was a stocking.  His face was dishy, common to his breed, with an alarming canvas of white around his irises.

She offered to let me ride him to see how we did together.  Nearly fifteen, I had spent most of my life riding horses and ponies who were either trained well or trained well enough.  Moe was six and, I realize now, had barely been saddled.  At the time, I hadn't ever ridden a green horse, and I wonder why my safety-conscious mother ever allowed such recklessness.

Under saddle, Moe swerved and ambled at the walk, unsure of where I was asking him to go.  As we moved around the riding area, I am certain I saw turtles lapping us.  He tested me with each step to see how little he needed to do to make me happy.  When I worked up the nerve to ask for his bouncy trot, he dragged me so far out into the circle that he ran smack dab into the pile of two-by-fours with his knee, making himself bleed.

It was love at first sight.

Trying For Unstuck

My writing had been going so well until losing Moe. For the past several weeks I'd been making progress on the second draft of my novel, putting in 20-30 hours a week before everything crumbled around me. And now, there's nothing. The only thing I can seem to string together are old stories about time spent with my old guy. It feels like there is a dam in place somewhere deep inside of me that isn't letting anything flow unless it's about him. And it's not for lack of trying. Yesterday I sat with my latest chapter staring me in the face and I managed to add only a few sentences in as many hours. It's frustrating. Yes, I want to write about Moe and all of these things we experienced together, but I also want to finish this draft.

A search on "grieving and writer's block" led me to this article. In the article, there was a specific quote that really resonated with me.

Considering that a writer's creativity is part of their psychological identity, it is not surprising that what affects people as individuals, also affects them as writers.

The part of me that allows me to weave tales is the part of me that is also still so much in shock with every emotion under the sun. I also read another bit in this article that makes me realize that maybe I'm in some kind of purgatory.

Writers hurt when they can’t write. They may not realize it, but their behavior speaks volumes. Often, writers will go through a series of stages before they are ready to write again and these stages are similar to the Kübler-Ross stages of grief in psychology. In other words, when writers can’t write they grieve, so it makes sense that the stages of writer’s block would parallel the stages of grief.

I am a writer; whether you consider me one or not is of no consequence to me. I know what I am, and the above quote is revealing itself to be true. It's painful not to write when you know it's one of the reasons you're here.

So if you wonder why I can't "get over it already", first of all, you don't "get it" at all. But also, I am determined to keep the words from petrifying within me and taking away my other great passion. The loss of two loves within the same week is surely more than I want to deal with now.