Written on 10.30.2022. Warning: This post has to do with end-of-life care and decisions. If you’re not in a place to read this, this is a good time to skip out. Nothing gory or gross, just emotionally challenging. Sending hugs.
I’ve officially lost it. My sanity, my logic, my emotional stability, my scientific approach.
But this is what happens when you have a senior animal. I read something the other day that there are two categories of horse people: those who use horses as their therapists, and those who need therapy because of their horses. And I’m creeping more and more into that second category.
Anyone who’s had an animal in their senior years knows what I’m talking about. The harrowing calculations of good days vs bad days. Trying to ascertain whether the animal is actually in pain or if it’s just your perception of seeing aging in action that is causing you pain and thus making you think your animal is in pain. Talk about psychological trauma.
We do everything we can to keep them comfortable. Pain meds, therapies, supplements, extra turnout, ceramic blankets, silver socks – absolutely everything we can afford to give them to thank them for the time they give us.
I hate fall. Every fall I have to consider whether to push through winter with him. This year in particular, winter seems extremely daunting. There are endless unknowns, things out of my control, and questions I’ll just never have the answers to. End of life conversations have been on repeat in my head since March and there’s just no answer, no conclusion. So I go about life living both realities, the one in which we say goodbye and the one in which all he needs is a new supplement and winter will be fine. It’s like living in parallel universes and it is paralyzingly overwhelming.
Quite literally, the other day I bought a new blanket and weight-gain supplement for him at one store, and then right after I went to CVS and bought a thank you card for the vet that I know I’ll have to write now so I don’t have to think about it when the time comes.
So I did what any other insane horse person does when they no longer know if they can believe their own thoughts: I hired an animal communicator. Yep, that’s exactly what it sounds like. Dr. Doolittle in the flesh (well on the phone) who was going to read Pilot’s thoughts and tell me what he’s feeling. In my quest to find someone with this unique skill, I was AMAZED by the amount of people I already knew who had given them a try and swore by it. I heard story after story of freakishly accurate information and transformations horses had gone through since “speaking” through animal communicators.
Let me tell you sane people who have never crossed to the dark side how it all works. You send the animal’s name, age, how long you’ve known them, and whether you’ll be with them on the day of the call. If you want to send a picture you can, but it’s not necessary. And then you schedule the phone conversation (that’s right – it’s not even facetime) and there you have it. I don’t know how it works, I don’t know why it works, and honestly at this point I’ve just accepted that just because I don’t understand the how, it doesn’t make it less valid information. There are plenty of things in the universe that have unknown explanations and that doesn’t make their existence any less real…
I digress. So back to it: my last marble of sanity catapulted out of my head when I pressed that little green phone icon to accept the call. And let me remind you of my extreme emotional instability right now so you better believe I had already had a good cry that day.
There I was sitting crisscross applesauce in the middle of Pilot’s paddock on an old jacket with a journal full of questions in one hand and a tissue in my pocket.
Right off the bat she tells me he says, “He’s your best friend. Oh, he likes to be everybody’s friend though!”
Then:
“He’s not that old yet… He has zero interest in having an end-of-life goodbye call. That is not… that is not… he’s like not yelling at me but he’s kind of being assertive with me right now… Nooo we’re not saying goodbye.”
“He only wants me to come up with a lot of things we can do to help him… to help him eat and get fat. He just wants me to tell you everything I can think of… you know him – he’s kind of assertive, right? He’s a little bossy and knows what he wants.”
“He wants me to tell you a secret… and I’m here to tell you if you’re saying ‘I don’t know if it’s time,’ it’s not time. When you hear yourself say ‘Oh no’ that means that it’s time.”
“I can get up!” [from rolling or lying down.]
“He’s not as concerned about his physical ailments as you are.”
Oof. There was much more to the call, some of which was freakishly accurate. (Like “He’s got to stick his head out [of his stall window] so he can look to the left, it’s very important” – and that’s the only way he ever looks out the window because there’s a wall on the right. And no, I did not give her an address to google maps us. And his favorite spot to stand in the paddock is “over at the right he has a good view of everything… he’s facing the hill.” Which is pretty much spot on.)
And we talked a lot about his poop. Apparently, he’s very proud of how well he can make turds (and in turn make a mess of his stall). Oh, Pilot…
Cue more emotional instability because before this call I thought I’d settled on maybe a decision. But here I am and that flicker of hope is starting to grow again. So much so that I’ve already booked a chiropractor to come evaluate the areas that were brought up on this call. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m just the right amount of crazy. There’s so much I don’t know and so much I don’t understand and maybe…
“He said he raised you. He gave you a hard time, but also… only when nobody was watching.”
I laugh.
“He says you can sit on him if that will help you feel better.” I laugh again, “No, no, I don’t need to do that.” So she suggests finding a way to hug him from above, that’s the image that she’s getting.
So what I know is that right now, today, he’s happy, feels loved, and feels like he has lots of friends. And he’s not in so much pain that I should be worried. Today. At least today is good.
Maybe everything will be different two weeks from now, maybe I have another year, maybe I have two months. But the gift that this call gave me was the permission to say that it is okay to say that right now he’s okay and that spark I see in his eye really is there. And let me tell you how hard it is to give yourself permission to acknowledge that today is good when you are so scared to your core that you aren’t going to do right by them. So at least today I can breathe and give myself permission to see what comes and just keep taking each day as a blessing.
Maybe I’m crazy. But at least I know I’m doing everything I can. I’ll keep trusting my gut and leaning in and out of each parallel reality coexisting in my mind until the day that one path is abundantly clear.
Sending hugs to all my fellow horse people out there facing these same mind-numbing circular conversations day in and day out. I don’t know if any of us will ever have the answers or know what is right or when is right. Let’s all just try to enjoy the days that we get, hoping for many more, but knowing that if today is it, we loved them with our whole hearts.
—
12.9.2022
I wrote the above post in October and have been too scared to post it. Too scared of acknowledging my “crazy,” scared of being judged by others, scared yet again of what I have to say not being important enough. But maybe this post will touch someone in just the right way and make them feel a little less alone in this maze of anticipatory grief and heartache.
For anyone wondering, about a week after this call a DVM who specializes in chiropractic adjustments and acupuncture came out to work on Pilot. It was no surprise to me that his body lit up like a Christmas tree (he is ancient, sway-backed, and arthritic after all); however, the main areas of concern were nearly identical to what had been suggested on the call. A few days after the chiropractor came out, Pilot rolled on BOTH sides of his body. Which hasn’t happened in years. (He usually picks a side and sticks with it for a few weeks before switching to the other side.) I curried the mud out of his coat with tears of joys in my eyes that night.
I bought him a strip-curtain window for his stall so that he could still look out and “to the left” if he wanted. I bought him a new medium blanket with a neck rug because even though he has anxiety about blankets being put on, “he likes being cozy” in them and feels like he has a “portable barn” when the neck rug is on.
I winterized the barn with thermal curtains and found mini hay cubes that he can safely chew, and he LOVES them. (10/10 would recommend for anyone with a senior horse whose teeth are more like nubs than grinders.)
We do our shoulder and hip flexor/extensor stretches at least 3x/week and are clicker-training belly lifts so that he gets positive reinforcement for engaging difficult muscle groups.
Maybe I sound even more nuts for doing all of this, but you know what? I’m calmer than I’ve ever been. I’m giving him everything I have and he’s finishing his meals, rolling almost every day, wandering up and down the big hill in the back of the field, and just seems so at ease. I suppose it’s the classic “focus on what you can control” and try to let go of what you cannot.
Inevitably, there will one day be a day that has to be goodbye – there always is – but at least today he’s happy burying his entire muzzle in his soaked dinners, checking my pockets for extra cookies, and running away from me in the paddock when it’s dusk and time to come in. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
P.S. For some readers, I know this topic can be particularly triggering or hard to stomach. I hope this gives you some solace that you aren’t alone, and you certainly aren’t crazy. All horses, seniors in particular, are an emotional rollercoaster and you are not meant to ride that track on your own. Please feel free to privately message me on Instagram @ridingwithemma if you need support. Sending hugs.
