On feeling duped
10 years since my mother's death / when tragedies upend the beauty of the world
September 2nd, today, marks 10 years since my mother died.
I wrote about my mother, our relationship, and my family, here. That post is now behind a paywall, being an incredibly raw and vulnerable essay.
Instead, to mark this day, I am re-sharing a different essay on loss - the loss of our beloved horse. It’s been over a year since this horse died and I do not exaggerate when I say that his death sent my brain into some sort of fight-or-flight frenzy for nearly ten months, never allowing me to rest because at any moment, the most stable and dependable of things, could be gone for seemingly no reason at all.
That panic has reduced to a background hum, but it is an awareness I cannot shake. It is an awareness I of course became conscious of first through the loss of my mother - “Mother” - that which created you and made you and molded you - gone. The fact is the foundations of the world do shake and things can be gone in a breath, or less. How do you live with this knowledge, this shaky ground under our feet?
That is in part what this essay is about. So in that way, it is also about my mother, the one who put me on a horse before I could walk, and in so many ways introduced me to the terrible and beautiful business of living and loving in this world.
It’s not a question of if, but when.
This is something horse owners say all the time. It’s not if they’ll get injured or throw a shoe or get sick, but when. For being so large and often long-lived, horses are incredibly vulnerable animals. All of us equestrians know that if there is anything dangerous in a field, a horse will find it. There can be one nail in a 30 acre pasture and your horse will step on it (ask me how I know).
When we first brought the horses home, my neurotic but lovable thoroughbred, Ketch, promptly stabbed himself in the stomach with a pitchfork, miraculously missing all vital organs and making a full recovery, thank goodness. This was only a year after he underwent an intensive surgery for a terrible bout of colic. He’s a beautiful animal - shining chrome with white socks and a big bold blaze and intelligent eyes - but he seems to skirt catastrophe with every step of his elegant hooves.
Colic is the one thing all of us horse owners live in fear of and it’s the result of a strange design flaw in a horse’s anatomy. If anything goes wrong in a horse’s gut it can quickly become life-ending. Simply, horses can’t throw up. This gives very few natural options when something goes wrong. A horse’s small intestine is approximately 70 feet in length so when the surgeon told me they removed 18 feet of my horse’s intestine this was actually no-big-deal. That’s a lot of dangerous cords wrapped up in there, just waiting for something to get caught, constricted, or blocked. If this happens, a horse colics. This is a broad term covering all sorts of gastric upset - it can be mild and resolve itself but is often very severe.
And last week we had a horse colic. It was the severe kind. A strangulating colic they call it. His stomach felt like balloon animals the vet told me. He wasn't a good surgical candidate. Too old, a heart murmur. So as the sun went down on a beautiful summer day, we kissed his sweet muzzle and watched him crumble to the ground after an all over sedation and an overdose of pentobarbital.
He was gone.
This was a 28 year old Quarter Horse named Denny (or “Dennis the Menace” as I named him during his feisty early years). I had him for over 20 years. A stocky red dun with a dorsal stripe down his back and the faintest zebra markings on his legs. He was a Western riding horse from a big herd in Denver, Colorado - that was his first name - Denver. But I never called him that. We broke him for English riding but he never forgot how to neck rein.
He saw me through angst-ridden teenage life, a steady presence down at the barn ready for carrots and nuzzles and bareback rides in the little pond. He took me out fox hunting, and in his eagerness, passed the master (a big faux pas), but his perky ears and happy eyes charmed even the Huntsman, who indulgently waved off my apologies and told me “he has a good eye.”
Denny went to Pony Club rallies (for my non-rider readers, “Pony Club” is a national organization akin to equestrian girl/boy scouts) and we gamely took on big fences together. When I was away at college he was being ridden by a local friend. She recently told me that if it wasn’t for those easygoing bareback hacks she may have given up on horses altogether. She had some bad falls, some disappointing trainers, and Denny gave her the joy of it back. Later he would carry my very beginner husband safely around on trail rides. He was my daughter’s first official ride.
He was a master escape artist and once literally crawled and rolled out of the side door of the trailer to munch on some grass. He had a stubborn, sweet personality and was the dominant leader of our small herd, insisting on being fed first, banging impatiently on his stall door if there was any delay. As was his right, after all those years by my side.
This wasn’t the first time I’ve seen a horse put down, but it was shocking nonetheless. It is hard to capture just how fragile everything suddenly seems after you see this big animal, over a 1000 pounds, go limp from a simple shot, gently administered in the neck. The saddest part of seeing a horse die is seeing the horse left behind. Horses are herd animals and most will become panic-stricken if left alone. We have two rescued miniature donkeys who, in theory, are supposed to help in a situation like this, but Ketch has never given them much mind. His herd was Denny. They would munch grass muzzle to muzzle, nip each other playfully waiting at the gate, and chase each other over the hill on brisk mornings.
So when Ketch stood next to the body of his friend and nudged him under the tarp and let out this low, sad bellow of a whinny, my heart broke. What a fool I’ve been! was the dominant thought. How could I ever think the world was anything other than this, anything other than this grief-stricken horse pacing and whinnying and confused? This was reality. It was harsh and cruel and sad. I should have never bought into anything else.
That night, listening to Ketch’s distant cries, I sat in a heap in the den, struggling to form words for what was going through my head. I was sad, of course. Sad in the simple way one would expect me to be sad over losing an animal I’ve had for over half my life. But I was sad in a deeper way. In that deep, “I’ve been duped and life is really a tragedy after all,” way.
As Chris and I talked he reminded me that it always feels this way when something awful happens. It feels like the happy times were just a dream and it was wrong for us to have trusted them. We have this feeling that we should have been more prepared, should have savored the moment more, should have expected this! But why should we?
Of course in the immediacy of my grief I wasn’t thinking of the fact that for over 20 years Denny was alive and well. That for all those years he was a very healthy horse who happily munched his hay, nudged my shoulder for treats, and took me on long, relaxed trail rides. These memories were just as real as that sad lonely night when he died.
Look for the helpers.
You’ve probably heard this quote from Mr. Rogers. He said that when he was scared as a little boy, when there was some tragedy, his mother told him to look for the helpers. There are always helpers. When a building is burning down, someone is running inside to try to rescue people. When someone is sick, someone is trying to heal them. When someone is sad, someone is trying to comfort them.
Look for the helpers.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
After Denny died, there were many helpers. We had neighbors lending us horse trailers, friends dropping by ‘loaner ponies,’ temporary barns to occupy, and plenty of good, sound advice and condolences.
And when I really think about it, even that bleak evening when I was saying goodbye to my sweet old friend, there was help even then. In fact the only reason we knew he was colicing was because our neighbors’ grandkids saw him rolling in the field and nervously rang our doorbell to let us know they were worried. Our vet was relatively nearby and able to come quickly. She has known my family for decades and knew Denny’s history.
I had been stroking Denny’s nose in the field - he couldn’t/wouldn’t get up - while waiting for her to arrive. When he heard the vet’s car door, he suddenly got up and ran to the barn where she was waiting.
I’ve heard animals accept and understand sickness and death better than we do.
I’m inclined to believe it.
I grew up with horses - an immense privilege, I know. My mother fought for these animals in her life. Growing up in working class Dundalk and mucking stalls for hours to pay for board and leases. This was her dream, and she gave it to me. This has sometimes felt like a burden. Horses are beautiful, but they come with so much grief.
One of my first memories is the loss of a horse - My mother’s beloved thoroughbred. She came home with tears running down her cheeks, sat me in bed and told me he was gone. I think I was about four years old and the permanency didn’t seem right to me. It took a long time to understand that. But I saw my mother’s grief and I remember for the first time becoming aware that she too would someday be gone, just as our horse was now gone. She would leave forever also, an enormous realization for a child.
And she did leave. She died nearly a decade ago of terminal cancer.
I felt duped then. Felt duped by false miracles and false promises and false hope.
It is so much easier to believe the sad things. They are so raw and gutting and they always take us by surprise.
It is harder to live and believe the everyday goodness. The miracles of birth and laughter and waking up each day to sun or rain or clouds. To breathing and walking and dogs barking and toddlers playing, babies cooing.
To helpers and comforters when we mourn.
It is not a question of if, but when.
This is true of horses, but it is also true for us. That fact, the inevitability of it, can be paralyzing, terrifying.
I’m not telling you it isn’t true. But I’m telling you it’s a bigger story than that.
I’ll never forget that night when Ketch called all night long for a horse that wasn’t coming back. That was very real and there was something immensely true about it, about the loneliness and sadness of it all.
But I will also remember how this sweet, cognizant, intelligent animal leaned into me and breathed deep, seeking a little bit of familiarity and comfort amidst so much confusion and change in his small world.
This leaning, this needing, this comfort, was also true.
That might be enough.
A note on paid subscriptions:
Thank you to the subscribers who upgraded their subscription after I shared my ‘new school year’ vision for Born of Wonder. If you missed that post, here’s the basic sum up of my new subscription plan.
As a paid subscriber, every month you'll receive:
— One inspirational character profile a month
— One author profile a month, with a recommended reading list
— One paid subscriber essay (at least) every other month
— Full access to the archives (most posts are now paywalled after 2 weeks)
Come to Ireland with me in October 2024!!!! Yes there’s still time to sign up!
Listen to Born of Wonder the podcast
Email me anytime: marquettekatie@gmail.com
Beautiful writing, Katie. Thank you for sharing. <3
Praying for you on this anniversary, Katie. I lost my mom 27 years ago, and my heart goes out to you.