Snoqualmie

 Colby on his 4th birthday. Snoqualmie was 28.

Today would have been Snoqualmie's 49th birthday. Snoqualmie was the horse I had as a child, and then was Colby's horse when he was small. The bond I had with her and then that Colby had with her was amazing. I never had a moment of worry or doubt about Colby's safety if he was playing with Snoqualmie. He'd climb up her mane and ride her in through the pasture with no halter or bridle, just guiding her by pulling left or right on her mane.

Sometimes they'd amble along, a Civil War soldier and his horse coming home from battle, complete with cardboard guns and a military cap we found at a thrift store. Other times they'd gallop thrrough the field, a pirate ship and her captain escaping the enemy (which was sometimes our dog, Dexter, or less often, our cat Bootsie).

Colby never fell off. Snoqualmie would never have allowed it. If he got off balance, she shifted underneath him and gently slowed. She was quiet and patient with Colby, but she knew he was important to me and took good care of him.

Snoqualmie passed away when Colby was six and she was 31. She'd had a stroke a few days before and finally got down and could not get back up. One thing she loved to do was eat, so as I held her head in my lap in a field of trees as I waited for the vet, Colby went to the barn for the grain. For once she could have all she wanted. She licked handful after handful from Colby's little hand and when it was time, I sent Colby to the house. She is buried there, underneath the trees. Even after we moved away from that house, Colby and I visited her at least once a year.

Today I like to think that they are together, galloping off to new adventures in heaven. I had each of them with me for 23 years. First Snoqualmie, and then Colby. Each was my best friend and I miss both of them more than words can say. Happy Birthday, my Fat Girl.

Two

Colby as Fred Flintstone

When Colby was about two he became enamored with Fred Flintstone. He loved watching the cartoon, insisted that I call him Fred, began carrying a stick over his shoulder (better that than Fred's prehistoric club), and whenever he was excited, yelled "Yabba-doo! Yabba-doo!" and ran around in tight circles. This was before Colby got quite so verbal, when he still often missed the middle syllable, or other letters in a word. "Bye, baby" became "By-be," "Spaghetti" became "ghetti bites," and "horses" became "hores" (be sure to say that one out loud).

That spring Colby would have been two-and-a-half, and I had a reporting assignment to cover the Iroquois Steeplechase at Nashville's Percy Warner Park. I was holding Colby in my arms at the edge of the infield, near the finish line facing the box seats, when the winner of the most recent race stopped for a photo. We were immediately surrounded by Nashville's Belle Meade nobility who also showed up for the photo. Imagine my horror when Colby pointed at the horse (and also in the direction of all the nice ladies in their spring hats in the box seats) and shouted, "Hores! Hores! Yabba-doo! Hores!"

But that wasn't my biggest challenge. "Britches" became "bitches" (no need for loud verbalization on that one), "apple juice" became "ap ju," and "McDonald's" became "Donald's House." In fact, Colby became so obsessed with McDonald's (second only to the fabulous Fred) that I had to plan our outings so that we didn't go anywhere near McDonald's. That was no easy feat even twenty-some years ago. It made going to the grocery store or running an errand and adventure in planning and I found some very interesting detours through apartment parking lots and alleys that kept us away from Donald.

The allure of McDonald's was not the food, although he later did actually eat there. No, it was the attached playground that he loved. No other playground would do. Even though each McDonald's playground was different, he knew it was affiliated with his beloved Donald. Once, just once, we went to a McDonald's that didn't have a playground. That was not a fun day.

While I would give both my arms (and more) in a heartbeat to be able to share these memories with Colby, I am grateful that I have any memories at all. Through my support groups I hear of so many parents who have lost, infants, babies, young toddlers. They will never have memories like these with those children. Most, have, or will have, other children, but the parents of these babies who left us early will always wonder what they would have liked, who they would have become enamored with, and what their special joys were. While 23 years was not nearly enough, I am forever and eternally grateful for them.

Planting

My house has burned down. In my dream I am fine with that. It had been a nice two-story log house, an older home with square, dark brown logs and white chinking. The ceiling of the living room, which was to the right of the front door, had been low and white with heavy beams made of the same logs. The house was located somewhere in New England. I sift through the ashes and lovingly place charred mementos in a small metal tray about the size of a sheet of paper. The tray is tarnished gold and the lip on all four sides is about an inch high. There is no top. I carry the tray in both hands in front of me, reverently.

With me inside the ruined interior of my former home is a horse I trained about 30 years ago. She is a bay Appaloosa mare and she is to my right, but stays very close to me throughout my dream. Often, I can feel her breath on the right side of my neck. I know that she is my trusted companion and is there to help me.

I finish looking through things and the horse and I emerge from the house to see Colby crawling around the front yard. He is about six months old and wears a white diaper and t-shirt. I shift the tray of mementos to my right hand and pick Colby up with my left arm. I hold him close and notice he has a toy in each hand. Both are red. One might be a plastic duck. He is gurgling and very, very happy.

We walk toward a garden on the other side of the street, but on the way several people intercept me. They already know my intent and urgently try to dissuade me. One of the people is a salesman in a light gray suit and large, brown-framed glasses. He has come out of a hotel that is up the street to the left, and up a small hill from my house. The hotel is two stories and is the kind of bed and breakfast you might find in a small town. It is painted light gray and has white shutters. There are flowers in the window boxes. The salesman is tall and thin with thick gray hair; he wears a white shirt and gray tie, and his suit jacket is unbuttoned. He is known to be untrustworthy. Some say he sells “snake oil.” The man hails me by raising his right hand and calling my name. He hurries to catch up with me. I know this salesman well, and he is especially firm that I change my mind. To his extreme disappointment I stay my course and go into the garden.

The people who have tried to get me to change my mind do not enter the garden with me. Instead, they stand on the sidewalk by the garden gate. There are maybe half a dozen people, including the salesman. Once inside the gate I walk to a specific spot. I know this is the right spot and I sit there, on the ground, placing Colby and the tray to my left. I dig up a small patch of grass to the left of some iris. I dig while sitting with a trowel and my hands. The ground turns over easily. Enclosing the iris in their special patch of the garden is a low, black garden border, the kind that sinks 4-6 inches into the ground and keeps the grass out of the flowers.

When the ground is prepared I place Colby on top of the metal tray of mementos and plant them both in the newly dug ground. Colby is still very happy. He is sitting on the tray with his legs in front of him as he is planted, and is waving his arms and holding the red toys. I plant him waist deep. Within seconds of the planting, Colby morphs into a small tree. The tree is about a foot high and has many tiny branches. Within minutes, however, the tree is fully grown and leafed out. It shades the entire garden and sunlight now filters through the leaves as they wave in a light breeze. While I don’t feel happy, I am pleased and satisfied.

I am not a dreamer. Not usually anyway. When I do dream, all I normally remember are vague colors and feelings. Since Colby passed that has changed. Granted, his loss is a lot to process, but the clarity and detail in which I remember these dreams is startling. There have been a number of such dreams and their frequency is increasing. I hope that, over time, if I put them together they will make more sense to me as a group than they do individually.

Snoqualmie

Eighteen years ago today Colby rode with his cub scout pack in the White Bluff Christmas parade. The boys rode on a float, dressed in their pajamas and Santa-style caps. We both had a wonderful time, but when we came home early that afternoon it was to find our beloved horse, Snoqualmie, in distress.

Snoqualmie was 30 that year, about to turn 31, and a few days before she'd had a minor stroke. The veterinarian said she'd either pull out of it or she wouldn't. It was obvious when we got home from the parade that she would not. Snoqualmie had been my best friend since I was 12. For 23 years she had been my sister. More recently she had been Colby's trusted friend, serving alternately as pirate ship, diving board, ladder, Indian chaser, Cowboy mount, alien, and rocket ship. Whatever his active imagination came up with, she was ready to play the part.

This afternoon she was down, breathing hard, stretched out in a grove of trees and I knew she'd never rise again. Colby stayed with her while I ran to the house to call the vet, then he ran back to the house to retrieve the blanket I had forgotten. Colby went to the barn and brought some grain to Snoqualmie. She loved to eat and was an "easy keeper" so she never was allowed a lot of grain. It wouldn't make any difference now, I thought, as Colby fed her little handfuls until the vet arrived.

I quickly explained to Colby that Snoqualmie was old and that it was time for the angels to take her to heaven and I sent him to the house to gather the dogs and cat and pray. In a few minutes it was over. I covered her with the blanket and went to the house to call a local guy who had a backhoe.

Every year on this date, the anniversary of her passing, Colby and I took a drive out to the farm where we used to live so we could visit her gravesite. This year I couldn't do it. Mourning both Colby and Snoqualmie was too much. I feel bad that I was not able to honor her with a visit this year, but I hope she understands. I hope she is now with Colby, that they are once again friends who are having one adventure after the other. Colby would like that, and so would she.

Calm

I have a dream. Colby and I are setting up a booth in a stall in a large, old horse barn at a fairgrounds so I can sell my books. Our stall is located on a corner in the center of the barn. There is an aisle coming toward us slightly off the center of the stall to the left and a second aisle is in front of us. From the left, this second aisle comes in straight and parallels perfectly the front of the stall, but just past the stall, it takes about a 30 degree turn to the right. I know there are a lot more stalls down that aisle, but because of the turn, I can't see them, I have a sense that there are well over 100 stalls in the barn. Each stall is wooden with dutch doors and painted white. Unless people are going through it, the bottom half of each stall door is closed, while the top half is fastened open with a large hook. The floor of the aisle is blacktop and the background throughout this dream continues this black and white theme.

Our dog Katie is with us. Katie passed away in 1991. She was 11 then, and Colby was six. Katie is a small poodle mix. She weighed about 8 pounds here on Earth and I loved her so much I called her my first-born child.

In setting up the booth, everything goes wrong––rude booth neighbors, can't find the lunch counter and when I do find it right next to my booth there is no food, I keep dropping things––yet I have an unending sense of calm. Colby is there and we are talking regularly, conversing, yet he is not actively helping me. This is okay. It is as if he is overseeing a job I am supposed to do. He offers kind, quiet assurance that no matter what happens, all is well.

Colby looks well, too. He is wearing light blue jeans, scuffed white tennis shoes, and a yellow and blue and white striped polo shirt. He sits on a stool to my right most of the time and swings his right leg back and forth. Katie wiggles out underneath the stall door to explore the barn. Even though she is tiny, I do not worry. I know she will be fine.

At some point Colby and I leave the booth so I can go to another area of the fairgrounds to speak to a group of people. One the way we pick up Snoqualmie. Snoqualmie is the wonderful white Appaloosa mare I had for 23 years. During those years she was my best friend. Snoqualmie rides in a trailer behind a truck Colby drives, and I ride in the passenger seat. Even though we are just going to the other side of the fairgrounds, we drive through a busy downtown area with lots of tall white almost transparent buildings. The edges of the buildings are soft, fuzzy, misty. Busy people in black suits carry briefcases. I should be upset about the stop and go traffic, but I am not. I am very calm and relaxed. I should be worried about Snoqualmie riding behind us in the trailer, but I know she is fine. At one stop light I roll down the window and place my arm on the door. The weather is perfect.

We get to a small conference center, Colby, Snoqualmie and me. In the lobby we find a stand of complimentary beverages, coffee, tea, soft drinks, and a woman rushes to us; we are late. My presentation was to begin at 1:15. I had been told 1:30. I check for my paperwork, but can't find it. My watch says 1:23. It will be 1:30 before I walk down the long hall and get set up. The people in my audience, the woman says, are restless. I remain calm, relaxed. It is all fine.

Inside my room the people are eager to hear what I have to say. They are atttentive, interested. The mix up on time means I have to shorten my presentation from 60 minutes to 45, but that's okay, too. It goes well. As I walk out of the presentation room into the hall, I wake up. The details of the dream are as sharp and clear as if it had been real, but what I remember most is the overwhelming sense of peace and calm. All is well. All is as it should be. There is nothing to worry about. I have been so nervous and egdy lately, the dream is the perfect balance. Today I feel as if I can focus, and for that, I am grateful.

Writing

My counselor and support group both have me doing free writing exercises this week. Apparently it is a good way to see where I am, and hopefully open up new areas for discussion. It is supposed to work for whatever problem you have or decision you need to make. This topic is Fun with Colby. I start slowly. In fact, I don't start at all for about 20 minutes. My mind is swirling with a blur of thoughts, none of which I can single out. But eventually the thoughts begin to sort themselves and this is what comes up:

Michigan Rummy, diving off the dock, snow angels, Sundance, wading in the creek by the house, Snoqualmie and Dexter and Bootsie and Fred and Katie (horse, dog, cat, cat, and dog respectively), the Wizard of Oz car, Opryland, pizza, Goodnight Moon, the potty tree (my fun memory, not Colby's), the Minnesota and Cumberland science museums, Barry, the Delano parade, Canterbury, polka, dandelions, Frank and Jesse James, Old Axehandle.

I purposely stop after a minute or so. I don't want the list to get so long I cannot make sense of it. I know these words and phrases mean nothing to anyone other than myself. They would have meant something to Colby, though, and that is one of the biggest losses I deal with. There is no one to share memories with anymore. That is a topic that is still too painful to think about so I look at the words from a different angle. What I see now is that not all, but the majority of the places and events associated with the words, take place in Minnesota. That is something I had not realized before. I'm not sure what it means and know I will think about it, try to decipher the bigger picture that this narrow doorway of words opens into. What is also interesting is that there are no people on the list. My mother is associated with many of the events, but no one else, other than our four-legged friends, is involved at all. Another interesting phenomenon.

I need time to think, to reflect. Understanding is one of the keys to healing, understanding myself, Colby, experiences, those around us. Everyone's reality is a little bit different, but the more complete picture I can get the easier this process will be. I am impatient. I know this will never be over. Not really. Parents never recover from the loss of a child, but I am ready for the pain to soften, for the days to get just a little bit easier. I am 16 weeks into a several year journey. I have a long way to go.

Herd

I have lost my herd. In the world of horses, the herd is everything. The herd represents safety, security, support, comfort, shelter, food, sharing, leadership, decision-making, teamwork––everything a horse needs to thrive. Colby was my herd.

When I was sick, he was the first to notice. When I'd lock myself out of the house, he was the one who could crawl into our secret entrance. When I needed to move something heavy, he was always there. And not just recently. It's amazing how much an eight- or ten-year-old boy can help, be a team member.

When you come from a small family, a small herd, each member relies on others more than in larger units. Each member does double duty, completes more jobs. Imagine your immediate and extended family. Now imagine all of them gone. When you are a herd of one, you realize that being part of a herd is not one sided. Herd members help each other, seamlessly, in thousands of ways.

In the wild, lone horses, herds of one, do not last long. There is no one to watch over them while they rest. There is no one to share the leadership and decision-making, no one help fend off predators, provide shelter from storms. With Colby's passing, I have lost my herd. I am, essentially, a lone horse picking my way up a rocky trail. My job now is to figure out what to do about it.

Lost

I think I am doing well in my grief counseling sessions. It helps, these sessions, because I learn to look at things from other angles, and I gain perspective. My grief counselor points out that I have spent my entire adult life helping others, taking care of others. I am a nurturer, but I have forgotten how to take care of myself. Or, maybe I never knew how.

I do not talk about the feeding/bathing kind of taking care, but the nurturing care that I am drawn to do for others. Even animals. Horses. I take care of all my four-legged friends, but I never take time off. I have not had a vacation in more than 30 years. I rarely attend social events or go to lunches or dinners unless they are work related. I have tried, as my counselor suggested in one of my early sessions, to take a few hours or an afternoon to do something fun, for me. Although I have given it a lot of thought, I have no idea what that might be.

Some of this stems from the fact that for many years, unless I worked 70-80 hours a week Colby and I did not eat. We came home once or twice a year to find the electricity had been turned off and I couldn't always get it turned back on right away. That is the downside to working for myself. Clients don't always pay and when they do, the checks sometimes bounce.

The upside was I got to go to classroom parties when Colby was in elementary school. I was a cub scout leader. In eight years, I attended all but one of his baseball games and only missed two practices. That was the positive trade-off for financial instability and I would not change a thing about that.

But, the result is that in a way I have lost myself. I know myself in work situations. That has not changed. That is my comfort zone, safe. In trying to go forward with this "new normal" that is life without my son, however, I am not sure. I really don't know what I like to do. People ask if I like movies or music and I honestly do not have a clue. Before, if I did anything outside of work it was with Colby. There were several restaurants we enjoyed and lots of thrift stores we liked to explore. I can't yet conceive of going to any of those places without him. Someday, hopefully, I will try.

For now, I am still going through all of Colby's "stuff." Down to 3/4 of one bedroom and most of the basement. Progress! I still have to catch up with work. At some point I will take time to try out the concept of "down time." Leisure hours. But not yet. Not today. There is too much to do. But soon. I promise. Soon.

Elevator

I have a dream. This is the first dream I can remember since Colby passed that does not have Colby in it. In the dream I am working on a television show. The studio is in a tall narrow, white building. Tall and narrow meaning the building is about the size of a 10 x 10 bedroom, but about 8 stories tall. The bottom floor has an elevator. It is the size of a utility cabinet but has doors and goes all the way to the ceiling. Somehow, I fit inside the elevator with two other people. Inside, the top level of the studio is big and dark and has lots of cobwebs. Not the lacy kind of cobwebs, but the matted hanks of gray matter that hangs from places no one has been in years. In the dream, none of this is odd.

I wear a dark turquoise sweater and am surprised when the cobwebs brush off easily and cleanly. Josh Brolin and Kelly Osborne are the stars of the production. They are asleep in lounge chairs in the middle of a busy hallway. One of the shots is at a therapeutic riding center so we all traipse over to the elevator, ride down and walk across a parking lot to the barn. Inside, the crew films a teenaged girl with disabilities grooming a tall, stout gray horse. Soon, the girl and the horse become unnerved by the film crew. I make everyone leave the area, then first bring the horse back in and settle her down. Then the girl, then the girl’s mother, then the crew. We get the shot. All is well. We squeeze back in the elevator to ride back up to the studio and sense we are all in danger. Extreme danger. I pull my phone from my pocket to realize that rather than a touch screen, the phone has keys like a computer keyboard does. All the keys have fallen off and are in my pocket. The keys are in two layers and I place each layer of each key back on, only to have them all fall off again.

I have no idea what the dream means, or if it means anything at all. The cobwebs might be because Halloween is near and when Colby was small it was one of his favorite holidays. We spent days working together on his costumes. Batman, Spiderman, a skeleton, a pirate, a witch and a monster. One year we went trick or treating twice. Once in our town, and the next night in a neighboring town where he had friends. One of the towns had changed the trick or treat date due to the 31st falling on a Sunday. Colby had a curious half skip then. Walk fast hop once, walk a few steps more, hop again. The hop was always on the left leg and I can see him now, hop skipping up to a house on Halloween, practicing his “monster moves” before he knocked on the door, then his mad dash back to the truck when the candy had been dropped into his bag. I don’t know if the dream means anything, but it did bring about another nice memory of Colby, and for that I am grateful.

Friend

One of my horse friends passed away on Tuesday. She was a small brown pony who was the only horse who accepted me and my unusual emotions immediately after Colby's passing. She was solid, steady, a true comfort to me one particular day not long into my grief. After feeding, I stood next to the fence crying, and she left her pile of hay to come over to be with me. She stood there, when no other horse would come close, and leaned into me when I touched her. She was a gift.

This pony was also a special friend to Colby. Whenever he visited the farm, which wasn't regularly, she always walked directly to him, ears pricked, curious. There was something about Colby that she especially liked. When I needed photos of her for a book I was writing she wasn't at all interested in posing prettily for me. But, when Colby came to take the photo, she stood like a champion.

She was an older equine and had a bout of colic earlier this week. Colic is an upset of a horse's digestive system and is quite serious. In this case, our little friend could not be saved. Now I grieve for her. This pony deserves a special place in Heaven. Maybe she and Colby are there together. Bonding. Happy. Free.

Energy

I feed horses again this morning. For the first time since Colby passed away they react almost normally to me. I am not so emotional today and the horses respond well to a new, more stable, me. I do a leadership exercise in the pasture with three horses. I begin to walk among them and become part of the herd, then I break off and walk away. By the sound of the grass moving, the thud of hoofbeats on the ground, I can tell that all three are following me. I have established myself as their leader, something I have not been able to do since Colby passed. Finally, I am ready to begin working with horses again. The thought should be joyful, but I can't get there today. It is a sad and numb day today. Emotion, any emotion, is hard to come by. I do feel mildly pleased, however.

Colby had a wonderful way with animals, all animals. When he was five and six, he and our horse, Snoqualmie, and dog, Dexter, played in the pasture for hours on end. Colby was the pirate, Snoqualmie was the pirate ship, and Dexter was the faithful sidekick. Snoqualmie would raise and lower her neck (the gangplank) on Colby's command, and he'd either pull himself up onto her back or slide down to the ground. The three of them would trot back and forth across the pasture, vanquishing invisible enemies until it was way past dark. When the enemy was finally at bay they'd share peanut buttter and jelly sandwiches. Yes, even though she was a horse, Snoqualmie loved PB&J sandwiches.

I don't think I ever saw a horse, dog or cat that didn't immediately come up to Colby. He was patient with them, kind, gentle. Through my work with horses I know that our four-legged friends have a much better sense of the goodness of humans than we humans do. Equine, feline or canine, they all spend a lot more time watching us, than we spend watching them. Their survival depends on accurately judging human character and I was always so proud that Colby consistently passed the toughest character test of all, that of our animal friends.

Grieving

I feed horses this morning. I still feel an emotional disconnect around these four-legged friends, so I sit on the fence and wait. I wait to see how they will react to me for horses are the best indicator of emotional stability one might ever hope to find. One finally leaves his pile of hay to investigate. This one is the quietest. Of the three in this paddock, this one has the most stable personality. Not much phases him, including, apparently, my tears. Later, the second walks over. This horse doesn't come too close. In fact, he stays a good ten feet away, but he watches with relative calm and he listens with I speak to him. After a few minutes he lowers his head, licks his lips and walks away. This is typical horse language for acceptance. This is good.

Finally the last horse approaches. This is the horse I have spent the most time with. He pins his ears at the second horse, telling him to move further away. The horse moves. The third horse comes close, but when he sniffs me he jumps. When I extend my hand to him, he shies away. I am not the person he expects me to be and this is unsettling to him. To me, too. A few minutes later, though, he returns. I have remained on the fence, waiting for him. This time he rests his chin on my knees. I pet his forehead and stroke his ears. He sighs, then walks away.

I am not the same person I was before Colby passed away and the horses have let me know they understand this. I remember that in working with horses, people must expect progress in the horse's time frame, not theirs. For example, you can't go out to the barn and expect to teach your horse something new in five minutes. It might be that the horse does learn in that time frame, but it is more likely that the horse will learn in 30 minutes, in two days, or a month.

Grief is like these horses I love so much. I can't expect my grieving to evolve to the next stage in my time frame. It will evolve when it is ready, when it knows I am ready. In the meantime, I hope the horses will get to know the new me, to understand the new energy, the roller coaster of emotion that I project, is not a threat to their safety. I may not yet inspire enough confidence for them to trust me to lead them away from danger, but the fact that they are no longer running from me means I am headed in the right direction.

Horses

Today I make another attempt with the horses. Every week in the four weeks since Colby passed I have spent a few minutes with horses. Each time they tell me I am not ready. Today I fare a little better. It helps that today is one of my "numb" days. I have these every third or fourth day and they are a welcome break from the jittery emotional days, although overwhelming guilt and deep sadness comes along with the numbness.

Today I walk into a paddock with three geldings. One approaches readily and I scratch his neck. The second takes about five minutes to approach and when he does, he is cautious. I am not the same person he knew before Colby passed and he senses the change in me. Finally he comes over, although he never totally relaxes. He remains tense and soon walks away. The third horse is one I have spent a lot of time with. In this group, he is the one who is responsible for keeping the others safe. He is the leader. I talk to and pet the first horse with an eye on the third.

After fifteen minutes the third horse takes two steps towards me and stops. I leave the other horse and take a few steps toward him, then stop. I try to stand nonchalantly, but I am nervous and he knows it. He takes a few steps and stops and I do the same. After another ten minutes we finally meet in the middle of the paddock and he immediately brings his nose up to my face and breathes out sharply. This is my cue to breathe sharply into his nose and we spend several minutes trading breaths. It's as if this horse is meeting me for the first time. He then sniffs me from toe to head, both sides, then back down. Only then does he relax enough for me to touch him. I talk to him as I run my hands over his body, from nose to tail, ear to hoof. He looks at me and blinks, then wraps his head and neck around my body, the horse equivalent of a hug. We stand there together, breathing slowly in rhythm, for some time. He understands I am different now. He doesn't understand why, but he has just accepted me, although it will take several more sessions to build back the trust and confidence we had in each other.

I leave relieved. I see progress in my emotions, my focus, my energy, from last week, and the week before. I feel drained, sad, guilty, and numb, but the horses have spoken and they tell me that, in time, some day, some way, some how, I might possibly heal.

Phenomena

Today I feed horses. I haven't been around the therapy horses I know and love so much since before Colby died, and I am interested to see how the horses react around me. Because horses are so intuitive, they can be a better judge of my emotional status than I am. I don't want to do anything to upset the trust, confidence and respect that our relationship is built on, but I am very anxious to get back to doing normal things, and normal for me is being around horses.

I am both surprised and disappointed. It seems whatever the horse's natural instincts and personality are, are magnified by whatever energy and emotion I project. Those who flee at the first sign of danger run from me, those who have a tendency to be disrespectful are very much so. Those horses who are bossy or cranky or kind, have exaggerated behaviors along those lines. This is very interesting to me, but clearly, it is not yet time for me to pick up with my beloved equine friends. I will keep trying every week or so, though. I realize I can't rush the grieving process, but this gives me a positive goal to work toward.

Another interesting, somewhat scary, phenomena develops. When I was eight months pregnant with Colby I fell through a wooden deck and ended up with a huge black bruise that covered the entire inside of my right thigh. It lasted for months. Today, on the inside of my thigh near my knee, a huge black bruise develops. I do not remember doing anything to cause the bruise, which quickly becomes tender. As the afternoon and evening progress, the bruise extends up my inner thigh and begins to spread. It is not nearly as big as the one I had before Colby was born but it is quite similar in color, location and if it keeps progressing, size. So now I am thinking horrible thoughts about my health. Leukemia, blood clots, the whole works. Hopefully this is a simple bruise and in my distraction over Colby's death I didn't notice what caused it.

Dreams

Saturday night I had a dream. Colby and I are in a hardware store near where my mother lives, except the store in the dream is much larger than it is in real life. We are waiting in line to check out. As we wait, Colby balances a metal yardstick on his index finger and repeatedly spits on the yardstick, then stares intently at the spot where the spit lands. I am exasperated with him because he knows it is not polite to spit in public, but he is to absorbed in the yardstick to notice.

Sunday morning I am unsettled by the dream. Does it have a meaning? If so, what? Or, is it a collection of my subconscious thoughts? If anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them. I am clueless.

This Sunday morning I am nervous and unable to cope with the smallest setbacks. The Internet at the hotel is down and over this I have a meltdown in my room. I pull myself together. I have things to do. I take a deep breath. One by one, I load my truck, check out of the hotel, get in the truck, and drive to the farm where the morning's equine therapy demonstrations will take place.

I now realize why I am nervous. My energy is still on a roller coaster and here, now, today, I will be physically near several horses I have never met. I worry about how the horses will react. I know the horses will be a much better judge than I am right now of my mental state. I so badly want the horses to tell me I am okay, but in my heart I know it is far too soon for that.

I also want to be around my equine friends at home. I miss them terribly. I know at the appropriate time they will help me, but I will not do anything to disturb the trust, confidence and respect I have spent so long building with them. If that means staying away a little longer, I will.

Bolts

My presentation went well yesterday and I felt surrounded by love and support, along with a deep. aching tiredness that goes into my bones. I log onto my email and find more than a dozen emails from mothers of children with schizophrenia. Thank you. Your emails keep me going. I'd also like to respond to many of you so please let me know how I can contact you. It may be in the email header somewhere, but I am too tired to look. I especially have words for Michelle.

My mother calls to let me know she is glad she went to the races and told her friends about Colby. My Mom is a very private person and I know it was hard for her to share, but several of her closest friends there let her know they have had loved ones pass in similar ways. I know she feels better for her talks and will be going back today for more.

Today, after a morning at the barn learning more about therapeutic riding, I face the long drive back to Nashville. It was a difficult drive down. I resolve to do better on the way back. I leave my hotel room a mess, something I never do. I get into the truck, then get out and go back to clean up the room. It is not fair for my emotional roller coaster to cause more work for the hotel staff.

Back in the truck a large, thick rusty bolt rolls out from underneath the seat. Colby was a collector, of everything, and this was something he had picked up a while ago. I pick up the bolt and hug it to myself, getting rust all over my clothes. I miss my son more than I can say. Somehow I will the pending tears away. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, I start the truck and head to the barn.