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.