We Love and Miss You, Beautiful Filly

Until yesterday the LP and I owned a beautiful horse named after a character in a television show from the 1990s.  She was named after I gave birth to the Miracle Baby but we bought her as a baby while I was pregnant.  Yesterday afternoon we found out she was very sick.  The day before, she’d been out galloping and showed no signs of illness.  Later yesterday afternoon, the LP called me and I knew the news had gone from very bad to devastating before he said those two words you never want to hear about anyone you love.  She died.

We have shed many tears and I have cursed everyone and everything for not saving her, for not knowing something was wrong, for having no better explanation than “we think it’s pneumonia – shipping fever”, because she’d just been shipped from one location to another last week.  Veterinary care for horses is expensive (she’d been taken to a vet clinic yesterday when she first showed signs of laboured breathing; she never left).  So the LP decided not to request an autopsy.  I am upset about this but given our ART-related debt I did not press the issue.  So we may never know what happened or why she died so young (she just turned 4 and was otherwise a very healthy, extremely fit, talented and beautiful, spirited animal). 

I oscillate between raging against the universe for dealing her – and us – this cruel blow and bone-shaking sobs as I mourn all that she meant to us.  We bought her in Kentucky (we don’t live anywhere near there, we travelled for this purpose) as a baby when I was pregnant with the Miracle Baby.  We named her after a character in a t.v. show because we went through a phase of watching old  re-runs of it while I was feeling nauseous during pregnancy and exhausted with a newborn.  She won an award last year (top 3-year old filly).  And she had a special place in both of our hearts and huge promise for the future – we planned to keep her and breed her and let her live out her life as an old-lady horse.  We loved her and we miss her so much already. 

This was no ordinary horse, at least not for me (and to some extent for the LP).  For me, she very connected  to the only successful pregnancy I’ve ever had (when you’re batting 1 for 7 that means something).  She was special, too, and a bit high-maintenance at times.  She was wound quite tightly and could be excitable (not unlike me).  She sometimes needed medication to calm her nerves (not unlike the LP and I).  And she benefitted from having a pet goat as a companion when she was younger, to keep her calm.  I had a pet goat when I was a kid, too.  Suffice to say I felt connected to her and so did the LP.  And our grief right now feels very deep and raw.

I know this post appears unrelated to our fertility challenges, but somehow it is not.  Not for me.  For me, it is connected in a visceral way I can feel, even if I can’t capture it or don’t want to spell it out in words.  This horse for us has always been connected to us and connected to our one great triumph on this journey to grow our family.  And now she is gone.  In the early days of the cycle in which we hope to return home pregnant not “until proven otherwise” but until I birth another healthy child we raise with love in our home.  It does not seem right  It is not fair.  This is not how life is supposed to unfold, damn it.  Ever.  But especially now.

I don’t know if this portends some more terrible news.  I hope it does not.  The LP thinks it’s unrelated, but I can’t shake the feeling that for me, this horse has always been part of this world for me.  Of course it could be worse – things can always be worse – but the stark reality today is that it is not good. It is awful.  I feel awful.  The LP feels awful.  The Miracle Toddler saw us so upset last night and kept trying to comfort us – saying “sad” and “hug” (giving us each hugs) and “what happened?” no matter how many times we said that this horse had died.  Blessed are the little ones who have no concept for death and no sense of what it means.


15 thoughts on “We Love and Miss You, Beautiful Filly

  1. I am so very sorry for your loss. It seems you are like me, in that animals are part of our family and we love them and cherish them as we would a family member. It is so hard when it is sudden. However it is important to remember all the good times, and know that you gave her the best life you could and that she was very much loved while with you. I know the words don’t make you feel better right now but I am sure you have many beautiful memories to reflect upon when you are over the immediate shock and grief. Sending you healing thoughts.

  2. So sorry for your loss–I love my animal too and can only imagine the void that would be left in his absence…it makes me sad to even try to imagine 😦 Much love & hugs my friend, XO

    • Thank you so kindly for the love and hugs, dear friend. They are both much needed and appreciated! It is still so hard to believe. Weird, I had that same thought when I saw our dog staring up at me this morning – what if? And the thought was sheer horror, too much to bear so I shoved it out of my mind. We must stay strong, but I can’t bear the thought of not grieving our girl’s death. That would be just wrong.

  3. Maybe the horse was a sign that you can do this on your own? Maybe the new baby will give you that sense of hope that you have lost from your beloved horse passing on? I truly hope and pray that this month works out for you. Hang in there. *hugs*

  4. I’m so so sorry hon. My heart just aches right now. Sending you so much love and the biggest hug ever.

  5. I am just so sorry, my heart aches for you. But please don’t look at this as a portent… if anything, I suggest honoring the grief you feel for her loss on its own, without connecting it to deeper anxieties, it’s deep and raw enough, right? While I do believe our energy is connected to everything in the living world around us… I don’t quite believe that the events of life and death near us necessarily cast a pall, or doom our other hopes. Perhaps I say this as someone whose mother was born in Bergen-Belsen (Nazi death camp) after it was liberated and converted into a DP camp. Her creation quite literally rose over the ashes of thousands.

    • Wow. My mom grew up in occupied Holland. Her father was in a camp. For years. He survived but was never the same. My mom used to say I reminded her of him. She lost two children before she had us. I know she is with me now and I don’t see her being gone as anything but a fact though I do miss her. All of that to say your comment struck a chord (thank you) and offered some powerful perspective (thank you again). Death has been a shadow in my life for as long as I can remember, I need to remember it is a fact and not always directly linked to other events.

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