March – when the tears came

I couldn’t cry. 

I couldn’t cry for months. But on a cold and rainy March day, I found myself sitting out alone in the woods on a cross country course, cheering on my Randolph-Macon College Eventing teammates at the Carolina Horse Park when the tears finally came. 

Murphy was put down on November 12, 2022. He was 14 years old. Perfectly healthy. Other than when he started to show colic symptoms, and vets found a mass in his rectum. Put in the simplest terms, he lost the ability to poop. He couldn’t pass anything through his system, and there was no way to ensure that he would ever have a good quality of life again. 

I haven’t known how to handle myself for so long. At first I got so upset at myself that I couldn’t cry to the point that being so upset at myself made me cry. I felt like I was a heartless person who didn’t care about the horse who became one of my best friends and taught me more than school ever could have: time-management skills, patience, ability to communicate, perseverance, to appreciate the journey… Murphy grew up with me, quite literally. We both matured from scrawny little creatures into well developed and well mannered beings who learned how to communicate with each other without ever saying a word.

I wanted to be able to cry and grieve so badly when Murphy passed in November, but I just couldn’t. 

So why am I upset at myself for uncontrollable tears that are now flowing down my cheeks? Isn’t this what I thought would make me feel better? 

“It happened months ago,” I tell myself. “You’ve been fine for all this time, so why now? It’s so far past that you’re just being dramatic.” 

But for whatever reason, on that rainy March day standing alone in the woods at the Carolina Horse Park listening to horse after horse gallop by me and the announcer call out my teammates’ and their horses’ names, I realized that I would never get to hear “Grace Gorham and Spring At ‘Em are over the last!” again. I started thinking about how I would never get to gallop through the woods again, feel the rush of finishing a cross country course, put all of our hard work to the test, and make my support team proud again. 

I know I will get the chance to have these things again at some point again in my life. But it will never be with you.

This loss has hit me differently than any other, of any kind. I have not posted anything about it on social media. I have only told the people who were closest to him and me, and those who have asked about him. But please don’t be offended, or wonder why I didn’t tell you. I have been taking my time to process this loss, and I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever fully believe that he isn’t here anymore. 

November – goodbye from afar

I was on a different continent when everything happened, studying abroad in England for the fall semester. I felt so disconnected from home, from my college, my friends, my family, and my horse.

I don’t remember when the last time I saw him was. I don’t remember what kind of ride I had, how he felt, if I had taken the long way around the loop that I usually walk him on, or if I had made sure to spend a few extra minutes scratching his favorite spots.

I am used to seeing Murphy almost everyday and having close eyes on him. I know that he had plenty of knowledgeable people keeping their eyes on him at my school’s barn, but of course it’s not the same as my eyes that had watched him for seven years. 

I had absolutely no idea how to handle that feeling of disconnection and helplessness. I got so mad at myself that I wasn’t grieving when it happened – in fact, I ended up going on a trip to Dublin that weekend, with the encouragement of my parents. Staying back at school would do nothing except make me feel worse, they said. And as wrong as it felt for me to go and have fun when my horse was sick, I knew what they said was true – sitting in my room would just encourage my mind to run rampant with the worst thoughts imaginable. 

I still remember the phone calls back and forth. First it was one with my parents before I got on the bus to go to the airport; I had just gotten out of class and was sitting in a restaurant on campus. It was a Friday night, and the students around me were drinking and laughing. I wonder what they thought of the girl with a solemn expression on her face sitting alone in the corner. 

I learned that everything was starting to go downhill with Murphy, and the vets at the emergency clinic hinted that some hard decisions might have to be made. Not only was I confused at the piles of information that my mom was relaying from the vets (thanks to her detailed note-taking),  but even the vets and people taking care of Murphy were not entirely sure what was going on. I had the option to fly home and be with him, but the uncertainty of how his situation was progressing made that option very risky. I might not have made it back in time to see him. If he was uncomfortable, I didn’t want to prolong his suffering. 

At that point I felt a bit numb. I felt like I was trying so hard to cry but the tears would not come. I had very little to say. 

Then it was the call in the airport. I found a spot with a phone charger that was away from the crowds of people. I was on the phone with my mom and we didn’t say much. There wasn’t really anything to be said other than my mom choking out “I’m sorry,” and me mumbling back “I know,” through the tightness in my throat. We were both crying at that point. The decision was made. 

I hoped that no one would notice me crying in the corner, but honestly I don’t think anyone did. I watched with tears rolling down my face as a family with two small children walked by, blissfully unaware of the conversation (or lack thereof) that I was having. I wished I could hug my mom. I wished I could bury my nose into Murphy’s neck and take a breath. His scent had faded from my memory. 

That was one of the only times I cried when everything first happened. I barely choked out the words “my horse has to be put down” to my two friends that I was going to Dublin with, and they were so kind to me. I told them that I may be a little out of it that weekend, which I definitely was. But I still went on the trip. I felt guilty for enjoying it, despite the feelings of sadness that came and went throughout the weekend, like the waves crashing up and down against the rocky coast that we visited. 

A few days after Murphy was put down, I saw a rainbow outside of my dorm as I walked to the grocery store. I knew that rainbow was Murphy letting me know that he had crossed the rainbow bridge. Ever since then, I see him in every rainbow. He reminds me that happiness will still reappear after grief. 

December – numbness & homesickness

I said at the beginning that I was upset at how I didn’t feel anything at all. After I came back from Dublin, my life seemed to go on as usual in England. I went to class, I traveled, I experimented with cooking, went to the gym, and made friends. The tears never really came. Or at least if they did, they weren’t directly related to Murphy. I didn’t feel like I was truly grieving. I don’t really know what I felt. Whatever it was, it just didn’t fit in the box that I have labeled as “grief,” so I was mad at myself that I wasn’t grieving the loss of what I imagine would be equivalent to the loss of a child, at least in my eyes. 

I told very few people what had happened. I didn’t want to tell anyone that I had met while studying abroad, because I felt like I wasn’t close enough with them, and they wouldn’t understand. I liked the people that I had met, and I knew they would care about me and try to understand, as I would do the same for them. However, I did not want the comfort of someone who only cared about me. I wanted someone who understood what Murphy meant to me. 

And so I walked around the city of Nottingham, England with an air of sadness covered by a smile, sometimes genuine, sometimes forced. I kept going about my time having fun studying abroad, because what else was I supposed to do? 

My desire to go home increased with every day that passed. I knew I would be coming home to a missing piece of the puzzle that makes up my life, but at least I would be surrounded by people who were all very close to me and him. 

I got extremely sick a few days before I came home, with something along the lines of bronchitis/pneumonia. I endured the 8-hour plane ride and cried as I finally got to hug my mom at the arrivals gate. I felt so incredibly weak both physically and mentally.

Coming home finally gave my mind a chance to breathe, even though it took a while to be able to physically breathe properly again.

January – reconnecting with memories

Then came time to make the trip down to the barn at school, where my tack trunk sat, collecting dust since it hadn’t been used for the past three months. 

My mom had come with me, and I tried to make myself as quiet as possible moving through the barn. I didn’t really want anyone to say anything to me, I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts and my mom. The team manager at the time who had known Murphy and me since the start of freshman year gave me and my mom a hug. I was so grateful for her. 

We got his trunk loaded into the car, and there was one last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to walk out to the back fields where I would usually go for a warmup and cool down walk with Murphy. I always felt very peaceful back there. 

It was a cold but sunny January day, the kind where the warmth from the rays seeps deep into your bones, even more so than the cold. My mom and I both sat in the warm embrace of the sun and cried for a while. 

I felt like I still had a part of him with me out there, maybe because the woods were both his and my favorite place. My mom always used to walk on foot alongside us on the trails. From the time he was young, Murphy would always follow her like she was the leader. 

When we got home, I tried to go through some of Murphy’s stuff in the basement, and I still felt nothing but this empty feeling accompanied with a pang of sadness in my heart. I saw the halter that he had last worn. It had a different lead rope on it than his normal one. I wondered why. 

I opened my cabinet and tack trunk, lightly running my fingers over everything inside it, but not picking up anything, being sure to keep everything in its place. Tears felt like they were being forced out, like I knew this was supposed to make me sad, but there was something missing that prevented them from escaping my eyes. 

When I visited my dressage trainer and the farm that I had boarded at for four years, I felt a sense of nostalgia and dull sadness wash over me. This place felt like a second home to me. So many memories, and all of them included Murphy. It almost felt like something had changed. But still, no tears, just the same feeling of them coming up in my throat, through my nose, to my eyes, but not being able to come out. 

February – back to where it all began

Finally going back to my home university for my spring semester was bittersweet. I was so happy to be surrounded by all of my closest human friends again, but I had lost one of my oldest and most important animal friends. I was so grateful to have my riding teammates for support and to offer me horses to ride, but at the same time, riding reopened the hole in my heart. 

There were several times when I absent-mindedly drove to the barn and parked my car by the door to Murphy’s old stall, even though the horse I was riding that day was on the other end of the barn. And other times where I was leading a horse back to its stall after a ride, only to realize I had passed its stall and was on my way to Murphy’s old stall.

A few of the girls on the team would ask “How was Murphy today?” only for me to smile half-heartedly at them and wait for them to realize their mistake. Of course, they had no bad intentions at all, it’s an honest mistake to glance at another plain bay horse I was riding and make that connection. But it still made my heart pang in my chest a little to hear it said out loud. 

It was a while before the weather got nicer that I would get to hack out in the fields like I used to do with Murphy. That was one of what I’d like to think was both of our favorite kind of ride, because it changed things up a little bit and was more peaceful than being in the busy riding arenas. 

I passed by the gazebo next to the fields, and it hit me that I wouldn’t be able to take my graduation pictures with Murphy as I had planned to. I took my high school senior pictures with him, and wanted him to be in my college graduation pictures as well. I wanted to take some at the farm under that gazebo, and I wanted to take him to campus and get some with him there. I knew that was very “crazy horse girl” of me, but I thought it would be such a fun experience and memory to have. Only it was gone before it could even happen.

Galloping around the open field with another horse brought the same smile to my face that it always had, but this one was accompanied by a weight in my chest instead of the usual freeing feeling that I get from a good gallop on a nice day. 

Looking back – almost a year later

I think that all of these small moments connected to the last place that I knew Murphy made up my unusual grief process – one that I still feel like I’m going through. I feel like there was a separation between my brain and my heart this entire time. Doing something that I love so dearly, a sport that makes me feel so deeply, has unlocked the heart piece that was missing in my grieving process. 

There is still a part of me that is in denial that this all even happened, a part that feels angry that this had to happen to me, a part that feels tears welling up everytime I go into my basement and see his tack trunk sitting untouched and collecting dust, and a part of me that accepts that this happened and knows that horses will be a part of my life forever, no matter if I have my own or not. 

I guess I’m kind of all over the place still in my non-linear process of grief, but I have come to accept it and embrace the feelings as they come. Murphy will always be a pivotal part of my life story, and it makes me both happy and sad to look back on my time with him. But I think that accurately represents our relationship, because not everything was always sunshine and rainbows! I had a lot of my most frustrating and sad moments with him (sometimes because of him) and I think that that will happen in any real relationship. 

I thank him for giving me some of the traits that I am most proud of myself for, for teaching me how to ride, how to feel, to have empathy for both yourself and others, and to be patient with the process of life. When you finally get to whatever place that you have been wanting to reach, the satisfaction of achieving that goal isn’t all you’re going to think about. You’re going to look back at all that it took to get there, the people you have met, and the places you have been along the way. So enjoy the journey! That’s what life is about. 

I love you Murphy, and thank you for taking me on this journey. I wish it could have lasted just a bit longer.