They always say that it is better to lose someone you love a day too early than a day too late, and ‘they’ are right, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
We are not of course talking about misplacing someone, we are talking about death. The harsh, stark finality hits you in the face like bulldozer, sending physical pain through your body.
Having worked at an equine vets for many years, put to sleep, death, euthanasia, is something that featured in many conversations as part of the job. I have been present at plenty of PTS’s and I think my time at the vets changed my outlook on death.
I will even be as controversial to say that having witnessed my Mum enduring a long slow, painful death 12 months ago, that I’d have given anything for someone to come and end her suffering in a kind manner. In fact – I think I’d have done it myself – a guilty burden of mixed emotions that I continue to carry, but one that comes from a core belief that we should have the ability to end suffering in situations where there is no hope.
And now I am faced with ‘making the decision’ once again, this time for my very special heart horse, Cianti. After injuring herself almost 12 months ago, followed by months and months of rehab, and then five months in the field, she is no better. In fact she is worse.
I bought her in before her follow-up vet check, she had a lovely brush but she was quiet. The feeling in the pit of my stomach started to grow, I had all of my hopes pinned on this day and in my heart of heart I already knew the outcome.
I walked her up and down for Hugh my vet, he asked me to trot and we got three strides in before the final pieces of my world in that moment came crashing down. I didn’t need him to tell me that she was still really lame.
I looked at Hugh, his contact holding mine, knowing he was about to deliver the news no owner wants to hear, as he carefully and compassionately read the human element of the situation.
Amidst our own heartache we so often forget what the vets are emotionally dealing with too. They don’t want to deliver this news, or deal with any added human emotions, or put animals to sleep. I think we often underestimate the emotional burden that vets carry from call to call, day after day, and how much it plays on their hearts too.
I asked all the questions of hope that us ‘typical horse owners’ ask – searching for anything that would light a spark to find a solution – to prove us both wrong. But there was nothing he could give.
I broke the silence, so I didn’t cry and we continued by X-raying another horse which provided a welcome distraction. I knew this day was coming, but today, two days before the first anniversary of my Mum’s death, I felt selfish to say that today I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to my best four-legged friend.
As her owner I feel that I have a duty of care and a responsibility to do the ‘right thing’. It drives me mad when people say ‘they are still eating’ so they can’t be that bad, or ‘they are not sore – just a bit lame.’
Firstly why would you want them to ever get ‘that bad’? And secondly, horses are prey animals – they are stoic and will try and look like they are ‘ok’ so they don’t look like an easy food target – but this absolutely doesn’t mean that they are not living in constant pain.
But I also know and appreciate that timing is everything.
I look at Cianti in the field, knowing that some people would turn a blind eye and keep her there for years until her legs finally gave in to a point that she couldn’t walk without being lame, or lie down without pain. If you glanced at her in passing she looks happy enough filling her belly in the field, but I know her inside out and I know she is miserable.
She is quiet, subdued, she has a look in her eye that she has never had before and when you palpate her swollen legs she tells you that she hurts.
When she trots with adrenalin she still looks magnificent and it fills me with joy, hope and happiness, but then the adrenalin goes she is awkwardly shifting her weight to get comfortable again and the feelings of guilt, helplessness and sadness return.
I got told five months ago that it wasn’t a good prognosis, but if I needed to be sure then to turn her out for four-five months and see how she was.
I needed to be sure for my friend and this was the clarity I didn’t want.
I’d love to look at her in a field forever – clinging on to hope, but I have to keep reminding myself this isn’t about me it’s about doing the right thing for her so that she is no longer sore.
The hardest decisions are often the kindest, and this one really hurts to the core.
Liz x
If you, or someone you know has been affected by loss the team at Riders Minds are here to support you.
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