Thank You for Walking Me Home

02 – 110626

My horse is dying. She’s been unwell for a while and old for what seems like forever, so it’s not a shock. But still, my horse is dying.

My friend told me, when she gifted me my first horse ten years ago, that Toug was a special horse, even though she was old. We loved her so much that we didn’t care if she was old or sick. We thought she was beyond perfect and loved her in a magical way. I didn’t understand what it meant for a horse to be special or blessed, but over the years, through our interactions, I came to understand it deeply.

When I was in Grade 6 or 7, I decided that someday, when I got a horse, I would call it Pegasus if it was white or Minerva if it was brown. My teenage fascination with Greek mythology later developed into an obsession with ancient Arabia and epic Islamic stories. So by the time I was 26 and reluctantly became a horse owner, I unexpectedly called her Toug because she had an aspiring spirit, inspired by a quote from Umar ibn Abd al-Aziz.

Along with Toug, I got the most magnificent horse I had ever seen. She was brown, and I called her Aurora. Aurora came with Toug as a gift from the stables to keep Toug company, since I live in the middle of nowhere with no horses around. Social creatures or not, both Toug and I preferred solitude.

I kept Aurora for two years, but she was young and fun-loving and preferred a more social and lively setting than my serene haven. So I returned her to a racing stable.

Toug was perfect for me. Perfect not in the flawless sense, but in the most suitable one. And, I like to believe that I was also perfect for her.

I often wondered what I would do with her body when she died. I wondered about it so much that I thought it would be ironic if I died before her and she never once gave a thought to my body. Our family dog died the year I got Toug, and I took it upon myself to bury her in our backyard. According to the Chinese, that’s considered bad luck. I didn’t know that then, but what else could I have done in good conscience?

I realize other people suffer greater losses. But I’ll grieve mine just the same. I’ve had enough of suppressing my grief simply because others have it worse.

I’ll seem childish if I start listing how much Toug means to me, so I won’t. But I do feel childish and I want to stomp around, cry, and say this is all unfair.

I’m so scared to see her suffer. I’m so scared to let go. I’m so scared to miss her when she is gone.

I’m more scared of the transition than the absence that lies ahead.

I’ve been avoiding seeing her for two months now as she recovered from her second health crisis, the one that took her tail. I feel hostage to her health. I hate roller coaster rides.

Toug carried me gracefully through thick and thin. She was there for me when I needed a strong soul connection to keep me afloat.

God has many names and attributes to call upon depending on our needs. Today it is Ya Latif. Gentleness is required here.

I remind myself that it’s okay to grieve. That this won’t be too much for me to handle and move through.

I tell myself repeatedly:

It’s okay to grieve, my love.

In the future, I don’t want to own a horse again and go through this heartache. I’ll rent a couple of horses during the good-weather season instead. Horses I can actually ride, not just care for.

During her first major health crisis, after we changed her food and it backfired, she entered that liminal space between life and death. I jumped in and saved her with all I had: her regular food back, many prayers, aromatherapy oil massages, sweet snacks, tearful pep talks, and walks side by side.

And we made it through.

It felt like a miracle.

This time around, our third health crisis together, I wasn’t physically with her. I didn’t want to experience the end too closely. Going there would have meant overextending myself.

Now, I can’t overextend myself, even for someone I love dearly.

It would have been too much, and I simply didn’t have it in me.

I did all I could from afar.

Her loyal caretaker was with her. Her longtime doctor was with her too.

I want to remember her in her white, voluptuous glory, healthy and serene.

Toug was there when I needed her.

Needed her like a child constantly looking up to check if their mother was still there.

Now I don’t feel this desperate need anymore, thankfully.

Thank you for walking me home, to myself.

I really needed you as my companion.

I’m surrounded by loving family, friends, and therapists, but no one was able to hold me the way you did.

The way a pool holds me when I float after a long swim to catch my breath.

I’m going to mourn your loss with great fondness for a long time.

I won’t rush the process.

I am consoled by your presence in my memory.

How does co-regulation work?

I want to grieve slowly and in peace.

I won’t tell anyone.

The fear of the unknown is great and deeply embedded in my system.

I can learn to welcome it, or at least accept it.

I can engage with the mystery.

Engage with life, which inevitably involves death.

Toug is the reason I have my own mini stables.

Thank you.

Toug made my house feel like a home.

I never felt alone.

I’m grateful for the chance to have been a good owner.

I hope I was.

I have many photos of her to bring me joy, as well as a locket of her hair.

I’ve treated Toug like a memory for years.

Now she really is.

She is many beautiful memories.

She is milestones and dreams coming true.

Queen Toug has crossed the great divide.

A magic trick.

Now you see me, now you don’t.

Now I’m here, now I’m not.

Now I’m in the present tense; then I’m part of the past.

She was here.

I loved her very much.

Thank you for the amazing ride.

I’ll see you on the other side.

From 26 to 36, I felt as though I was in the belly of the whale.

I desperately needed Toug to be there for me.

Now I feel as though I’m under the pumpkin tree, recovering, and no longer need her in the same way.

I feel immense gratitude more than sadness.

Thank you for upgrading my life.

Thank you for expanding my capacity to love.

I want to blame anything and anyone for what happened.

I watched myself become riled up and self-righteous, then quickly stopped the escalation because I know it’s foolish.

I didn’t want my love for Toug to turn into hatred toward those who may have contributed to her earlier demise.

Is there even such a thing as earlier or later?

Aren’t we all allotted a time, place, and cause?

As the Arabs say, the causes are many, but death is one.

What happened has happened.

And now the only way forward is going forward.

I thought she would die from her long-standing cancer or old age.

I didn’t expect it to be connected to geopolitical disruptions in the animal feed supply.

We had to give her lower-quality food.

I used to derive a quiet sense of pride from the fact that she ate imported food from the US and Holland.

Perhaps I mistook stewardship for achievement.

Perhaps I claimed this blessing as my own rather than as something entrusted to me by God.

Grief has a way of humbling us.

Maybe it’s time to let go of that part of me as well.

Enough.

In Toug’s first and second health crises, the vet gave me the “mercy injection” option as a last resort.

Both times, I felt faint and frantic when he mentioned it.

By the third health crisis, I realized the mercy injection isn’t really a choice.

We are forced into making the difficult but necessary decision.

I had years to become comfortable with the idea of ending a life out of necessity.

To end prolonged suffering.

Perhaps it was a mercy for me that we reached this point on the third attempt rather than the first.

This time around, I felt grounded, present, and trusting.

This was the end for her.

The same day her regular food finally came back into stock after three months of waiting, we had it delivered.

That day she died.

The municipality, kind and responsive, removed her body within a few hours.

What added salt to the wound was that the place we had bought premium food from for years wouldn’t take back the sealed bags because of their policy.

In grief, policies can feel unbearably impersonal.

So I’ll put the food in the paddock for the wildlife to enjoy.

I’ll add the apples she loved too.

The foxes and crows who visited Toug would appreciate them.

If I didn’t have a reason to believe in God, heaven, hell, and the afterlife, I would choose to believe simply for the hope of seeing my loved ones again.

To be assured this isn’t the end.

I’ll see you again as you truly are, mutawahija.

I used to call her Queen Toug.

Now, when I see photos of her around my home and on my phone, I smile warmly and say:

Habibti Toug.

Do I want her back now?

No.

I’m happy for her to move on.

I’m happy for myself to move on too.

I feel immense gratitude, great relief, and a loving sadness.

I don’t want her to suffer anymore.

And I don’t want to wonder with guilt whether I cared for her well enough.

These past ten years have been something.

I know that every chapter, every change, brings blessings with it.

Something more suitable will appear.

Something always does.

That is the nature of life.

Every season has its blessings.

Thank you for the many blessings.

And the gentle goodbyes.

And the gentle lessons.

Thank you, Ya Latif.

The next few days, as I recited Quran in prayer, I placed my right hand over my chest.

Especially while reciting Ayat al-Kursi, my heart would flop around frantically like a fish out of water.

It wanted to jump out of my chest and fall where my forehead touched my prayer mat.

Like an offering.

I was confused and annoyed and pressed my palm more firmly against this troublesome heart.

What am I offering?

What am I asking for?

Why the resistance?

What’s the point?

Eventually my heart calmed.

My annoyance melted into compassion.

I understand.

I understand.

It’s okay.

It’s okay, my love.

Of course you feel this way.

Of course you feel this way.

I am with you.

What now?

Continue forward.

Continue feeling.

Continue living.

Continue loving.

Continue caring.

Continue being.

Continue doing.

Continue learning.

Continue praying.

Continue choosing.

Continue connecting.

Continue appreciating.

Continue expanding.

Continue evolving.

Continue writing.

Continue walking home together.

I am with you.