February 26, 2020

Death. We see a lot of death. The good kind and the bad kind.

Last week we attended the funeral of a dear friend’s 93-year-old mother. She led a long and fascinating life. Her life wasn’t easy, but she was given the gift of faith which was passed down to her and she, in turn, passed it on to her own. Her obituary shared that sometimes, in their early married years, she and her husband would wake up with snow on their bedspread. I marveled at this and still have trouble wrapping my mind around it.  Despite the hardships, she enjoyed life as a farm wife and mother. Ultimately she was called home to glory. Bittersweet tears were shed. Sweet, because she now rests in the arms of her Savior. Bitter, for the hole she leaves behind in the lives of her loved ones.

The good kind of death is one that celebrates the life lived.

My husband bought me two bred heifers that we really didn’t need. These heifers were different from the time he bought a much-needed bull and in the same breath wished me happy Valentine’s Day. Different from the time I asked him for something round and sparkly for our anniversary and he presented me with a shiny new swather that glinted in the sunlight. Different than the bright green John Deere tractor he claimed was my wedding gift. Different from the truck, and the auger, and the cattle chute.

 This time he bought these heifers for me, because I wanted them.

I named them Flora and Fauna as F was this year‘s letter for registration. Last week at 3 AM we pulled Flora’s calf. She was a lovely little heifer calf. Then I waited for Fauna. Fauna was carrying twin girls. I stood by her pen and waited. Every chance I got I zeroed the camera in on her, not so patiently waiting for the twins to arrive.

On the morning of the funeral, Fauna went into labor. I was so excited! These things take time so we attended the funeral. I hope no one will tell the preacher, but we may or may not have occasionally checked the barn camera on my husband’s phone. An hour later I stepped out of my black dress, peeled off my pantyhose, and kicked my heels to the boot rack in the barn office and redressed in my work clothes while my husband went to the house to change his clothes. I was too excited about what was to come to risk getting waylaid in the house and had planned ahead.

Normally I am the tech and my husband is the doctor. This time I donned the shoulder-length gloves. He didn’t say anything at this role reversal. I think he knew he was no match for my two-year-old toddler brain silently screaming “Mine! Mine!! Mine!!!”

I reached in to see how the delivery was progressing. I felt the first calf! Then I located another foot and yet another. That was not such a good sign. As I pinched a toe as my husband asked: “Do you feel life?” The always-positive part of my brain assured me Yes, Yes I feel life! But with a rapidly sinking heart, my mouth responded: “I’m not sure, I don’t think so.” We traded places and he delivered the Adele.  Then Aretha arrived. Both dead. The bad kind of death.

My joy and excitement and anticipation evaporated.

When a calf has to be pulled we place a flat black sled behind the mother. After it is born I pull the sled out of the chute and do all the tricks to make sure it is breathing. None of my tricks worked this time. Sticking straw up her nose to make her sneeze, touching her eyeball to make her blink, wiggling her tongue to make her pull it back in her mouth… Nothing worked. My long-awaited twins were dead. I pulled the sled into the pen while my husband finished with my beautiful heifer. It was eerily quiet. Only the jostle of my husband opening the headgate and releasing Fauna. Her hooves sounded heavy as she crossed the cement floor into the pen. She immediately began to lick her babies off. She mooed and cooed as every new mama does. She mooed a little more when they didn’t respond. She tried all her tricks, she licked them softly and then she licked them with urgency, she nudged them with her nose. She mooed some more. And then, after a very long time, she lay down next to her two little ones in the sled and stayed by them.

I know it’s a business, and I know death is a part of life, but I cried. Not the heaving, choked sobs that make snot run down your face, but rather the tears that just leak out, slide down your face and drip off your chin. All afternoon the tears leaked every time I looked at her as we went back to work.

That evening we let Fauna out to eat and drink. She mooed, she mourned and she was angry. She paced and cried throughout the night. I could hear her from the house. She wanted her babies.

Adele and Aretha were our first set of twins this year. The calves that we already had on the ground were all early and doing well with their mothers. Our neighbors didn’t have any extra calves. While I searched for someone who would have an extra calf for me, Fauna continued to wail.

We finally located a calf and I jumped at the chance to get it. Upon my return, my husband sharpened a knife and handed it to me. We lifted Adele onto the open tailgate of the Ranger and then he left to do evening chores, leaving me to slowly remove her hide. There is an art to skinning. Experienced people like my husband can do it without drawing blood. My sons can skin without drawing blood.  I drew just a little. I don’t know if it is something to be proud of or not but skinning was necessary.

Later that evening we put Fauna in the chute and tied the hide on to her new baby. Adoption at its very best! Fauna made all the right noises and this morning the orphan calf, draped in Adele’s hide, was sucking at will.

I cried bittersweet tears. Bitter because Adele and Aretha were frozen and dead but oh, so sweet tears to watch the little orphan calf and his new mother find each other.

I was talking to a rancher friend from Manago. I confessed I had cried. He said he was glad that I did, and that he would be worried about me if I had not. I said “Yes but I also know this is a business.” to which he replied “Your tears are proof of your passion, and it is passion that makes raising cattle a business. “

So as the family of our dear friend fills the hole in their lives with cherished memories and stories, we also move on and set about the business of cherishing the next life and all the ones that will come after.