On Culling

The children scream down the hall, "MOM! THE CHICK IS DYING!" I rush to help.

A chick lays stretched out, a long twist of intestine protruding. He will die. Nothing I do can save him. Probably nothing anyone can do could save him. I cradle him in my palm and stroke him softly. He chirps an anxious dirge and arches against his agony. I stroke him back to a neutral position.

Poor baby. I should end his suffering, but I can't. Ways to kill him painlessly flit through my mind; I do nothing but stroke him softly. He arches again. My children's keening in the hall hurts my heart, so ask them to stop so their wailing is not the last sound the chick hears. The children weep their goodbyes.

Silence. Except for the heartless happy chirping of his brooder mates. A last arching. A final chirp. Death.

Oh crap.

What could I have done? Was it contagious? My online search reveals nothing. It's likely a birth injury or some kind of deformity. I should have culled him before his suffering became acute.

Monday morning, two more birds are drooping, their legs splayed in unhealthy directions. They will die. I should cull them.

Oh crap.

I'm not a farmer. I'm not a vet. I'm a mother, a doula: I cannot take life! They lay in my palm—again, sweet and helpless, dying. I must help them. I must. I prepare a small box, cuddle them together on the cloth and place them in the freezer.

Minutes later, I open the freezer door, whispering words, petting the doomed gently. I close it again. Then open it. I can feel their downy heads cooling, their breath slowing. I am doing the right thing. I am killing them. To reassure myself, I mentally replay the chick's death from the day before as I pet and soothe these two through their death. I am doing the right thing. Culling them. Saving them agony. I am doing the right thing.

That afternoon as my ten year old son lays gasping, awaiting an emergency appendectomy, I think of our dead chicks, of the one who suffered, of the two who chilled to death peacefully. I think of my son who would have been hours from death save for the surgeon. My mind wraps around the preciousness of his being, the beauty of him. I ponder the skill and technology being unleashed to save him. In a different era, he would have died. 

The irony digs at me. In the past two days, three lives have ended in the hands that now stroke my baby's head. This child will die too, but not today, not tomorrow. God willing, not within my lifetime.

When we return home again, we trade six of our Barred Rock chicks for six Buff Orpington chicks. It's a bad trade. One bird dies sometime in his first night within our home. Two more will die soon. I can see them fading, slowing, refusing to eat or drink. Steeling myself, I place the dying birds in a small box in the freezer and close the door. It is the merciful thing to do.

The miracle of my son's life in the face of death flashes in my memory as one of the birds peeps. I remove them from the freezer. They will not die by my hand. I'll not play God today. Today, I'll simply stand vigil, a witness to their suffering, powerless. Today, I will simply accept God's will.

Today in Chickland

Click on the picture and it gets huge. Otherwise, some very reliable sources have told me this looks like a collection of roaches.

Curses! A Day Late and a Post Short Again

Yesterday marked my first anniversary as a blogger. I even have the beginnings of an appropriately nostalgic post in my file. I'll finish it at some point.

I love my blog. I love my blogging friends. Nevertheless, playing mommy-nurse to my tyrant child-patient has shoved my virtual life onto a back shelf. For a bit anyhow.

Never fear: I always have more to say, and say it I shall. Later.

TTFN

Appendectomy Anyone?

Just a brief post to say that my ten year old son decided he has had enough of all those weird come-and-go stomachaches that kept making him tardy for school. He decided to just get over with and have appendicitis instead.

His symptoms were a little wonky so it took me a day before I decided to take him in to the ER. His pain was across the entire midsection of his abdomen, instead of being focused on the right side. He wasn't in immense pain and his pain was getting better, not worse. But no diarrhea, no constipation, no vomiting, no upper or lower abdomen pain. He also was experiencing decided relief laying on his right side. Hm...yes, it could be. Naw, you morbid mom. It's just the flu. Um, but...

Finally, I just decided to stop reading online appendicitis articles and polling friends and to trust my gut feeling. The kid's never been a whiner and a busted appendix could kill him. Best to check it out. Turns out the poor kid's appendix was tucked away behind his intestine and as a result his symptoms were atypical. I thank God that the useless thing didn't rupture.

His surgery went well. He's uncomfortable but they are treating his pain to the good meds. His temperature is fluctuating a bit too much for my taste. (If they don't give kid something for it soon I'm going to have to put on the Mama Bear suit.)

Anyhow here I am enduring countless hours of cartoon network in a Mr. L's hospital room. Amazingly enough, I'm feeling a bit tense. If I could play PathWords on facebook (my favorite brain-number) I would, but I can't seem to get the hang of doing it on the laptop. Since PathWords is out I should be reading blogs a lot today, wandering around saying stupid, distracted things. I'll keep you all posted.

Because I'm Spamming Your Blog Reader with Chickens aka More Pictures

The moist guy is third hatched, but I can only tell the first two apart by their voices. Number one is a loud beak!

Number Three Pips

A Chick has Hatched

Don't worry he'll fluff up!

Then it said, "Peep!"

Breaking News!

This is what we are doing RIGHT NOW!

Not Counting Our Chickens Quite Yet

Long, long ago, the La Family had chickens.

Really cute chickens. (The kids aren't too bad either.)

Alpha and Beta are the red ones, the first and second to hatch. (Sadly, Omega the third and last to hatch had an unfortunate incident which prevented him from being photographed.) (Yeah, he died. Let's not discuss it.) My friend gave us Black and Blue. (Guess which set I named and which set the kids named.)

It was a great school project! The kids learned a lot and we had some pretty yummy eggs. We ended up sending our lovely hens to the country to live a happy life, giving eggs to a loving adoptive family. (Go with it, OK?)

ANYHOW...

it's chicken time again.

We've got 42 eggs incubating away. Thirty-four of them came in the mail. We're expecting a pretty low hatch rate for those. They were all brown eggs and Carolina Biological Supply can give us no hint whatsoever as to the breed.

Eight of the chicks have come from a crazy chicken lady across town. Hopefully, those will be Buff Orpingtons. When we candled them last week (peeked at their little shadows with a flashlight) it looked like six of them were developing normally and two were duds. 

(^^ That there purdy bird is a Buff Orpington. ^^)

Hatch day is Thursday. In theory. Assuming we haven't messed up in some fundamental way. (I got really nervous last time too.)

J is designing a movable hen house for the Buffs. In theory. Perhaps if I ask him to create it out Rubik's Cubes he's be more likely to get into it. 

The kids will sell the extras to help fund some of their activities. Assuming there are extras.  I'll keep you posted.

[As an aside, sorry for the disappearing post the other day. I'd said a simple apology and a polite request would remove my grievances from the blog world. The owner of a certain rollerskating rink apologized and said his future coupons would be more specific. And voila, a disgruntled customer is appeased. It's like magic.] 

[If you must know the details, email me and I'll send my copy of the post to you.]

Empathy

Just because I'm in a bit of a funk doesn't mean you should have to suffer Jami-withdrawal. Here is an older post of mine that applies even more today than the day I wrote it.

In the eighties, my sister, my mother and I, separated by hundreds of miles, had a bonding ritual. Each week we would watch "Star Trek: The Next Generation" then call each other to have a little trekkie chat. My sister and I were completely unified in our mockery of Counselor Deanna Troi, an empath, a really irritating empath. She'd stand on the bridge, stare out into space and look pained. "I sense confusion [pain/sorrow/negative emotion du jour]" We were fairly certain that a good laxative would take care of poor Deanna's constant suffering.

Recently, I've felt a bit like the well-intentioned, but infinitely mockable Deanna as I stare into the vast Internet and feel the suffering. I wander around peeking into the lives of amazing people, their marriages, children, jobs. Their tragedies. It hurts and a laxative has given no relief. The pain is spiritual: the death of a loved one, the loss of faith, mental illness, disability, unemployment, poverty, pregnancy complications, the sorrows of real people I have come to love.

I promised when I was baptized that I was willing to mourn with those who mourn, to comfort those who stand in need of comfort. When a local friend has a miscarriage, I can hold her, cry with her, bring her a casserole and some helpful herbs. When an Internet friend suffers a miscarriage, all I can do is cry and pray that someone will hold her, bring her a casserole, and maybe some helpful herbs.

Perhaps there is some wisdom in the concept of not becoming emotionally involved with strangers, but as I ponder the Savior taking upon himself all of the physical, emotional, and spiritual pain of the world, I have a have a hard time believing that emotional distance is how we become more Christ-like. So I pray and occasionally send a poem. It's really all I can do which is, I guess, better than what Deanna, the hand-wringer, would do.

Life is pain. The joy that the scriptures talks about is not smiling through the death of a child, or humming happily as someone relearns how to walk. It is an eternal joy that comes when Jesus who vicariously suffered for us, who knows and loves us, removes the pain, brings peace to the troubled, heals the scars, and makes us whole again.

I Need More

I think I may need an adjustment on my anti-depressants. I'm hoping that doubling the dosage will bring the excellent mood lift that the current dosage used to bring.



We may need to move to the half-gallon, but if that doesn't work I may have to take drastic measures to restore my equilibrium.

What's Good for the Gosling is Good for the Other Gosling

Because I posted J-Teen's video, N-girl has created a video for the blog world.

She's a delightful girl who is very fond of cute things and now knows how awesome is spelled. Even though she doesn't want to redo the entire video, she'd still like me to post it.

You're welcome.

Not to Whine or Anything

Here I find myself, several weeks into a bout of writer's block that is not a matter of having nothing to say, but rather a matter have only grumpy things to say. I keep trying to wait out the crap until I have something cheerful to say, but I've decided that I won't find cheerfulness by allowing myself to fill to the brim with doom. Perhaps a little purging will help.

I just need to list the stuff that has happened in my neighborhood. 

1.  On a gorgeous Spring day about three weeks ago, my next-door neighbor (a truly nice guy) died in front of my house. He slumped over in his little scooter right in front of my driveway. I'm glad he was out and about, because he loved the open air. Still...
2. Early Sunday morning somebody knocked on a neighbor's front door. As the neighbor was unlocking the door,  a gun was fired through the closed door. The refrigerator next to door stopped the bullet from continuing into the front room where the children lay sleeping. It's one of those places where a dozen people are shoved into 500 sq ft. And people come and go all hours of the day and night. It was about something, but everyone has a different version of what that something was. Maybe race. Maybe drugs. Maybe a woman. Maybe revenge. No telling really.
3. Across the street we've got another place with a dozen people in it. They're dealing meth. 
   
4. On the other side of my house, the house has been "empty" for a few months. The guys who were living there had never paid any rent, other than the original deposit. They didn't speak and were rather secretive. Kind of creepy really. I wasn't sad when they were evicted. But I was sad when I found out that a variety of homeless druggies have been squatting in the place while it's been empty. It does look like a nice couple is moving in now. The mom works for the property management company that has been hired to clean up the crazy mess.
   
5. Just past that house is our neighborhood convicted rapist who has paid his debt to society. He's a friendly fellow. He likes to give the kids ice cream and dollar bills.
   
6. Just past him is the house that was raided about six months back by fifteen police officers with riffles and bulletproof vests. Immigration issues.
   
7. The teenyboppers/Serrano gang members wander up and down our street, swearing at each other. We've got a little graffiti here, a pair of shoes hanging on the telephone wires there. It's charming. Adds that je ne sais quoi.
   

And I am stuck here. Yes, I could let the bank repossess the house. Yes, I could move to some cheaper part of the country with no job, no savings. Seems like a bad plan though. Anyhow, thanks for listening: I just needed to spew.

I'm Out Visiting Today

I'm guest-posting over at Dunhaven Place today, while Heidi enjoys a well-earned Spring break with her family. Come over and say hi! Browse around while you're there. Heidi's blog does not suffer from UBS (Ugly Blog Sydrome) as mine does. She scatters beauty everywhere she goes!