I walked out into the field and knew something was wrong. Aillish, our oldest goat, was in labour. We’d been watching her all morning. I had messed up my dates and hadn’t really expected her to give birth until next week, but the signs were all there - heavy udders, loose ligaments, so figured it was the day. She’s normally a quick and reliable birther but as I walked around to see how she was progressing, I knew we had a problem. One hoof hung loosely out, instead of the normal two and a nose you would expect to see.
I sprung into action. We’d been here before countless other times with tricky births and I knew the protocol - clean hands, lube, push the baby back in, find the other foot, check to make sure the head was in place and go.
Only, the kid’s head wasn’t where it was supposed to be. After minutes that felt like hours, I managed to work out the tangle of limbs inside of her - the first kid’s head was back and twisted under his twin. In retrospect, I don’t think the kid that was presenting first was alive, but at the time, I knew I had a limited amount of time to get the kids out.
In those moments as I wrestled blindly with two kids inside a goat, I was certain that I was going to lose all three of them. My phone wasn’t working and I was alone on the farm. Every scenario I played out in my head involved death. Eventually, with some tears, luck and lube, I manage to help Aillish birth the other twin. He came out kicking and screaming, literally. Up on his feet in the time I had to wait to get feeling back in my fingers. Then I helped Aillish with the second twin, who didn’t make it.
Afterwards, Aillish and I both leaned up against the stone dyke in the field, shaking. The adrenaline flooded out of us as we watched the little white bit of ears and sass get on his feet and encourage his mum to do the same so he could eat. I managed to get ahold of Kevin and he came back to help get us both cleaned up. I cried as he helped me get back to the house, feeling so sad that I hadn’t been able to do more and make everything less traumatic for all of us.
There are days that I think that I am over the hard stuff of this life. That I have become immune to the losses that accompany raising livestock. But then days like yesterday hit and I am reminded that the moment we start to feel nothing is the moment we stop doing what we are doing.
It’s a lesson that we’ve learned a lot this week. Our beloved foster son is at the point where he will be moving into his own flat soon. He’s 18 and independent and we have no doubt that he will go on to every success (and he will still be firmly a member of this family, so there is no doubt he will be back for visits. We aren’t the sort of people who let you out of our lives). But his leaving has hit us hard. Even if its not now now, one day, sooner rather than later, he will be off on new adventures. We haven’t figured out how to navigate any of this and have spent many evenings in the kitchen and crying big heavy tears. We are so so sad and so proud of him.
But it’s better to be sad, I think. Better to feel bereft at a loss than to be glad that it’s here— no matter how big or small, whether the kid is human or otherwise, no matter the ultimately good outcomes. I keep telling Kevin that the alternatives to feeling this way about life is unthinkable. Love carves you out and leaves these spaces for sadness and hurt, but every other option seems worse in comparison.
So if you see me in the next few weeks, I will probably cry on your shoulder. But my top tip is to never be too nice to me because I will probably just cry harder.
Love Will Tear Us Apart
Kat, this is just beautiful. What a miracle to share and what a beautiful and true sentiment. I resonated with your post in many ways- our seven year old foster son was recently united with his birth family after living with us for two years. I want to continue to be a part of his life, but I think his birth dad is unsure about letting us in. I am still grateful that we were his parents for two years even through the loss and the possibility we may not see him again.
To quote Winnie the Pooh “how lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard” - I remember a lovely lady in the boarding queue for a flight comforting me with this as I sobbed leaving Edinburgh and my family to return home to Italy… I think this holds for what you are saying above, love hurts because the person/ being we love matters to us.
Sending best wishes for the best outcomes for you at the farm in all respects.