Wildlife sightings

The wild turkeys spend all winter around here somewhere, but it isn’t until spring that we see them out in the field. I mentioned in my last post that we had seen a few toms too far away to get a picture. Terry called Wednesday to tell me there were 18 turkeys in the back. It seemed to be 4 toms and 14 hens. The toms were puffed up and carrying on; the hens seemed largely unimpressed. This is the best picture I could get.

Four toms, fourteen hens

It would have been easy enough to sit in my recliner and drink tea all day yesterday. It was cold, windy, and cloudy, a day with not much to recommend it. But I went out anyway, and I say, good for me. I was bundled and about to head out the door with my camera and the short lens when I saw the turkeys again. They were headed north, so I walked around the east side of the willows thinking I might get a closer shot if they didn’t see me coming. I was partly successful.

Another view

Soon, though, they took off into the brush. What they find to eat this time of year is a mystery.

Heading for cover

I walked down to the creek and scared a pair of wood ducks. I might have gotten a picture if I’d been looking for them.

I continued to the south end of the property, which is still underwater. I saw a very round rock that I had not noticed before.

A new rock?

Upon closer inspection, I found that the rock had a head and was in fact a snapping turtle. I think it was hibernating, although I could see the path it took to its current location, and the silt had not settled. 

A turtle! The head is on the left

Terry brought up the question of how they breathe underwater. I asked Jane, who didn’t know either, but she did know that they hibernate in mud that is underwater because if they weren’t in water, they would freeze solid. Maybe they can do some gas exchange through their skin? They won’t need much oxygen because their metabolic rate will be very low at that temperature.

Hilda and I went back again today when the sun was shining but the wind was colder and stronger. The turtle had rotated 90°. Maybe it stuck its head up to breathe as well. Who knows?

We also saw one of the wood ducks again. As we walked toward the house, a shadow passed over us. "What was that?" Hilda asked.

It took a minute to find, since the shadow was well ahead of the bird at that hour of the afternoon. It was big, black, and...had a white tail! A bald eagle!

Not too much is budding yet, but the rhubarb is showing some above-ground growth.

First sign of rhubarb

Terry had been working on his trees. Last week, he went into a long explanation of the perfect tool for trimming the tops of the apple trees. He likes to keep the trees short for easy picking. The only pruner on a stick he had cut vertically. His ideal pruner would cut horizontally. He thought he was going to have to invent it. Somehow it seemed like I’d seen something like that before. Indeed, when I went down to visit Jane later in the week, she showed me her pruner that had an adjustable head. I took it home; Terry sharpened it up, and after “a learning curve” declared it to be just the thing. I will pick one up tomorrow at Home Depot.

Using the horizontal pruner

Longer days

Each day the sun shines a little longer. I’m not at the point of noticing that every day is sucking a little less, but I expect there are imperceptible increments of change. I know Dad is gone, but my mind can’t—or refuses—to understand that he’s not coming back. It’s bound to sink in eventually.

I’m on spring break this week. So far, I’ve had my teeth cleaned, done my long-neglected grocery shopping (which seemed expensive, but was really no more than what I normally spend in two weeks), gotten a haircut, and helped Hilda pack up Dad’s clothes. We are trying to find the new normal.

Meanwhile, old friends are returning from the south. Robins are everywhere, although when they are puffed up on these frosty mornings, I wonder if they don’t wish they’d stayed put for another week or two.

Fluffed up robin in the frosty grass

Hilda doesn’t like the redwing blackbirds. They are mean and territorial, chasing the other birds from the feeders. I can’t claim to be fond of them when they dive bomb my head during nesting season.

Redwing blackbird

Still, they always remind me of a time in college when Marian and I went for a walk in the rhododendron gardens. There was a redwing blackbird there displaying his epaulets. Having grown up with them my whole life, I didn’t take much notice. Marian, a life-long resident of Sacramento, remarked on his beauty. This was the first inkling I had that California was generally populated with drab birds. I assumed since it was a warm place the birds would be colorful, like in the tropics. I knew very little about ecology then. Birds that live in the dense rainforest need bright colors to be seen by potential mates. Birds that live in the dry chaparral need camouflage to not be eaten by predators.

The goldfinches are molting, one of the most welcome signs of spring. Soon they will be in their cheery yellow plumage with cute little black berets.

A goldfinch changing to summer plumage with a house finch behind

We have seen turkeys at the edge of the field. I tried to get a picture of one Sunday, but even though he was very far away, he took off running as soon as I walked outside.  We had two sandhill cranes over by the toad pond yesterday morning. They too flew away before I could get my camera.

A less skittish deer wandered through the field Sunday evening, casually grazing on what can’t really be called green grass yet.

A deer in the field

The earth awakens. Better times are coming.

New tarps on the polyhouse

Terry fretted all week about getting new tarps on the polyhouse. Day after day was just too windy. Finally, he saw a window of opportunity from noon on Saturday to noon on Sunday. Saturday morning, he spread the tarps on the drive way, found the middle, and rolled up each side to the midpoint. After lunch, I went out to help him.

Two tarps rolled from both sides to the middle and tied with string

First, we hauled a tarp back to the polyhouse and laid it on the south side even with the east end.

Tarp and ladder positioned to be hoisted to the roof

Then I climbed up a ladder so Terry could hand one end to me. I held it while he climbed up the wooden supports in the middle. I had the easier job, as I just had to tug and hold while Terry scrambled like a monkey around the pipes, shelving, and assorted stored items. Eventually, we had the middle of the tarp aligned with the ridges.

We untied the strings at each end and let the sides fall. Or not. Each roll flopped over once and stopped. My range of motion was severely limited, fixed as I was on the ladder. It was up to Terry to scramble around again to get the tarp to unroll. He got to the ground, found his drill and screws, and started securing the tarp with lath. I stood on the ladder holding the tarp as tight as I could. I would like to mention that the day was not entirely windless. Occasional gusts lifted the tarp and set it down in a new position. Grr. I suppose as long as I was not carried aloft with it, I shouldn’t complain.

The tarp is secured by lath (strips of wood) and screws

With the end and bottom secured, we got the tarp as tight as we could using the strings Terry attached to the free ends. Once again, I didn’t have much to do except keep the tarp from blowing away. Terry did all the work of tying the tarp down.

Terry pulls the tarp tight, being careful not to bump his head

And ties the string around the polyhouse's wooden frame

All tied down

I got a little break then while Terry finished putting lath along the bottom.

I joined him after about an hour and a half to hoist up the other tarp. I wasn’t sure how that was going to work, since it was going to overlap the first part by a good bit, and there wasn’t any way to get underneath it. Terry had it all measured out, though. He knew exactly where the edge needed to be. I stood on the ladder holding the west end of the tarp while he secured the east end of the tarp. Then I pulled and held while Terry put lath on the end. My legs were shaking before we were done. Ladders are not meant to be stood on for long periods of time.

Terry excused me to go back in the house. He worked for a long time getting it so it would stay where he wanted it. He did the final bit of work today, after a day of rest. It’s hard work, and he’s not a young man anymore. But it’s done now!

Done!

Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to keep busy to keep my mind of my dad. One of my projects was to make ravioli. The last time I made lasagna, I couldn’t remember how much ricotta I needed, and I erred on the side of too much. I had not made ravioli in many years. It was a good thing to keep my hands busy. I started by rolling out long sheets of dough.

A long sheet of dough

I aliquoted the filling on the dough.

Aliquots of filling

Then folded the dough over the filling and pressed the edges together, trying to get out all the air.

Dough folded over and pinched

Finally, I cut them apart. Most of them are in the freezer.

Ready for the freezer

Like putting the tarps on the polyhouse, it was something I could see at the end of the day. It made life seem less pointless, somehow. Whatever gets you though the day.

Day to day

The melt has begun. It got up to 40°F on Saturday. I wanted it to feel warm, but there were clouds and high winds. Zip up that coat! We now have lake front property again.

The pond is forming in the field as the snow melts

A few weeks ago when the winds were blowing at 50 mph, the plastic on the polyhouse ripped. The 40 mph winds this weekend finished the job. Terry has been working to clear the piled-up ice around the bottom away to he can replace the cover.

The polyhouse roof blown to piece in the wind

As for the grieving, it comes and goes. I have gotten lots of sympathy cards from friends and coworkers. Hilda, not having coworkers, is getting cards from friends. Sometimes they make me cry; sometimes they don’t. Depends on the mood.

Last week Terry and I had time to watch a movie in the evening. I picked one of the Hallmark Christmas films that we hadn’t had time to watch during the actual season. I was in the mood for some light-hearted entertainment. Alas, once the movie got started, it occurred to me that we had taped it during the Before Time, when my family was whole, and we were watching it in the After Time, when Christmases would never be the same. I had to have a moment. I sent Jane a text that included a tearful emoji.

“Holidays are hard the first year,” Jane responded.

So many details to take care of. Sometimes I’m fine. Sometimes I’m not. I was unemotional through the phone call to take his cell phone off the family plan. Hilda and I went to the bank Monday to take Dad’s name off the accounts, straighten out his credit card bill (which had gotten lost somewhere), and cancel his debit card. I was fine until our favorite banker, Adriana, stopped by to express her sympathy. Then I got all choked up again.

People have been so kind during this time. “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad.” “I’m sorry for your loss.” “Let us know if there’s anything we can do.” “It’s so hard to lose a parent.”

The words that I have found most comforting came from Kate, who lost her mother much too young. Her mom was only a little older than I am now when she died of a brain tumor a few years ago. So sad. I am lucky to have had my father nearly 60 years. Kate had her mom half that time. On our way to class one day, Kate said, “Every day will suck a little less.”

I remind myself of that constantly. It ought to be on a T-shirt. Or a sympathy card. Every day will suck a little less.

And we carry on.

The final iteration

As it turned out, Dad’s recovery was short lived. We had a good Saturday and Sunday, everyone so glad that he was home. He drank his thickened liquids and ate oatmeal and chocolate pudding cheerfully.

I took him and Hilda to a follow up appointment with his regular doctor on Monday afternoon. We discussed speech therapy for his swallowing problem. When Dr. V. saw the difficulty that Dad had getting on the examining table, he ordered physical therapy and occupational therapy as well.

I went speed shopping at Walmart for some groceries while Dad and Hilda waited in the car. Then I sat with Dad while Hilda went to Walgreens to pick up some prescriptions. Dad said he wished he could have a 7-Up. I explained about the problem with the epiglottis closing again, and said he’d just have to hang in there with the thickened liquids for a few more weeks before they tested his swallowing again.

Doug and Pam came for a visit Tuesday. Doug thought Dad didn’t look great, but I didn’t notice much of a difference. Hilda showed me the results of the blood work, which indicated the kidneys were failing again.

At 3:00 Wednesday morning, I heard coughing and retching. I thought maybe Dad was coughing so hard that he was throwing up. That happened to me once when I had a bad case of flu. It turned out that he also had diarrhea.

He was better in the morning. Hilda attributed the diarrhea to excessive fruit juice and possible laxative effects of the Thicken Up. I went to work.

When I came home, Hilda reported that Dad no longer wanted to drink water. She was at her wits’ end. He was supposed to take small bites, chew thoroughly, and take sips of fluid. He ate big bites, chewed very little, and gulped large swallows of liquids, as he has done his whole life. And now he didn’t want to drink anything at all. I told him that he had to drink because he was dehydrated. I gave him a cup of thickened water. “Sips!” I told him as he gulped, “Sips!”

And he started coughing and retching.

Then he had back pain. Kidneys? Pulled muscles from coughing? Hilda called the doctor. We tried Tylenol. No relief. We tried Tramadol. Nothing. We put on his shoes and took him to the emergency room.

“You need to go home,” Hilda told me. “I will stay with him tonight.”

“Call if you need anything,” I said. “It doesn’t matter how late.” If he died in the night, she would need to come back home.

It turned out that they did call at 9:30 for me to bring over his CPAP, but for reasons that I cannot explain, neither Terry nor I heard the call. Did the phone not ring? I was asleep, but Terry was sitting right next to the phone in the living room.

I left early the next morning so I could stop by the hospital before work. Hilda was in a state. Dad had been in horrible pain all night while the nurses tried to find something that would give him relief. She held his hand. At one point, he said, “Hilda, I’m so sick.”

An early morning x-ray indicated intestinal blockage. She had refused surgery. “I’m not going to put him through that.”

As we have told this story, friends have wondered that they offered surgery at all. I can only think that they had to, but if Hilda would have said yes, I strongly suspect there would have been serious conversation about the consequences of that course of action.

When she explained the situation to me, she asked, “Did I do the right thing?”

“Of course,” I assured her. “It isn’t very likely he could survive it.” In my mind, with the atrial fibrillation, pneumonia, and kidney failure on top of this, it was clear that his body was shutting down, one organ system at a time. It was over.

One of the nurses that we have known over the years stopped by. She said when she was in this situation with her mom, the decision was the hardest. Once it was made, things felt calmer.

She was right. I did feel calmer. I wasn’t afraid anymore. That was the hardest part of the various iterations of health crises that both my parents have had. Will they die? Will they not die? Is this it? But when I knew for sure that he would die, it was not as hard to accept as I thought it might be. Which is not to say it wasn’t tremendously sad. I have to cry right now, just typing this.

Dilaudid did the trick to relieve his pain, but it also rendered him fairly unresponsive. He opened his eyes, but didn’t speak. Dr. V came by and told Hilda that Dad would probably live another week. Doug got on the road to Harvard shortly after I got to work. Pam took care of some things she needed to do at work and took the train. I got to the hospital as soon as I could after my class ended at 1:00. The meeting with hospice was scheduled for 2:00. Terry came too.

We got set up for a hospital bed and oxygen to be delivered to the house, and for Dad to be discharged on Friday. Doug and Pam said their goodbyes and went back to Chicago. We braced for a week-long death watch. I was dreading it. Jane’s mom lingered nearly two weeks, during which I thought I would lose my mind with the waiting, and I wasn’t even there very much.

I took Hilda home after the meeting so she could take a shower and get warmer clothes for another night in the recliner next to Dad’s bed. The hospital bed arrived at the house 10 minutes after we went back to the hospital. The driver told Terry he’d been on his way to deliver the bed elsewhere when he got a call that the patient had died, so he brought the bed to us instead.

The discharge was planned for Friday. Somehow the message hadn’t gotten through about the oxygen. The transport drivers had to hang around with Dad using oxygen from their tank until an oxygen condenser was delivered and set up.

And there was some miscommunication with hospice as well, and we waited and waited for the nurse to come to do the intake visit. When she did get there, Dad was breathing 30 times a minute with a pronounced rattle. “The way he sounds,” she said, “I’d be surprised if he lasted the night.”

We got our instructions and filled out the paperwork. The nurse left.  I made dinner. I had a little turn when I got a pack of sweet corn out of the freezer, labeled in Dad’s writing. Next year’s sweet corn would be labeled by a different hand.

We were just finishing dinner at 7:45 when Dad stopped breathing. The nurse had just pulled in her driveway when she got the page to come back.

Over the next three hours, the nurse got back, pronounced him dead, filled out more paperwork (not sure what to call it when it’s all electronic), left a message for the doctor, spoke with the coroner, and arranged for the folks from the funeral home to come for the body.

And then all was quiet. Exhausted by the whole process, I slept quite well.

Jane brought us groceries and soup in the morning. We drank coffee and ate cookies, which was Hilda’s breakfast. Jane went home.

Doug and Pam arrived for lunch. We made sandwiches with the supplies Jane brought and talked all afternoon. Hilda was comforted.

I’ve heard stories of odd behavior of animals after a death—a favorite songbird tapping at the window, a wild otter holding the gaze of a human for a surprisingly long time—that is interpreted as a message from the deceased. Of course there are other, more logical explanations, but belief requires no evidence, and we can believe whatever we want to believe. That afternoon, a red tailed hawk soared over the field, much closer to the house than we usually see them. Again and again, it passed nearby, soaring and swooping in the afternoon sunlight, and I thought, “It’s Dad.” And the message was, “I’m free. Free from pain, sorrow, and worry. Free from the aging body that frustrated and betrayed me. Watch me fly, and remember me as I was when I was strong.”

Ridiculous, I know. I didn’t say anything at the time. But it comforts me, so I’m going to believe it. Because I can.