The real slaughter day came and went. It was nearly a week ago. Somehow silence seemed superior to an instant recap without reflection.
I still don't have many words. In truth, it's hard to know what conclusions to draw so I'll begin with our unanticipated slaughter day.
(read more after the jump)
It started with our ending Jerome's little life due to her injury. It felt like the most humane choice, and that decision isn't terribly difficult when the only alternative is suffering. A few days later, we cooked her meager flesh for lunch with last season's chanterelles, shallots and some sweet potatoes. For the three days after her death, I shrank from animal products and willed myself a vegetarian in the event that eating our own animals proved too challenging. I consumed tofu with reckless abandon wondering if I could justify the environmental and human costs of the fermented bean long term. Peanut butter on a spoon became my go to snack, breakfast, lunch and dinner.
By the time Jerome's breast and heart showed up on my plate, I was relieved. I was weak and hungry. And I was as prepared as I'd ever be to partake of a life I had taken. I chewed slowly almost feeling her once warm body in my hands. Thank you baby ducky. I will remember your life and honor your death through my own life.
I swallowed.
I took another bite.
Eventually, Mr. Bee and I finished what meat there was. Mr. Bee rendered her fat in the oven. The leftover skin crinkled under the heat, releasing the yellow liquid.
I tossed her bones into a plastic bag for storage in the freezer. STOCK, I labeled it for future days, determined to draw every ounce of nourishment from the creature.
And just like that, it was over.
In that space, I realize again that farming parallels other processes in life. I think back to the people I've lost, the opportunities I've missed, or the dreams I've had to mourn and recognize the same pattern. You have life warm and in front of you, wriggling in your hands. You can feel it. And then sometimes, if you're lucky some would say, you have that space and time when you have life but know the end is coming. Not dead yet, still very much alive, thank you.
You call this terminal. You call in hospice or the marriage counselor. You may do everything you can to change the outcome and beat the odds. Six phone calls to the vet, a thousand prayers to your God, you comfort yourself with knowledge that you have a backup plan if this one really does fall through. Your second choice school will probably still accept you, there's always that other diet if those ten pounds stick around, and maybe your son can start violin once you realize that you always wanted to but never did.
When that outcome doesn't match your hopes, you say euphemisms that inadvertently place blame. "He failed the treatment you know." Or, "They're giving up on their marriage". No, I beg, the treatment failed him and maybe leaving isn't giving up but gaining a self, but that's a discussion for another time.
In most terminal situations, the time comes to say goodbye. Maybe it's sooner than anticipated or much much later just when you thought you were escaping into a new reality without the bitter fact of an end. You say goodbye to your loved one, or the hopes you had or even shared, or to the expectations that you truly can no longer fill--realistic or otherwise. You part with the idea that you can be a perfect mom and keep the house clean while simultaneously being a good friend and a caring spouse.
The grief, mixed sometime with relief, washes over you. It's over.
Later, however, at some unspecified time--predictable or otherwise--it's back. You find old clothes in the closet that you never could donate, see a woman pregnant with her first baby, watch as your peers get promoted and you stay behind, and those old feelings of longing and finality are back. You look down at your plate and understand that what once was, is no more. That permanence of loss is so difficult to comprehend; its continual resurfacing should come as no surprise.
As I strive to honor all life, including Jerome's, I try to let myself grieve all the losses in my life as well as make room for new actions which may likely lead me back to that place of vulnerability, and starting the whole cycle all over again.
I still don't have many words. In truth, it's hard to know what conclusions to draw so I'll begin with our unanticipated slaughter day.
(read more after the jump)
It started with our ending Jerome's little life due to her injury. It felt like the most humane choice, and that decision isn't terribly difficult when the only alternative is suffering. A few days later, we cooked her meager flesh for lunch with last season's chanterelles, shallots and some sweet potatoes. For the three days after her death, I shrank from animal products and willed myself a vegetarian in the event that eating our own animals proved too challenging. I consumed tofu with reckless abandon wondering if I could justify the environmental and human costs of the fermented bean long term. Peanut butter on a spoon became my go to snack, breakfast, lunch and dinner.
By the time Jerome's breast and heart showed up on my plate, I was relieved. I was weak and hungry. And I was as prepared as I'd ever be to partake of a life I had taken. I chewed slowly almost feeling her once warm body in my hands. Thank you baby ducky. I will remember your life and honor your death through my own life.
I swallowed.
I took another bite.
Eventually, Mr. Bee and I finished what meat there was. Mr. Bee rendered her fat in the oven. The leftover skin crinkled under the heat, releasing the yellow liquid.
I tossed her bones into a plastic bag for storage in the freezer. STOCK, I labeled it for future days, determined to draw every ounce of nourishment from the creature.
And just like that, it was over.
In that space, I realize again that farming parallels other processes in life. I think back to the people I've lost, the opportunities I've missed, or the dreams I've had to mourn and recognize the same pattern. You have life warm and in front of you, wriggling in your hands. You can feel it. And then sometimes, if you're lucky some would say, you have that space and time when you have life but know the end is coming. Not dead yet, still very much alive, thank you.
You call this terminal. You call in hospice or the marriage counselor. You may do everything you can to change the outcome and beat the odds. Six phone calls to the vet, a thousand prayers to your God, you comfort yourself with knowledge that you have a backup plan if this one really does fall through. Your second choice school will probably still accept you, there's always that other diet if those ten pounds stick around, and maybe your son can start violin once you realize that you always wanted to but never did.
When that outcome doesn't match your hopes, you say euphemisms that inadvertently place blame. "He failed the treatment you know." Or, "They're giving up on their marriage". No, I beg, the treatment failed him and maybe leaving isn't giving up but gaining a self, but that's a discussion for another time.
In most terminal situations, the time comes to say goodbye. Maybe it's sooner than anticipated or much much later just when you thought you were escaping into a new reality without the bitter fact of an end. You say goodbye to your loved one, or the hopes you had or even shared, or to the expectations that you truly can no longer fill--realistic or otherwise. You part with the idea that you can be a perfect mom and keep the house clean while simultaneously being a good friend and a caring spouse.
The grief, mixed sometime with relief, washes over you. It's over.
Later, however, at some unspecified time--predictable or otherwise--it's back. You find old clothes in the closet that you never could donate, see a woman pregnant with her first baby, watch as your peers get promoted and you stay behind, and those old feelings of longing and finality are back. You look down at your plate and understand that what once was, is no more. That permanence of loss is so difficult to comprehend; its continual resurfacing should come as no surprise.
As I strive to honor all life, including Jerome's, I try to let myself grieve all the losses in my life as well as make room for new actions which may likely lead me back to that place of vulnerability, and starting the whole cycle all over again.
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