Grieving the Great Horned
In the past year, my relationship to grief has evolved from an abstract idea to an everyday companion. Time doesn’t necessarily heal, but dulls. And there certainly is no “letting go”; I carry their hearts with me. As Jo March says to her beloved sister Beth, “More than anyone in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn’t let you go, but I’m learning to feel that I don’t lose you, you’ll be more to me than ever, and death can’t part us, though it seems to.” How do we hold close what we cherish most in this world when that very thing has disappeared?
She was sitting on a pile of old wood pallets that were thrown near the trash–her haunting yellow eyes and crown of tufted feathers strikingly out of place. The leather gloves, old cardigan, and cardboard box almost felt insulting. I anthropomorphized her saying, “Really? Is that all I am to you?” It wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I whispered to my new acquaintance while her yellow eyes slowly disappeared from view as I placed a towel over her head. I saw the compound fracture jutting out and knew that she must have been in an immense amount of pain.
From a first glance, you could tell her right wing was drooping out of place. Possibly dislocated? Useless for flying. I tried to make the experience as quick and painless as possible for her, but I really can’t imagine that being shoved into an enclosed container by a weird featherless being provides any comfort. The owners of the parking lot complimented her beauty and had tried feeding her dog food over the last couple of days. It was a kind gesture, but if you ever find yourself with a Great Horned Owl (or any injured bird) not leaving your lot, best to just go ahead and call the local rehabilitator first thing. I put her in my 2007 Ford Edge, and we headed on our half-hour journey.
When our loved ones are sick, we crave certainty. Knowing what will happen. Knowing they will be okay. Knowing we will be okay. In this great reach for psychic abilities, it is so easy to become confused and lost and sleepless. We beg with them, with ourselves, with our gods. I begged the Earth to stop moving. How can people be going about their day when my dad is in the hospital? Why do I have to go about my day as usual? And for God’s sake, why is Oregon 2,500 miles from North Carolina?
Planning my grief felt very strange. The pandemic was taking the lives of thousands of people every day. Had I been so dense that I didn’t think it could happen to my family? If I hadn’t, I surely would have fought harder for him to stay safer, right? And now here we were. My dad in the ICU and myself across the country, waiting for news. What would I do if he didn’t make it? What does life look like in grief? Who would I talk to on my afternoon walk? How would I remember his laugh? It seems that there are so many more questions when you have a broken heart.
“Alright, put her over on the X-ray table,” Liz instructed as I brought the cardboard box inside. She immediately knew it did not look good. “She was just off of Washburn Way, right? Hit by a car I bet. We’ll see how bad it is and if there’s a possibility for recovery.”
There really are only two options: you either make it or you don’t. As we stretched her wing out underneath the camera, I thought of dislocating and breaking my elbow a year prior. If anyone had tried to move it the way we were contorting her, I would have passed out from the pain. But she wasn’t crying or shrieking. Silently her own as I silently wished for her to stay.
Shockingly, the first X-ray looked good. “Salvageable, but we should try another angle.” I winced at the thought of moving her fragile wing any more. “Ah, there it is. Unfortunately, nothing we can do about that. Could you hold the bag over her head while I get the euthanasia?”
While this sounds cold-hearted, Liz has to do this every day. She sees hundreds of birds every year that were hit by cars, recreationally shot, attacked by house cats or dogs, sick from disease, tangled in fishing wire, and the list goes on. Of course, I didn’t. I had just spent the past two hours with her and it felt more than just a short time.
Holding a bag or cloth over a bird’s head is an effective way to eliminate visual stimuli and calm them. It was lacking. Where was the prayer or psalm or meditation to honor her? As a little girl I wished I could talk to birds; nothing ever really changes.
In my experience with grief, I’ve had a looming timeline overhead. How long do you grieve the death of a parent? Pet? Owl? The ecosystems that take care of so many animals, that take care of us?
It seems there is so much we have lost. But it also seems there is so much we have left to save.