Amazing

Patricia M. Robertson

Sometimes death comes early and unexpected, like an early November snow, landing upon trees still laden with leaves, breaking branches, knocking out power lines. Grace shivered as she looked across the snow-covered expanse while stepping out of her car. A hint of sickly, sweet decay assaulted her. She smelled death.

       “Doctor! Over here. Hurry up!” she heard a voice tinged with urgency coming from the barn.

       Grace pushed an unruly lock of brown hair back behind her ear where it had broken free of the elastic tie she had pulled her hair into when awakened from sleep. Her night to be on call. Why is it horses always wait until night to give birth? She knew it was their schedule, not hers; still, it would be nice to be able to schedule them for a time that wasn’t two o’clock in the morning. Even four or five would be an improvement.

       She hadn’t realized Mr. Blackburn owned any horses. This wasn’t a working farm. Lamar Blackburn had long since sold his stock and let his fields lie fallow, as his daughter didn’t want to have anything to do with the family farm. He had sold his cattle years ago if she remembered right. What was he doing with a broodmare?

       Hopefully she wasn’t too late. With horses, once their water broke, you only had fifteen to forty-five minutes to deliver the foal before it suffocated. Most deliveries required none or minimal assistance. Mother Nature knew what to do. It was best if humans kept out of the way. Perhaps that was why they chose the middle of the night? To avoid human interference. Those rare times when there were complications, you had to act quickly. By the time the owner calls you’ve probably lost precious minutes, then there was the time driving. She ran to the barn.

       “Something’s wrong. What took you so long?” Old man Blackburn’s face was creased with concern as he met her at the door. “I can feel a hoof but there’s been no movement for at least fifteen minutes. The horse, she keeps straining, but nothing is happening.”

       Grace chose to ignore the accusation in his voice. Nothing that hadn’thappened before when someone was worried about an animal. Grace lubricated her arm and inserted it into the birth canal, feeling the rhythmic pulse of the internal muscles as the mare tried to expel the foal. Yes, there was the hoof. Something was holding up the foal from sliding through. The foal was presenting backwards, hind legs first. One of the hoofs was caught against the mare’s pelvis. She needed to push the hoof back inside, correct the position and deliver the foal posteriorly.

       “How long has she been like this?” Grace asked Blackburn. She didn’t wait for an answer, springing into action using all she had learned over eight years of study. There was no time to question what to do. She hoped she wasn’t too late and was risking the mare’s life to deliver a dead foal. She waited till muscles relaxed then pushed the hoof into the uterus, twisted the limb so that the hind legs slid out together. The mare whinnied.

       “It’s all right, girl,” Grace reassured the horse then slipped her hand back inside. Grace had the advantage of small hands that slid easily into the space, making up for her lack of strength. It was an advantage of being a female in a field once dominated by men. She helped ease the hips through then stood back as the rest of the foal followed. The foal was expelled and lay in a lifeless lump on the straw.

       The entire barn was still as though the whole world was holding its breath, waiting. The mare lay where she was, spent. Not moving. And then she rolled, groaning with effort, slowly coming about until her long slender nose came into contact with the foal. She sniffed, then licked. The foal shook its head alert.

       Grace breathed, unaware at first that she had been holding her breath. She had been wrong. Death would have to wait for another day. She was often wrong, but counted it as no loss when she was. She would rather be wrong than right when it came to premonitions of death.

       “Your mare’s okay. You have a beautiful colt.” Grace had forgotten about the owner as she focused on the mare and foal. When he didn’t respond, Grace looked over.

       Blackburn wasn’t there. She realized she hadn’t heard him say a word since she started to work on the delivery. He wasn’t standing in the stall where she had left him. He was laying on the hay, his hands clutching his chest.

       Maybe she hadn’t been wrong.