Showing posts with label Survivor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Survivor. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Eye of the Hawk
I was two minutes from the office on a four lane road when I passed a bird that had obviously been hit. I thought perhaps it was dead, its wings fluttering in the wind the cars made whooshing by it as it sat like a toddler in the middle of the road. But when I saw its head move I knew differently. I drove half a mile and realized I wouldn't be able to work unless I took it out of the middle of the street. So I turned around and drove back, finding the closest parking lot and grabbing a sheet out of the back of the car normally utilized to keep Kona puke from the carpet.
I had no idea how that was going to work, and was especially afraid when I saw its claws. It was a hawk. I tried talking sweetly to it as I kept my eye on incoming traffic, picked him up as carefully as I know how, and ran back to safety. I sat him next to my car, his eye fixed drugged on me, trying again to speak softly and reassuringly to the hurting creature. The only part of him that moved was his head.
I tried to find Animal Control's number and couldn't, so I called the police who apparently dispatch for them anyway. After finally figuring out how to explain where I was (I've driven that road countless times to the office and had no idea what the name was), they said they would send someone. So I sat. Crying. Telling it everything was going to be ok. They called back 10 minutes later and apologized, saying that AC didn't open until 8am. It was about 6:45 at this point and I was already late.
"I'm going to have to put this hawk in my car and take him to work with me until they can come pick him up," I thought, even more panicked. I was readying to do just that, trying to see through the tears, when a maintenance man for the building at which I had parked drove up in his golf cart. What I didn't know was that he was in search for the bird, he had guessed it was one of the three young hawks that lived with their mother in a nest nearby, that the lady had hit. She came in and told him, not bothering to investigate for herself (and therefore leaving me to deal with it). He's saved two already, both of which Birds of Prey had been able to heal, rehabilitate, and set free again.
I teared up again, so thankful for the hope. He asked if I would donate the sheet which I swiftly replied he could have, took the hawk gently in his arms, pet his head softly (I wanted to do this but was so afraid my touch would hurt him more), and gave me his card so I could find out what happened.
I called at 9am which was too early. Byron had left the bird with the "office gals" while they waited for him to be picked up. "I have your number now though so I'll let you know when they do," he said. I didn't believe him and planned to call him on my way home.
He did call me, though. They were (finally, for crying out loud), on their way to pick the injured bird up, when Byron went to check on him.
"He had passed."
I don't think he could bring himself to tell me he was "dead". There are specifics I guess to what you have to do with dead hawks, and it's illegal to be in possession of their feathers, even if you weren't responsible for the death. "So I'm going to take care of him, like they instructed...but I might bury him." I was just trying not to cry at the office...they were all already being way too nice to me that morning anyway.
"Thanks for letting me know," I told him honestly. It would've eaten at me all day.
"I wanted to hug you this morning, but I didn't feel that would be very appropriate," Byron admitted. And I appreciated both sentiments.
It's just a bird, I know this. And its suffering was what hurt my heart and stung my eyes more than the possibility of its life ending. But that death has made me think quite a bit about my life since then; the debt we all owe, and will all eventually pay, for having been born as Stephen King muses in The Eye of the Dragon.
While I haven't come to any conclusions in this thinking, it did drive home once again that life is short. That vehicles of tragedy come from every direction, sometimes when you least expect it and you're flying high with the joys of life or simply crossing one road to get to wherever mundane place is required out of living that life. Most of the time you make it safely to the other side. But one day, you won't. Something will hit you and you'll sit like a baby in the middle of life, wondering if this is the end. Wondering if you'd lived it to its fullest.
I hope I don't have to ask; I wish I knew what to do to avoid it.
I had no idea how that was going to work, and was especially afraid when I saw its claws. It was a hawk. I tried talking sweetly to it as I kept my eye on incoming traffic, picked him up as carefully as I know how, and ran back to safety. I sat him next to my car, his eye fixed drugged on me, trying again to speak softly and reassuringly to the hurting creature. The only part of him that moved was his head.
I tried to find Animal Control's number and couldn't, so I called the police who apparently dispatch for them anyway. After finally figuring out how to explain where I was (I've driven that road countless times to the office and had no idea what the name was), they said they would send someone. So I sat. Crying. Telling it everything was going to be ok. They called back 10 minutes later and apologized, saying that AC didn't open until 8am. It was about 6:45 at this point and I was already late.
"I'm going to have to put this hawk in my car and take him to work with me until they can come pick him up," I thought, even more panicked. I was readying to do just that, trying to see through the tears, when a maintenance man for the building at which I had parked drove up in his golf cart. What I didn't know was that he was in search for the bird, he had guessed it was one of the three young hawks that lived with their mother in a nest nearby, that the lady had hit. She came in and told him, not bothering to investigate for herself (and therefore leaving me to deal with it). He's saved two already, both of which Birds of Prey had been able to heal, rehabilitate, and set free again.
I teared up again, so thankful for the hope. He asked if I would donate the sheet which I swiftly replied he could have, took the hawk gently in his arms, pet his head softly (I wanted to do this but was so afraid my touch would hurt him more), and gave me his card so I could find out what happened.
I called at 9am which was too early. Byron had left the bird with the "office gals" while they waited for him to be picked up. "I have your number now though so I'll let you know when they do," he said. I didn't believe him and planned to call him on my way home.
He did call me, though. They were (finally, for crying out loud), on their way to pick the injured bird up, when Byron went to check on him.
"He had passed."
I don't think he could bring himself to tell me he was "dead". There are specifics I guess to what you have to do with dead hawks, and it's illegal to be in possession of their feathers, even if you weren't responsible for the death. "So I'm going to take care of him, like they instructed...but I might bury him." I was just trying not to cry at the office...they were all already being way too nice to me that morning anyway.
"Thanks for letting me know," I told him honestly. It would've eaten at me all day.
"I wanted to hug you this morning, but I didn't feel that would be very appropriate," Byron admitted. And I appreciated both sentiments.
It's just a bird, I know this. And its suffering was what hurt my heart and stung my eyes more than the possibility of its life ending. But that death has made me think quite a bit about my life since then; the debt we all owe, and will all eventually pay, for having been born as Stephen King muses in The Eye of the Dragon.
While I haven't come to any conclusions in this thinking, it did drive home once again that life is short. That vehicles of tragedy come from every direction, sometimes when you least expect it and you're flying high with the joys of life or simply crossing one road to get to wherever mundane place is required out of living that life. Most of the time you make it safely to the other side. But one day, you won't. Something will hit you and you'll sit like a baby in the middle of life, wondering if this is the end. Wondering if you'd lived it to its fullest.
I hope I don't have to ask; I wish I knew what to do to avoid it.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Remember These?!
I loved these when I was a kid! I'm pretty sure I had a whole collection amassed from different people during cancer treatment. Nothing says Get Well Soon like revolving goo balls in clear plastic shapes. They're mesmerizing!
Saturday, May 26, 2012
The Color Run 2012
How appropriate that my first 5K be to benefit Colorado Children's Hospital. And what a way to run! I was so proud as my entire goal was to finish the race running, which is exactly what I did. The first two kilometers (orange and blue) were the most difficult. But after that, yellow and green went by in a flash!
I met Heidi at her house and we arrived at City Park around 8am, along with the rest of Denver, apparently. We started out so sparkling clean...
City Park was beautiful. It couldn't have been better weather - 65 degrees and sunny!
Also, just a note: I don't care what size or gender you are, short white running shorts are never a good idea. Especially with a black thong. Just. Sayin'. You're not fooling anyone.
At the starting line - let the color commence!!!
After the race, but still pre-color corral.
In the midst of the color corral!
Epic.
This guy made a lot of people laugh...
We win!
It took at least 30 minutes to just get all the powder off. Brownest shower ever!
I met Heidi at her house and we arrived at City Park around 8am, along with the rest of Denver, apparently. We started out so sparkling clean...
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Locomotion
When I was being treated for Hodgkins Disease at Cook Childrens Medical Center, (in a building that is strangely no longer there) we spent a majority of the daily chemo administrations in the play room - a two-roomed area full of books, toys, bald-headed children, and their families. There are two things that bring back that time so violently that it makes me almost physically ill: one is a combination of smells - a mix of hospital, humanity, and Heparin. Usually an IV is required to bring that specific smell back into my life. The second is the sound of model trains.
Some brilliant benefactor thought it would be a great idea to build a tiny train track that moved throughout both rooms (so you could never get away from the noise) that would toot its horn all. the. time. All the time. I hated that thing so much. It would wobble on it's tracks built into the wall just below the ceiling, making it's loop through both play rooms and tooting that infuriating toot, scratching its way on old toy wheels into your subconscious.
When I walked in to the hospital for my shift tonight and saw this thing, it was the first time in my almost three years of volunteering there that my gag reflex had to be controlled. Leave the trains to BNSF and the cross-country tracks. There's no place for something not to be touched (nor something so obnoxious) in a children's hospital.
Dig by Incubus
Some brilliant benefactor thought it would be a great idea to build a tiny train track that moved throughout both rooms (so you could never get away from the noise) that would toot its horn all. the. time. All the time. I hated that thing so much. It would wobble on it's tracks built into the wall just below the ceiling, making it's loop through both play rooms and tooting that infuriating toot, scratching its way on old toy wheels into your subconscious.
When I walked in to the hospital for my shift tonight and saw this thing, it was the first time in my almost three years of volunteering there that my gag reflex had to be controlled. Leave the trains to BNSF and the cross-country tracks. There's no place for something not to be touched (nor something so obnoxious) in a children's hospital.
