On being a success...

If you didn’t know by now, I will tell you that I don’t know anything about farming.  I spend a great deal of my “free” time reading and thinking about chickens, soil, preserving food, garden pests, etc. just to get myself up to speed on projects that are flying at me as fast as the seasons change. I am on a sharp learning curve when it comes to all matters of the mini-farm, which is why I talk about it so much. As a farm diva, I flounder in ignorance, overwrought and overwhelmed by every project. I am not competent.

But in my other life, my professional life, I am truly a master at planning meetings. (Allow me to take a moment to think of Ganesha as a reminder that a true proficient never stop learning.) I handle numerous meetings over the course of a year, but every year I have one large conference on a scale that consumes my life. I work long hours and weekends, taking calls and answering emails from home. I become the hub of communication assessing needs, placing orders, directing activities, and solving problems in a complex logistical system that I create and that grows larger and larger as the first day of the conference approaches. My co-workers who have been recruited to assist in these projects have noted that I seem unflappable regardless of how much is going on or how large a problem has just been thrown at me. Of course, the advantage of being the hub is the ability to see the entire picture, but my biggest advantage is that I’ve done this a lot, for many years. I know I can handle it. There’s not much to say about it. It’s just what I do. 

Knowing what needed to be done this past spring when my conference was rolling around, I had planned ahead to have everything buttoned up on the mini-farm so I could focus those last few weeks on my conference. All went well until the last week, when Salt had to leave town on a business trip. Initially, this only meant to me that long days would be longer, I didn’t realize I would be getting a lesson in the depth of my humanity. Enter Linnea. . .

Linnea

Linnea, you may recall, is one of my chickens, whom I had no intention of spending time on during those few days Salt was away other than to give them food, water and shelter. What I didn’t know that week was that Linnea was sick. In fact, she was dying.

I had noticed her struggling through some tall grass when I went out to feed the chickens one  evening, but when I returned an hour later to lock the coop for the night, I saw she had not gone inside. Shortly, I realized she wasn’t walking or standing. Hopeful, I picked her up and set her down a few times. Every time, she collapsed, until the rooster jumped on her back and one of the other girls pecked her head. I had no idea what was happening to her, but I knew she wouldn’t be alive in the morning if I left her to the flock’s tender mercies.

Thinking I really didn’t have time for this, I scooped her up and took her inside where I deposited her in a dog crate while I searched the internet for clues. It was eight o’clock at night. I hadn’t eaten. I was tired. I had meetings in the morning. Linnea fell on her side, her feet sticking out at strange angles, her chest heaving with every breath. I had no idea what to do and the internet search had been inconclusive. 

The best advice for the multitude of problems that could be causing her symptoms was to give her water. I put a dish in her crate, she lifted her head to the edge and collapsed into it.  Fantastic! I was drowning a chicken! I pulled her face out of the water, and waited for her sneezing to subside. Then little by little I fed her water with an eye dropper, until she fell asleep.

I thought that this little mercy would just be a parting gift before she left for the happy pecking grounds. I woke in the night to give her more water. . . still alive. And in the morning, still alive, she lifted her head. My first foggy thought of the day was, “Great.  Now I have to do something about her.” And to my surprise, because I can surprise myself, my next thought was “I can’t leave her here like this. I can’t go into the office.” Understand, I was five days away from the start of a conference. I had meetings to attend. I had problems to solve. I had last minute orders to place. I had people waiting on me to know what to do next. And, I had no intention of letting Linnea die alone of dehydration. I didn’t have any idea if she was going to live or die from whatever had made her sick, but it was definitely not going to die from neglect.

I’m pretty sure that my grandparents would have opted to break her little neck and have done with it at that point; and I had hoped I’d be such a pragmatic farmer. At that particular moment I wanted to cut my losses in such a simple way, but my conscience was nagging at me. Could I really break a chicken's neck, because it was inconvenient to my work schedule?  Ignorance was still nagging at me too. I really had no idea why she was sick or how bad it was, having had no basis of comparison.

I finally decided to take her to the local veterinarian.  Mind this is not a farm vet, and most farm vets don’t deal in chickens anyway, because most farmers just wring their necks when they are sick. Prize show chickens – yes, people really show chickens for prizes -- go to avian specialists half-way across town and pay premium prices. I happened to know our local vet owns chickens, so I decided to take my chances there.

An hour later, I was standing outside the veterinarian’s office when it opened, irrationally dressed for work with a chicken in a dog crate tucked under my arm. When I explained to the receptionist that I had a sick chicken, she said, “Oh. . . and you’re here to put it down.” Conflicted between the my shock at her stark pronouncement and the indignation at the idea I couldn’t figure out how to break a chicken’s neck, I managed to stammer politely, “Uh. . . well. . . let’s take a look at her first.” 

The veterinarian was more diplomatic when I explained the situation; cautiously suggesting that I could take it to an avian specialist for tests. “No, she’s a layer hen,” was my firm, swift response, which I hoped made it clear that I was under no illusion that this was a $20 chicken. I just wanted to know generally what might be wrong with her and to give her a chance if she had a chance. After a brief examination, the vet concluded that it was a respiratory infection that may or may not be cleared up with an antibiotic injection. I consented to the injection, and five minutes later I was back on the sidewalk with a $60 receipt, more knowledge than I had before, and the same dilemma I’d had all night.

Linnea couldn’t be left alone.

I've certainly had to set aside personal interest for the benefit of others before. Indeed, an attitude of self-sacrifice for the service to others is what drives the best meeting planners through the eighteen hour long days of conferences. But, never before, had I had to make a choice between my attendees or my team and a bird. I was ridiculously, ineptly, and unexpectedly the only person Linnea could count on at that moment to ease her suffering. I called my boss from my cell phone, “I’ve still got this sick chicken and she can’t get to food or water by herself, so I’m on my way into the office with her.” That moment on the sidewalk is one of my finest moments of my career as a meeting planner, because it was one of my finest moments as a human being. Kudos to my boss for overcoming the stunned silence with, “Let me see if there’s something we can do and I’ll call you back.” I am aware that an office building is no place for a chicken, but I had to be at the office and I had to give Linnea water every couple of hours and I was determined to do both. . . and I did.

My boss called back as I was pulling up to the building, and told me they had found a space in the covered garage where I could park. It was a sheltered, temperate, airy, safe place to leave her crate while I worked. I gave Linnea some water and raced upstairs for a flurry of meetings. Five meetings, four phone calls, three emails and two hours later I was back out the door with a brief case full of notes to work on at home. When I got to the car, Linnea was sitting up by herself for the first time, so I held her water dish up to her beak. She gulped from the dish. Hallelujah! 

Linnea spent the afternoon napping at my feet while I worked in my study. By late afternoon she was eating and her breathing was easier.  I left her water and food dishes with her overnight and in the morning she was crawling around the crate. A crawling chicken is a little sad to watch, but in this case it was a vast improvement.

With Linnea able to get herself to her water, I left her alone for the day. That evening we went to the garden where she made a wobbly attempt at standing. Over the course of the next few days she progressed from taking teetering steps to being able to stand and walk for several minutes. I gave her an extra day to recuperate before moving her to back to the coop, where she stayed in a large brooding cage for a few weeks until she was strong enough to join the others.

Indeed, Linnea lived. 

I don't think I am Linnea's hero for saving her life; she could just as easily have died in my care. Rather, what happened with Linnea touched me very deeply by giving me that rare glimpse of myself at my best. We all do the right thing every day, but usually our lives are arranged to make our choices easier. We don't always notice or give ourselves credit for the sacrifices we make. 

In the aftermath of this, I had another excellent conference and have earned an asterisk next to my "Meeting Professional" title that reads: "Crazy Chicken Lady." While this epithet may have once mortified me as a mark on my professional reputation, at this point in my life I'll wear the mark proudly. You see, my definition of success has changed. I certainly want to be a great meeting planner and to be great at caring for my chickens, but above all I want to do best at being my best self. I feel assured that on that day when Linnea was so sick, I managed it. Success!