A Memoir

When I was seven years old, my mom took me and my sisters to the University of Iowa Medical Library. After looking at books of burn victims for a couple of hours, she figured we would never play with matches again. My mother, Cinda, had returned to university to complete her Bachelor's degree in nursing. Sometimes while Mom was at class, my older sister, Julie would keep Holly and I quiet by letting us look at these picture books of Frankensteinesque children and adults. Mom would return from her class to answer our dozen or so questions in a matter-of-fact way. It was biology, humanity, and that's just the way it was. Life and biology were not to be seen as something scary or grotesque. Being the daughters of a veterinarian as well, we had strong stomachs and curious imaginations. A weekend castration of the neighbor's dog, or the occasional physical evening during calving season left us wide-eyed and reeking of various animal odors.

At eight, I was a wiz on my bicycle. I competed with neighborhood boys, cycling on the back tire of my two-speed Huffy, jumping piles of trash, and riding down steep dirt ramps. I once hurt myself during a jump, and split open my chin. The blood trickling down my face mixed with my tears as I ran home. Mom threatened to take me to the emergency room, where I would probably need stitches. Wailing, I convinced her to wait for Dad's opinion, and we drove to the clinic, a bag of ice on my chin. Dad's diagnosis was grim. Indeed, I would need stitches, and it would surely be painful.

"What're they gonna do to me, Dad?" I said, terrified.

"Well," he started, "first, they'll probably tell you to lay down on the table, one kind of like this one," he said, hoisting me up onto the nearby surgery table. I listened intently.

"Then, the doctor will tell you to lay back and rest your eyes, and think about something happy." I played along, closing my eyes, and thought about eating a large plate of French toast.

"He'll probably give you a shot of anesthetic right here by your chin."

"What!" I screamed, jumping to the ground and heading for the front door. "I'm not going to a doctor. I don't want shots. They hurt!" I was nearly at a full panic when Dad caught me in his arms.

"Why can't you just do it? You're a doctor," I tried to reason with him, my eyes pleading.

Dad looked at me, smiling a bit and shaking his head. "I'm afraid we can't do that, hon."

"I'm not going," I shrieked.

Dad gave in quickly at seeing my determination, and laughed at the situation. He helped me back onto the table, and mom held me down. Dad used a topical anesthetic, that I swear to this day was nothing but Vaseline, and sewed me up quickly with black Vet stitch. The procedure was painful, but I trusted Dad. I left his office much relieved, a satisfied customer. Of course, Momand Dad had made us girls promise we wouldn't tell anyone who performed the operation that left me looking like I had black whiskers growing out of my chin, but the next day at school, everyone found out what a good medical doctor my dad was.

* * *

Late night calls were always part of the excitement in our household, and as Dad owned his own business, he was the only vet ever on call. One evening, Dad took his three sleepy daughters out for a late night calving. Mom was in on a night shift, then working for the OB unit at Muscatine General Hospital. We were shuffled out of bed, hurry behind Dad's voice and actions. I grunted and whined, struggling to wake and put on another outer layer, but as soon as I walked out into the cool, crisp night air, I was awake and alive, wondering what the night would hold for adventure.

Dad's pick-up was a black Ford, with a small cream-colored Vetbox, a square top that covered the truck bed and was filled with various instruments for animal torture. If I were the only daughter along, Dad would let me assist in his procedures, handing him a tool or hose from the Vetbox, or filling a large bucket with lukewarm soapy water. The ride was always bumpy and long on calving nights, and Holly and I would often fall asleep on the trip out. Since we had moved closer to town, most of Dad's night calls took him longer to get to, out into the black, flat prairies of farming Iowa. On this particular night, a cow was having trouble bearing an overdue calf. She had been brought into a large, airy barn, that had hay stacked precariously to the roof, and barn cats prowling for rodents in the dank corners. I followed one such cat, making soft clucking noises, in the hopes that she may let me pet her.

The mama cow was not happy. She was a huge figure, black and heaving, the farmer holding her halter close, while she bellowed in agony. Dad looked around, inhaling, and put on a long plastic glove. I quickly dropped my kitty mission to watch him. This was the good part. He rubbed iodine into his thick, ruddy hands, wetting them in a bucket Julie had prepared for him. Then he put a gooey mess of lubricating lotion on, and headed to the back of the cow. As many times as I had seen Dad do this, I could not believe he would ever complete the next step again. I started biting my nails, perched on a nearby stack. He patted Bessie on the backside, and slowly pushed his entire arm into her backside. Surprisingly, the cow did not anger or rear, but merely mooed in misery, as Dad explored her insides. I made a face of repugnance, as Holly stifled a laugh. She found it funny. But Julie just stood there, visibly unaffected, holding the bucket, waiting for instructions on what to do next.

Dad looked at the farmer with a worried grimace as his hand retreated and headed for the warm, soapy bucket. "Well, I'm afraid to tell you this, but the calf's dead," he said. The farmer shook his head. He knew what would have to happen. The calf needed to leave the mother in some way. He soon learned that the unborn was fat and bloated, and a normal pregnancy would be nearly impossible to perform without harming the life of the mother. This Black Angus had produced three healthy calves in previous seasons, and was worth too much to lose in this fashion.

"Well, Doc, what should we do? I don't want to lose this one, and I can't afford to open her up," the farmer said after pondering for a moment.

The solution was remarkable and a bit peculiar, but to the Hathaway daughters, it was just another day at Dad's work. We sat and watched as Dad and the farmer rigged a rope onto the dead calf's front legs and began to pull. The cow moaned in protest, but soon began to see that these two strange men were trying to help her. She began to push and the calf's head protruded from her rear, soft and runny looking, with a pallid deformed face. But the calf had already been dead for too long. And as they tried to extract the rest of the body, they found that the calf was too bloated to leave his mother's insides. The farmer put his hand on his forehead and paced a bit, knowing each moment was deathly for the mother as she lost blood and her knees buckled beneath her.

How would they save the cow's life? The farmer rushed into his workshop and came back with an odd object; at least that's what I thought. My father looked at him with a cocked head, whistled on an intake, and said, "OK, it's your choice." What happened then was startling: dad and the farmer began to saw the head of the calf off! The barn filled with the strong, acrid smell of death, and their faces contorted as the cow struggled to see what they were doing. I am amazed two grown men could maneuver such an animal. The head, which came off first, Dad promptly handed to Julie. She did not flinch an eye as she stood there holding the insufferable head. Dad removed the rest of the calf's body while slushing and burping sounds like suction cups announced its grim arrival. But I just stood looking at Julie, astonished at how grown-up and proud she looked. Could I have done the same? Julie didn't even hold her nose, as Holly tired of the smells ran out the barn towards the muddy truck.

Dad was cleaning up when he realized that Julie was still holding onto the head, intensely and with concern. He quickly took the head from her and turned to the farmer, laughing, as Julie's shoulders slumped and she began to gag. Dad patted her on the head, and told her how proud he was of her.

I just looked on in amazement, at my father, at Julie. I didn't know if I could possibly complete such daunting tasks in my future - stitching a chin, sawing a calf, carrying a head- but I wanted to find the courage sometime soon. I followed Julie to the car, not commenting my admiration to her, but smiling sympathetically. Perhaps we too, someday would become vets.

2004 Summer Institute Anthology