I’m a veterinarian, so my family’s used to my being paged, alerting me to animal emergencies. One such disruption, on Christmas Eve some years ago, was particularly memorable.
It was a perfect Christmas Eve. Snow was falling gently, and we were in church waiting for the service to begin. I sat back to listen to the music. Almost immediately, I got a call. A Mennonite farmer, who lived out of town, needed a veterinarian to help with a difficult calving. As quietly as possible I crawled out of the pew and headed into the night.
When a farmer calls about a calving, it generally means it’s not going to be easy. The cow, I knew, must be in a bad way for me to be called out on Christmas Eve.
The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The snow was falling heavily now; the wind was angry. Christmas Eve on a backcountry road and the plows probably not at capacity— the drive was going to be difficult at best.
Before long I could hardly see the road; I had to roll down the window to get my bearings. What should have been a forty-five-minute drive turned into an hour and a half, and as time passed my chances of helping the cow deliver her calf were diminishing. I finally made it to the farm and turned up the lane. The farmer had no snow blower, indeed no vehicle, so the lane was almost impassable. I made it partway up with the four-wheel drive but then I got stuck.
When I finally reached the barn door I was puffing heavily.
The farmer greeted me quietly, but from his expression I could tell that he thought I was too late. We made our way to the pen. The cow was down, trying in vain to deliver her calf. I examined her: it was a breech birth. She was exhausted with the effort and turned her head away in defeat. But I’d come such a distance on this terrible night. I was determined to help her.
Half an hour later, stripped to the waist, covered in sweat from the exertion, I pulled out the baby calf. At first, nothing. He wouldn’t breathe. But then his mother nudged him gently and his chest rose. The little fellow struggled to get up in the deep straw.
The farmer nodded to me in gratitude, and then asked if I’d like to dry off with some clean towels before we headed out into the night to dig out my truck. He hooked his lantern in the window. The barn door thudded softly behind him as he went to fetch the towels from the house. Exhausted, I sat down on a hay bale beside the stall and smiled at the calf’s first attempts to nurse.
I’d been so preoccupied with the difficult labour that I hadn’t noticed the absolute silence in the stable. All the other animals were staring in wonder at the newborn calf. He was staggering around the pen on wobbly legs, investigating his new surroundings.
And that’s when I realized how intensely peaceful it was in that barn at that moment.
I sat there, in the golden glow of the lantern, feeling blessed to have been part of this birth, on a Christmas Eve, in a remote stable.
Sechelt, British Columbia
(told to her by her friend, Dr. Reg Reed of Mitchell, Ontario)