The (not so) Silent Lambs

 About mid-way through each semester of vet school I begin to stress – seriously. I worry that I have forgotten an assignment, that I am not doing enough “extra” stuff to flesh out my resume, I am under qualified;  accepted here  by mistake, if they only knew how inept I am…..

In the past I have been able to manage these times with the knowledge that a long break is coming. A three month summer during which I can surrender to the joys of motherhood, bread baking and long Sunday runs in the Rocky Mountains.

But this is not to be, no no, not this year. Forth year looms with clinics starting 12 hours after the end of our third year finals.  14 hour days, but no tests, except the big one! Boards, both state and national are coming – and the past three and a half years have all been a dress rehearsal for the mother of all multiple choice exams. Yikes – my jaw is hurting just thinking about it.

And the absolute worst thing (for moi) is the relentless – but well-meaning query – from fellow students, friends and family alike – the dreaded question… “What are you doing when you graduate?”

Now this is an understandable question – I have schlepped my family across country, spent untold thousands on out-of-state tuition, dictated family scheduling and gathered a lot of gray hair in my pursuit of veterinary medicine.  However, the truth is…… I have no bleep, bleeping, ba bleep idea. Just being employed will feel like success.

In a vain attempt to escape these fruitless cerebral gymnastics I volunteer for overnight lambing duty (because I am evidently not quite sleep deprived enough) at a small local sheep farm. The woman who owns it is recently widowed and grateful for the help.

First night of lambing: It's snowing – not hard, but enough to make the roads slick. I fetch my fellow lambing partner and friend, Sierra, from her snug house, warm with hot chocolate and dog bodies. The drive is interminable as we are stuck behind a snow-phobic motorist who feels that driving down the middle of the road at 15 miles per hour is the best way to go. 

We step into the night, don insulated coveralls, gloves, hats, jackets until we resemble sumo wrestlers. The sky clears and the stars hang fat in the blackness. The mountains are in relief to the west - outlined in the velvet night. The ragged edges of my day begin to soften. We make our way through the darkness, avoiding the guard llamas, sleeping boarder collies and slightly creepy mobile home with its unknown occupants.

The ewes are quiet, hugely pregnant and breathing heavily. We were warned not to disturb the mamas as this might rile them up and make them more likely to lamb - which is a bad idea to do at night - if you're a prey animal.
Sierra and I attempt to be non-irritating, but they're sheep - and easily riled. We try to surreptitiously angle around and check out their backsides for evidence of impending birth. This is easier said than done, as the ladies angle around themselves, keeping us face on. We eventually give up and sit in the straw, backs against the barn wall and watch recent arrivals, probably born that day, gallivant and prance alongside their dams. Lambs are silly things, with long tails, and floppy ears that decide (for apparently no reason) to jump and rear as if to say "See these moves, you can't touch this."
After half an hour of uneventful hoohoo watching we backtrack to the truck, past the same sleeping llamas, dogs and scary-trailer living dude. The moon has risen - it is light enough to see Sierra's smile - I imagine it matches my own.
We drive home in silence. The jaw-clenching demons that are the soundtrack to my days are mercifully quite. Maybe this is what I'll do when I graduate.
I drop Sierra with sleeping dogs and head home to a husband that tolerates my freezing toes.
I think I'm doing just enough.