Dylan's Duck: A Story of Heartache and Healing

Dylan has been working on a local farm for a few months now.  He’s learned a lot about quail, ducks, chickens, rabbits and dogs.  He’s always loved animals, but it’s truly become a passion of his this year.  He has such a tender heart and has had to learn to separate in his mind animals raised for meat and animals raised as pets.  That’s been a difficult, but good lesson for him to learn.

Years ago, I pictured myself living on a farm.  I, too, had a great love for animals and all things outdoors as a child.  Unfortunately, the more realistic, down-to-earth mother in me has become a bit more practical.  I want a nicely kept suburban yard and all that entails.  Even owning one dog has been a bit of a sacrifice.  So when Dylan approached me about purchasing ducks, I was reluctant.  After a lot of thought, Marcos and I decided it was manageable and proceeded with the duck purchase as well as putting some pretty firm boundaries for raising ducks in place. 

Dylan has been AMAZING with his ducks!  They quickly became like babies to him.  He cares for them daily without being asked.  They follow him around like he’s the mother duck.  He has come to truly love his little ducklings. 

Last Monday, I was in making dinner.  I had let the ducks out of their fenced in area to free range and catch some extra bugs around the yard.  Dexter (our schnauzer) was in the basement locked in the boys’ room.  Preston and Marissa were playing and I had just taken Caleb up to the tub.  Dylan looked out the window and noticed there were only seven ducks instead of eight.  This is extremely unusual as they are NEVER apart.  He counted them a couple times and was sure there were only seven.  I thought he must be wrong, but a tinge of fear crept into my heart and settled as a lump in my throat as Dylan rushed outside in a state of panic.  It was the worst of the worst.  Dexter had somehow been let out and had attacked one of the ducks.  Dylan was angry and emotional as he pulled his trusted and loyal dog from his beloved duckling. 

My heart sunk as I rushed to the duck to assess the damage.  The first thing I saw was blood dripping down his beak.  “Oh no!”  I grabbed the dog and brought him in the house as poor Dylan screamed and cried and let out the depths of his emotion without holding anything back.  This child is intense.  He always has been.  It’s a great gift.  It can also be a difficult challenge to help him learn to manage the intensity of his emotions.  

The chaos of the moment was indescribable:  toddler in the bathtub, dinner on the stove, two children roaming the neighborhood trying to get in a few extra minutes of playtime, deep sadness and explosive anger from a grieving child confused about the situation and a nervous husband weighing his options (Should he hit the duck over the head and put her out of her misery or allow her to suffer while Dylan holds her?  Should he allow Dylan to leave on his bike to let off steam or worry about what might happen to him if he leaves the house alone in his current state of mind?)  I went into crisis mode.  I quickly bathed Caleb and got him dressed so I could be present for the duck experience.  Preston kept talking about how glad he was that it wasn’t Donald Quack (his favorite duck) who Dexter had attacked (not exactly helpful but Preston's own way of expressing sadness and relief).  Marissa, my medically savvy curious little nurturer, was convinced that pouring water on the wound would help so she ran to fill her water bottle.  Dylan sat on the lawn holding his precious duck as her breaths became slow and shallow.  The image of my boy holding his bleeding duck in his arms, gently lifting her neck and head and speaking tenderly to her as she lived her last moments on this earth will forever remain etched in my mind.  It was painful but beautiful to witness.  He loves so deeply!  He cares so much!  My little boy – the mama duck – was grieving for his lost duckling.  And I was grieving for my boy.  

“The Golden One” took her last breath and Dylan held her, spoke to her and sat in silence.  After a while, Marcos found a spot behind the shed and dug a shallow grave.  The gratitude I felt for my husband at that moment is difficult to describe.  I pride myself on being a pretty tough chick.  It’s a badge of honor I’ve worn for years.  I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing.  I consider it a gift that others trust me and feel safe and protected around me.  I have a roaring mama bear instinct and would fight to the death to defend my own cubs (or others in trouble).  But I do recognize that my tough girl persona has often been a mask behind which I have hidden to protect myself from feeling weak or vulnerable.  I’m working on pulling back the masks of my youth and becoming more authentic as an adult – embracing my strengths and God-given talents and abilities, recognizing my weaknesses and human frailties…and loving myself for all of the above.  As I thought about my anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better, tough chick, girl power attitude, I smiled with deep appreciation for the man standing by my side ready and willing to take care of his family in good times and in bad.  I couldn’t help but pause in awe and reverence as I cherished this sacred moment.  It’s okay to need help, Maria.  It’s okay to not do everything yourself.  It’s okay that Marcos is here for Dylan.  It’s okay that you aren’t the one digging that grave.  It’s a good thing, a really good thing.     

That night was full of emotion.  A few times Dylan began to yell in anger and hatred for the dog.  Marcos tried to tell him to calm down.  Anger is a powerful emotion that we’ve tried to help Dylan manage throughout his life.  This time, however, I could see beyond the anger.  I could see his grief and pain. 

Preston is part of a book club for 8-11 year old boys.  In September, they read, “Where the Red Fern Grows.”  We were just finishing reading the final pages in the book as a family when we had our duck experience.  Words from the pages of the book went swirling through my mind.

“I don’t believe in prayers any more,” I said.  “I prayed for my dogs, and now look, both of them are dead.” 

Mama was silent for a moment; then, in a gentle voice, she said, “Billy, sometimes it’s hard to believe that things like this can happen, but there’s always an answer.  When you’re older, you’ll understand better.” 

“No, I won’t,” I said.  I don’t care if I’m a hundred years old, I’ll never understand why my dogs had to die.”

As if she were talking to someone far away, I heard her say in a low voice, “I don’t know what to say.  I can’t seem to find the right words.” 

Looking up to her face, I saw that her eyes were flooded with tears.

“Mama, please don’t cry,” I said.  “I didn’t mean what I said.” 

“I know you didn’t,” she said, as she squeezed me up tight.  “It’s just your way of fighting back.” 

I didn’t know what to do or what to say.  So I held him.  I held my boy and I cried with him.  I told him it was okay to feel sad, and that he didn’t need to hide behind anger.  I told him he would experience anger as well, but that the anger he felt most likely came from pain he experienced because of the loss of his duckling, an animal he had loved and cared for since she was 3 days old.  I told him that all those emotions were part of grieving and it was okay to allow himself to feel them.  I expressed my desire to make things better and my incredible sadness that I couldn’t take the pain away.  I told him I would be there to sit with him and love and support him through his grief.  It was tough.  Dylan held me tight.  He uttered words rarely heard from the mouth of a 12-year-old boy, “I need my mommy!  I’m so sad!  I loved my duck so much!  I was like her mama.  She was my favorite and I wasn’t there to protect her.  Why did Dexter do that?  Why did he kill her?  I hate him!”  He described his deep sadness when he spoke of the other ducks standing by the fence looking for their lost sister.  He felt pain as he looked to the other ducklings and saw their confusion and experienced their loss with them.  My mind again echoed words from “Where the Red Fern Grows” as I internalized the lessons from Billy and his mother. 

After she had tucked me in, she sat on the bed for a while. As if she were talking to the darkness, I heard her say, “If only there were some way I could help – something I could do.” 

“No one can help, Mama,” I said.  “No one can bring my dogs back.” 

“I know,” she said, as she got up to leave the room, “but there must be something – there just has to be.” 

I wanted so many times that night to fix the problem.  I rushed to the duck hoping and praying I could patch her up and everything would be okay again.  I wished I could rewind time and figure out how the dog managed to get out back when he had been behind three closed doors only moments before.  I wanted to swallow my emotions and solve the problem.  I did not want to deal with this much pain.  I did not want to experience it fully.  The next day as I reflected on our experience, I realized how uncomfortable I am with grief and sorrow.  I want to make it go away.  I want to fix it.  I want to make it better.  Once again, the words of Billy’s mother came to mind.

”Do you feel better now?” she asked.  “It still hurts, Mama,” I said, as I buried my face in her dress, “but I do feel a little better.” 

“I’m glad,” she said, as she patted my head.  “ I don’t like to see my little boy hurt like this.” 

Oh my goodness!  I could not believe how true those words were to me.  It’s natural to want to help others feel better when they are grieving.  It’s normal to want to ease the pain of others.  But we border on unhealthy when we are unable to sit with another person through intense emotions.  

Life lessons are never easy.  In this particular case, my son learned he could allow himself to feel grief.  He learned his mom and dad were there for him and would weep with him through the process.  He learned parents can’t always take the pain away, but that having someone to grieve with you brings its own type of healing.  

I learned that showing up and being present is a really big deal.  My own roller coaster ride this past year has created a lack of trust in my own reactions to all sorts of emotions in different situations.  It’s caused me to run and hide and avoid a lot of things.  Unfortunately, when dealing with my own emotions, I quickly search for the easiest way out – usually ignoring the emotion or attempting to numb the pain.  With this experience, I had no choice.  I could either walk away from my child because the emotion was too much to handle or I could sit with him and be present.  I could choose to experience the emotion with him.  Thankfully, I chose the latter.  It was not easy.  Even a week later, the pain tugs at the strings of my heart and I grimace as I attempt to shield myself from the moment.  But I didn’t run.  I didn’t hide.  I was there for Dylan when he needed me most.  It was extremely difficult.  It was emotionally exhausting.  But it was important.  It was powerful.  It was healing.    

I pondered the ups and downs of this personal experience and turned to the scriptures for solace.  At a time when I am unable to “make it better” for my son, I found peace and comfort in the words of Isaiah.
“…Surely [Christ] hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows…”  (Isaiah 53:4).  Powerful words.  A tender mercy.