I don't do well with blood

This morning one of the Zoologist in my office asked if I wanted to see a Fisher necropsy. 
I should have said no.

We walked over to the other office building, and went down onto the dark parkade level of the building where the lab was. It was more of a long cement closet with large freezers and a metal sink and long metal counter in it, with a lump of fur sitting on it.
Shiver.

This furry friend had been tracked for a few years, and something had killed it (this is what they were trying to figure out), she pointed out the bruising where the stomach used to be, and how the organs were gone. Not a lynx, it would have gone for the neck. Probably a wolf, a young one, it didn't eat the Fisher, just killed it. Maybe poison, no stomach to test it's contents though.

The smell wasn't so bad, apparently it's the decomposing organs that give off the odour I was expecting. I almost lost my stomach though when she pealed back the pelt that had been partly skinned before we arrived. She "undressed" him, pointed out the muscles and fat down it's back, and where small animals had eaten through the ear.

There was blood smeared on her gloves, the shiny metal surface of the counter, on the lips of the empty labelled bags beside the dead. I was starting to feel light headed, I didn't realize I kept trying to hold my breath. Or maybe it was just nausea.

It was uncomfortable for me to see the way the animal was handled. Not rough, just with a lack of compassion. Routine. Detachment. But they used names. Julie, Penelope, Latcher. They had stories and personalities, but now they lie there, motionless. 
I couldn't understand there knowledge and connection with the animal, and how they handled it now.

I don't understand death.

I was standing beside one of the big freezers, that I hadn't realized was a freezer, until someone wanted inside. I stepped back and saw it was filled with labelled bags, white, black, and clear, some looked smeared with red. That was it. I was out of there. If I stayed my breakfast of chocolate and banana-nut cheerios would have been on the cold cement floor. Even if I didn't see the inside of the frozen coffin, the smell that rose was enough to send my eyes to the back of my head and my heels turned to the exit.

Subtle laughs followed me out. Bent over, hands on knees, back into the dark parkade, trying not to puke. I noticed dry red splashes, and smears on the grey cement floor around the doorway. Some lighter then others, and a few roundish drops. 
Shivers.


I waited for the others under fluorescent lights, and confirmed with myself that Zoology is not a path I will be taking, and I'd much rather stick to plants. 
They have far less blood.

  

   

 

Tonight

i miss
the feeling of your warmth and the thin film of moisture that forms between our naked skin
the way your hair tickles my cheek when I can hear the air push and pull from your chest
watching your neck pulsate with each beat while I lay under your chin in your arms
feeling safe and sound

Today

I am fragile.

Changes

Awake, shower, cereal, boiling water, hand grinding coffee, out the door to the beach. 
A large grey blanket hung in the sky, and the moist air clung thickly in my nose, trachea, and lungs. Where did the blue sky go, and it's friendly sun that had been visiting for the last week? I suppose not all things can stay. Everything seems to have a habit of change. Coming and going, ebbing and flooding, you think I'd be used to it by now.

The sidewalk was wet, the cross walk was wet, the road was wet. Earlier it must have rained. My first steps on the beach however showed maybe the sky had only fallen briefly, the over-turned sand with each step exposed the dry white beneath the grey wet surface. It was cold on my toes. Finding a small, dry piece of drift wood under a hanging bow among the backshore, I placed it upon a larger water-logged seat, and drank the hot liquid in my mug. 

The tide was low, the dogs were out, and I spotted a sail-less sailboat motoring, a power boat, and some large tanker off in the distance, hiding in the fog. You'd have no luck finding the other side of the Strait. You could sit and imagine it was the open sea if you wanted, I couldn't though, reality has ruined that for me. I know to well what lies behind the curtain of dense fog, the view of the Olympic peninsula is etched into the back of my mind. 

I've been counting down the days, until a very special person in my life is to leave this island for some allotted amount of months I care not to calculate. This morning the number of days have trickled to number of hours until departure and I guess it's hitting me that he is actually leaving. The pumping mass in my chest rises to the base of my throat, and the ocean swells puffy morning eyes. 


This summer the small ring of my closest friends have all left for the warms months. They left some weeks ago and though I was sad then, I still had someone hear to distract from me missing then so. Now I will say good-bye to him and be left on my own. 

This is a good thing I tell myself. I am a creature of habit and tend to spend time with those closest to me and be content with that. I have many friends indeed, a great number of fine people I would love to know better, and see more often, and this is a wonderful opportunity to do so. While I was in school I had time not to see those outside of my studies, but now I am free of that, and I'm very excited to regain what I believe is called a social life. And with my usual amigos off on new adventures, I may start my own and invite new people into my life instead of new places. 

I can be shy to make plans though, and this is my challenge, it is very easy for me to spend time with myself instead of making plans with others and this is a pattern I wish to break. I cannot sit alone and mope that my loved ones are gone all summer, to waste energy in that would be a sad employment for upcoming sunny days. 

With that in mind, I stand and finish the last of the now cold caffiene, and walk home in a different additude.