It’s All in the Moments
By Whitney Vos
The smell hit me before anything else. The dry heat of the
car quickly escaped as I pushed open the door and reluctantly stepped outside,
pulling my scarf tighter around my neck and cradling my coffee for warmth. I
took one last sip in hope of storing the heat in my stomach and watched the
wind blow my once visible breath away. I handed the thermos to my dad as we
stood leaning against the car, staring at the building ahead of us.
I suddenly felt that first-day-of-school rush and gave my
dad a nervous look. I prepared myself for an
encouraging pep talk as he patted my hair and gave me a quick peck on the
forehead before practically dragging me toward the gate, saying, quite
unsympathetically, “Wow this place smells like poop! Is this really what you
want to do with your summer?”
It was, and after six weeks of
working at SANCCOB, a rescue and rehabilitation organization for South Africa’s
African penguins and ocean birds, I barely noticed the smell. Or if I did, it
didn’t matter. Those were the most memorable 6 weeks of my life.
On my first day, I was assigned to the ICU where I learned
to clean and gut fish. By the next day I was creating charts and
learning the names and uses of medication. Within a week I was accustomed to
the small white room where I would spend most of my
summer vacation surrounded by crates of critically ill animals. In the
ICU, I felt as though I learned more in the first
few days than I had in my last 3 years at Arlington High. Unlike school, it
wasn’t about memorizing dates or equations. Because these helpless animals
depended on me to learn quickly, I did so by obsessively watching and imitating
those around me.
Usually volunteers
are given a variety of jobs, with the schedule changing daily so each person
can spend time in all of the pens during their stay. Typically the morning
would begin by checking the schedule and changing into boots and oilskins. For
me, things were a bit different; I was assigned to ICU and animal admissions
for nearly the entire six weeks of my stay. I dreaded my morning rounds because
while my friends were preparing fish together, I started each morning by
checking the birds’ crates to see if each one was still alive. Throughout the
rest of the day I worked inside my own bubble of slow and careful tasks; like
an ICU nurse at a hospital, I had to learn to be extremely careful and patient
with every task and follow a strict and tedious schedule for each animal. When
a new bird arrived, ICU became its first home, which meant dropping everything
to help to stabilize our new patient.
Breaks took place
at designated times, but mine depended on the birds which meant I’d often miss
them or have to make my own without the company of my new friends. Most of the
time I didn’t mind because I cared about the birds, but as the intensity of
this experience grew, it became emotionally draining not to have the company of
the other volunteers.
One morning I sat
under a heat lamp and held a cormorant in my hands. For an hour I tried to get
the bird’s body temperature to rise and hoped that my undivided attention would
keep it alive. I still don’t know how long I cradled the bird after it died in
my arms. I remember sitting in the kitchen and crying with a supervisor who
made me a cup of tea. I told her that I wasn’t cut out for ICU work because I
was too sensitive. That’s exactly why they kept putting me there, she told me,
because while it might be harder for me than for the others, the birds sick
enough to be there need a person who cares deeply about them. So I stayed in
ICU day after day and though death came with sad regularity, I eventually found
my emotions easier to manage. I realized that with sadness also comes joy and through
it all I also experienced exhilarating, heart-lifting moments, and in these I
discovered insights that no other experience has given me.
It was a beautiful afternoon in Cape Town and some of the
ICU birds were spending the day outside. I sat on a small stool with a baby
penguin between my knees and a syringe of formula under my arm. The sun warmed
my back and a mist of water blew across my face from a pool being cleaned
nearby. I leaned over this small ball of gray fuzz and opened its beak with one
of my gloved hands while using the other to prepare the syringe. My face was
inches from the baby’s mouth as I watched for the air hole and inserted the
tube into the throat and down to the stomach. I kept my face close, as these birds
don’t easily keep down their food, and I began squeezing the syringe. Suddenly
I felt the warm, fishy breath of the baby African penguin on my face and this triggered
in me a sensation that I will never forget. Although penguin # 204 was one of
hundreds I medicated and fed by tube during my stay, this moment of
connection—this penguin and me—which lasted for maybe 30 seconds before I had
to move to the next bird, had a dramatic and enduring influence.
Though I was face-to-face with a baby penguin, this moment
really brought me face-to-face with myself in a way I’d never been before. Who
would have thought that my best summer vacation would be spent cleaning up
after oily birds? Never have I laughed as hard as I did with my new friends
when we gutted fish in the kitchen. I felt best about myself when I was in big
green oilskins and yellow rain boots with my hair wet and hanging in my face while
knee deep in stinky guano.
Through this volunteer trip to South Africa I discovered
who I am. Because my dad lives there, I’ve traveled to Cape Town more times than
I can count, but now a single moment stands out as I think about this
destination. Forever I will remember a few insignificant seconds of realization.
Because finding out the person I am—a girl who loves the smell of baby penguin
breath in her face—reminds me that I am also a young woman who has a lifetime
ahead of her to find ways to make other lives better.
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