In the cold waters around the San Juan Islands, a female orca whale bears her dead calf’s body on her rostrum while following her pod. The baby whale was born July 24, 2018, and lived for only half an hour. Tahlequah, as researchers call her, nudges her baby along the surface of the water with her snout and dives down to retrieve the body when it slips, not allowing it to drop to the ocean floor.
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July 31 is my youngest daughter’s 21st birthday. I don’t know where she is.
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“It’s heartbreaking to watch,” said Michael Milstein of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s West Coast Region. “This kind of behavior is like a period of mourning and has been seen before. What’s extraordinary about this is the length of time.”
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In May, I text my daughter to ask if she might want to come home for her older sister’s birthday. The formality of her response—I do not wish to see the family again—is a sucker-punch. So, I call, prodding something along that I refuse to let go of. If we were not related by blood, I would not want to know you, she says into the receiver. By June, she has liquidated her life until it fits into a backpack, boarded a bus in San Antonio, and headed to an activist camp tucked away in the swampy trees of Louisiana. I think of when she and I went camping once in Texas: jumping off limestone cliffs, splashing into the turquoise green water of the Pedernales River, laying back on our elbows in the shallows at midnight, letting the black water cradle our bodies as we picked out the constellations above.
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It is a fact, says Lori Marino, president of the Whale Sanctuary Project, that the “bonds between mothers and calves are extremely strong. Everything we know about them says this is grieving.”
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In early July I send a text, nudge our relationship to the surface of the water. She doesn’t respond. I text again, dive below the surface to retrieve the body. Again, nothing. Eight days later, a ripple in the water. Hey. I’m good.
Her birthday arrives, and I compose another text, keeping it light. There once was a girl with a birthday… I attach a picture of our dog Dudley, pink tongue hanging out, a “Happy Birthday” banner draped around his furry neck. I check my phone for the last time just before midnight—nothing. I take a sleeping pill and turn off the light.
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As the calf’s body begins to decompose, it becomes increasingly hard to carry. Touchingly, other members of the pod take turns in order to give Tahlequah rest. They pass the body between them, sharing the grief, letting it weigh them down together.
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My sister sends her a Facebook message. My mother tells me she is praying for her.I call my other daughters and ask, have you talked to her lately? Did you text her on her birthday? It has been two weeks since her last text. I do not wish to see the family, I do not wish to see the family. Her words echo in my head as I clear out her room: box up the photographs, the artwork, the books, shove the boxes under the bed, stuff the clothes in black trash bags for Goodwill. I search the internet for the stages of grief and email strangers at church about support groups.
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After 17 days and 1,000 miles, Tahlequah finally releases the calf. It’s a well-known fact that the bonds between mothers and calves are extremely strong. She didn’t question whether or not it was right to keep carrying her lost baby, whether its lifeless weight was a reasonable cross to bear. She just knew she had to hold on until it was time to let go.
Jane Rucker identifies as “a person who writes” and is struggling to identify as “a writer.” While not struggling with this, she teaches English and enjoys practicing yoga, knitting, baking, and reading.
STORY IMAGE CREDIT: Flickr Creative Commons/Manuel Bahamondez H
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