Twelve hours before the peachicks arrived, I was in the regional trauma hospital emergency room.

I had gotten into a wreck. Totaled my jeep. Broken six ribs.

The pain was bad enough that I passed out, which earned me an overnight stay.

My granddaughter was in the wreck with me.

She was okay.

Thankfully.

My whole family swarmed the hospital. They were worried about me. They were asking questions. They were doing the things families do in waiting rooms.

And all I could think about was that I was supposed to drive to get the chicks the next day.

I was a bit scrambled.

The Part Where I Was Supposed To Be Taking It Easy

I messaged Marley from the hospital bed.

She was also getting chicks. We had planned to pick them up together. I told her she would have to go without me.

She offered to hold onto mine as long as I needed to get back on my feet.

I was optimistically thinking days.

Maybe a week.

By the time I left the hospital, I had already rethought my whole approach. I switched to a full brooder setup on a table so I wouldn’t have to bend down. I adjusted everything I could adjust.

But there was one problem I couldn’t adjust away.

I had promised my husband I would not involve him.

This was exactly the scenario I needed not to happen. It was the one he predicted. The “what if you can’t take care of them” scenario. The one I had waved off with confidence and a 37-point plan.

I had promised, with every bone in my body — six of which were now broken — that I would handle this myself.

I was going to hold to that promise.

So three days later, I told Marley to bring them.

The Day They Arrived

I was set. Brooder together. Supplies ready. James had helped me move the heavy stuff.

So much for not involving him.

I just wasn’t lifting anything yet.

Three one-month-old chicks arrived. Two brown and one white.

They were groggy from the trip. A little out of it. But alive.

The white one seemed to boss the other two around, even half-asleep. After watching them settle in, I felt like they had Star Wars energy.

The white one, surely a girl, had to be Leia.

Which made the other two Han Solo and Luke.

The trio was introduced to their deluxe red brooder, and off we went.

The First Week

I survived the first week after the crash with new peachicks.

Somehow.

It was therapeutic, in a way. Staying moving. Staying motivated. These were living, breathing animals, and they were relying on me.

I couldn’t just lie in bed feeling sorry for myself.

Also, I really didn ‘t need to prove my husband right.

Marley had offered that if the chicks were ever too much, she would happily take them for her flock.

There were days I considered it.

But I kept going.

When Luke Started to Fade

Then Luke stopped thriving.

He became tired. Listless. He didn’t want to eat or drink. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I checked the forums. I consulted my books. I watched him constantly.

But there was no helping him.

He passed quickly.

I talked to Marley afterward. Two of her chicks had the exact same issue at the exact same time. They had taken way too long to recover from the travel.

She suspected they had been drugged.

A Hard Lesson

Tranquilizing birds for transport is nothing new.

In theory, it prevents travel shock. The downside is that if they can’t flush the tranquilizer out of their system, they won’t drink well — which is exactly what would help clear it faster.

A bad catch-22.

One-month-old chicks, traveling just an hour, should never have been given tranquilizers.

But they were.

Collectively, we lost three chicks between us because of that decision.

The Math

They say you’re lucky to have 50% survive when raising peafowl from hatched chicks. The percentage improves as they get older.

There were seven chicks total. Three for me. Four for Marley.

We were down to 77% in week one.

Not great odds.

Not a great start.

But Han and Leia were still standing. And so was I.

Barely.