A Turtle, Titanium, and a Message From Dad

A couple of years ago, I was on a mission to save baby turtles.

Every morning on my dog walks, I would find tiny turtles trying to cross the road. Some made it. Some unfortunately didn’t. So I appointed myself Director of Turtle Transportation and began carrying the little guys over the dike toward the river so they wouldn’t get turned into speed bumps.

One morning, after dropping off a turtle passenger, I was coming down the hill when I slipped on wet grass and sand and landed in what can only be described as the world’s least graceful hurdler stretch.

As I hit the ground, I heard SNAP! I remember thinking, Uh-oh. That’s not good.

I managed to get back on my feet and instantly confirmed my suspicion. It was, in fact, not good.

It was 6:30 in the morning. No phone. No people. Just me and four dogs who, despite being excellent companions, were completely unqualified for emergency medical assistance.

So I started hobbling home—a good half mile away—hoping somebody would be heading to work and notice the woman shambling up the hill looking like an extra from Thriller.

The dogs were remarkable. They walked slowly beside me, no pulling, no chasing squirrels, because somehow they knew this was not how we normally did a walk.

After a couple of blocks, a man stepped outside his house, looked down the street, and asked:

“Do you need help?”

“YES!!!” I hollered, relieved I wasn’t going to have to sojourn all the way back to my house. “Thank you so much! I think I broke my ankle.”

The man helped me to his driveway and a chair. He let me use his phone, and I called Dad. The moment I saw Dad’s truck coming down the street, I felt relief wash over me.

We loaded up the dogs and got me home. Dad went to his house for crutches (I recommend everyone keep a spare pair around), and Mom came back with him. I semi-quickly fed the dogs, and then Mom drove me to the ER.

The X-ray tech couldn’t officially tell me it was broken, but she did tell me not to bother trying to put my shoe back on. That seemed like a clue.

Summer had just begun, and I was stuck with a new titanium plate, a clunky boot (thankfully no cast), and strict orders to stay off it for eight weeks—all because I tried to save a turtle.

About a week after I had surgery, I hobbled out to Dad’s truck to go for a ride.

We spotted a turtle in the road. Dad looked at me with a mischievous grin and said:

“Hey, Erica… do you want to rescue it?”

I gave him my best beady-eyed look.

“HA. HA. Very funny. Ummm… no. That turtle is on its own.”

From that day forward, it became a standing joke anytime we saw a turtle.

The last few months have been hard without Dad. My heart hurts. My eyes leak daily. In fact, they’re leaking as I write this because I miss my dad. I miss my friend.

So when I came home last week and found a painted turtle digging a nest and laying eggs just a few steps from my front door, I immediately thought of him.

A little voice in my heart whispered: “Dad sent her.”

And before anyone says it—I know. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was just a turtle doing turtle things. Or maybe, like me, you have a mustard seed of faith and believe. In my heart, I know he sent her to let me know he’s still here. Earlier that day, I had been talking to him during a walk, telling him how much I missed him.

That mama turtle could have made her nest anywhere. Instead, she picked a spot just a few steps from my front door, at the exact moment I happened to be there to witness it.

It made me smile from the inside out. Then I laughed, imagining Dad up there wondering whether I was going to rescue these turtles too.

I watched her lay 12 or 13 eggs. She would drop an egg into the hole, then carefully use her thick back leg to sweep dirt around it. After the last egg was laid, she spent nearly twenty minutes covering the nest so perfectly that you’d never know a little miracle was incubating beneath the surface.

When she finally finished, she made her way down our driveway but took a wrong turn and got herself stuck in our picket fence. My husband picked her up and pointed her in the right direction, and she thanked him the only way a turtle knows how:

She hissed at him.

Painted turtle eggs usually hatch in about 70 to 90 days, so I’ll be keeping watch. If all goes well, I’ll get to help a new batch of tiny turtles make it safely to the water without becoming somebody’s lunch, a speed bump, or the reason I end up back in the ER. Of all the reptiles in the world, this one makes me happy.

Anyway—off we go. The dogs still need walked, Dad still shows up when I need him most, and sometime between August 9th and August 29th, I just might get to watch a dozen tiny turtles dig their way into the world