First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Illustration by Alex Siklos
I hope the bird is just stunned. What looks like one of the fallen autumn leaves scattered on the porch is a tiny brown bird. I’ve just heard it hit the window. It doesn’t fly away when I pick it up. The small bundle of feathers is light in my hands, but its heartbeat is heavy, strong, quickening before settling down into a constant rhythm.
I don’t know how to help it if it’s badly hurt. I’m in the middle of the woods in rural Nova Scotia and can’t leave my house.
I’m helping to look after my mother. She has ALS, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a progressive neurological disorder. Mom can’t move on her own and will soon be a prisoner in her body. There’s no cure and little treatment. Mom gets about an hour a day of home care support to attend to her bodily and medical needs. The other 23 hours, my father, my two sisters and I look after Mom. Today, my siblings and dad are out for a Thanksgiving meal. I had told them that Mom and I would be fine alone for a few hours.
I wish I hadn’t said that.
I sit down with the bird in a chair meant to soak up hot summer sun. The bird’s jet-black eyes blink several times and then softly close. But its heart pumps steadily in the cool dampness of the late morning. I want the bird to speak and tell me what’s wrong.
ALS took Mom’s voice a couple of years ago. She now types on a tablet and an AI voice talks for her. The voice tells us when a shot of morphine is needed or if it’s too hot in the room. The AI has an American accent and a halting. Way. Of. Speaking. I miss Mom’s comforting voice. I miss her “suggestions,” which are really pieces of advice. I miss talking to her without ALS battering her with muscle twitches and nerve pain.
Lately, Mom’s been losing dexterity in her hands and experiencing vision loss. My stomach fills with stinging bees because I know this means Mom will soon be cut off from me, caged in flesh. When she types, her sentences are long combinations of letters, numbers and symbols. I don’t understand and she squeals like a kettle whistling. Her high-pitched cries are loud and hurt my ears. I’m frustrated and want to walk away.
I’ve been away for almost two months from my husband and our home in Edmonton. Caring for Mom is time-consuming and requires patience I don’t feel I have. Every day is the same. Except it’s not. Mom will never get better. I’m an adult, but I still need her. She always said she gave me roots so I could have wings, but I don’t want to think of my life without her. She’s my fiercest protector. The one who knows what to do in any situation. The one who brings light into the darkness with her words and makes everything okay. She’d know how to help this bird nestled in my hands.
The bird’s tiny orange talons are sharp and prick my palms. As I gently slide it onto the patio table, I remember a wildlife organization with a drop-off centre close by.
“A small bird smashed into our window,” I text the rescue group. “What should I do for it?”
“Can you put it in a little box and bring it to us?” my phone chirps moments later.
“I can’t leave,” I text back.
“Send us your address and contain the bird in the box, we’ll try to send a volunteer.”
Relief flows through my body like a warm wind. Someone knows what to do.
Running to the garage, I get a small box that used to hold cartons of Mom’s liquid meal replacement. The box now holds the bird. I want to stay outside with it, but our nurse has left for the day.
Being with Mom used to be relaxing chats about life and comforting familiar stories. Now it’s full-time work of crushing pills, sucking them up in syringes, measuring out food for the food pump, changing soiled briefs and bedsheets, tracking symptoms, dealing with staff schedules, no-shows, insurance, money, supplies and around-the-clock care. It’s a job. I used to tear up when I saw my vibrant mother lying still in a hospital bed in our downstairs den. I don’t anymore. I’m exhausted.
About half an hour later, when Mom’s asleep, I check on the bird.
It’s gone.
Tears fall from my eyes, spattering on the porch. Why am I crying over a bird when Mom is dying? I’m being stupid. But thinking more about it, I knew what the bird needed without a word being spoken. It needed to fly again. Mom is never going to speak again. She is never going to get up and walk away from ALS. But I know what she needs. Care, patience and me.
Lea Storry lives in in Edmonton.
