Silent Night

 An unquiet night in my head.

So, while I am grieving the loss of my emotional support animal, something else has been unravelling in the background. I'm coming to terms with the fact that the bird had to go one way or another because....

As previously mentioned, we were put on notice about 2 months ago about elder's elevated liver enzymes. Consequent bloodwork and an ultrasound of his liver conclude that he has nonalcoholic fatty liver disease, caused by weight gain.

We didn't notice anything amiss at first.  Elder's anxiety was through the roof in May, so we added sertraline to his medications. At that time, he was 198, the best weight he's been in a couple of years.

At the time of his GI visit 6 weeks ago, he was 232.

I'm guessing from the looks of it he's about 250 now. We don't know, because now the scale doesn't seem to be working. 

His indolence has worsened; he is sneaking food, the worse shape he's in, the worse shape he is getting into. He is digging a hole I'm afraid we will never get him out of. 

Context:  he has nothing. School is done. His work has dried up. He literally has nothing to do BUT eat while dad, his brother and I are all engaged in our various employments. Dad and I do not have the bandwidth to police his every move, and he is knowingly exploiting that. he is literally employing all of his wits to feed his addiction.

Which is precisely what it is. 

And no amount of handwringing in the world is going to fix this. 

Another crisis. Another bend in our autism road. Another battle we find ourselves ill-equipped to fight without reinforcements.

I'm sitting here in the middle of the night shaking. Because I know whatever I'm doing is accelerating the problem because I do not know what I'm doing. 

And elder in his inimitable fashion seems to have dug his heels in self destructing.

This fraught battle over food as addiction has been simmering in the background his entire life as we have fought other enemies, demons, bullies, insanity, injustice, you name it.  Now I need to look in the mirror.

And accept that I can't fight this one alone.

And find someone--or a few someones--who can help.

It's simple enough to say some beasts should not be fed; but somehow, those beasts inadvertently get fed, whether we want them to be or not. And sometimes we inadvertently feed them, thinking we are doing what's best when in fact we're adding to the damage.

This isn't about me. 

This isn't about me. 

The battle is joined. 

All the Things

 I made the mistake of looking at email at 3 am and found someone's hair on fire. I managed that, now I'm awake. 

Taking the long view on a lot of things. Had a good walk in the woods and heard a merlin as I went. Was close enough to hear wingbeats as I came upon a small flock of sparrows. A horse lifted its head briefly to check me out as I passed. I jumped over a small stream without falling in or breaking anything. 

I'm grateful for many things, my family, that I have a job, that my family is staying safe (not necessarily sane, but we were never that). Prioritizing the people and relationships most meaningful to us. (and thankful, really thankful, that I had Nugget and that we all enjoyed him as much as we did).

The days get longer from here on out. It's easy to get wrapped up in stuff that doesn't matter. Letting all that fall away, and wishing/hoping/praying for better days ahead. 

Oh, How It HIts You....

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mZ3XwLy2UI

I can't get this song out of my head, but that's okay. It's where my heart is. 

Nugget is very present with me, even though he's gone. As I was going out my business, my head in the pantry, a tableau popped into my head;  I'm standing in the same place, and Nugget, fairly early on in his tenure, was on my shoulder, and he chirruped.

I turned my head, and there he was on my shoulder, stretched tall, peering meaningfully up at elder's container of cashews.

That was the first time I heard him utter anything other than cooee or cockatiel 'screm' (not that he did it that often, although the morning he left was the most I ever heard that from him).

Following this was another;  me picking Nugget up from the screened in porch floor of the family that found him, Nugget settling on my shoulder with a quiet chup and closing his eyes. 

The day I learned Nugget knew gratitude.

As much as I miss my little feathered dinosaur, I can touch these memories in my head without wincing, and I am grateful. Because they are good memories, and he made a lot of good ones in the scant two years he was with us. 

There were bird tracks in the snow the other morning, at both doors of my house.  At the back door was a riot of bird activity; many confused steps of a variety of passerines jockeying for whatever they could find to eat.

But at the front door, a lone pair of feet hopped across our landing and along the threshold. 

Not mine. But.....

Owls

 One thing I love about this time of year is hearing the call of the Northern Great Horned Owl.

It doesn't happen often, but when I am awake in the middle of the night, I can sometimes hear two of them calling to one another. This morning, very very early, they did not disappoint.

At first I thought I was imagining it--wishful thinking, I wanted to hear them, so I heard them. I listened more carefully, weeding out the ambient noise, and sure enough, the owls were exactly what I heard.

I lay there listening--they flew in closer, calling to one another. I could swear one was in the yew tree right outside my window. 

And no matter what I am feeling in my heart at the time, the call of the owl brings peace.

I fell back asleep listening to the owls.

And smiling. 

Clearing out

I am trying to be okay. 

Lately, it's a lot of work. 

I keep wanting to go upstairs and check on the bird (I can't even call him his name, now he's the bird), and I keep remembering he's not there. On Saturday, I cleaned his cage and stowed it down the basement. And began the job of cleaning out the basement. 

Why?  Because I can and because it's been bothering me for years. I did the same to the attic a few years ago for the same reason. I bagged 7 contractors bags and took them to Green Drop. I have six more bags started. I'm thinking I will fill those this week, plus some boxes, not to mention recycling and trash. 

If we all died tomorrow, all this stuff would go into a dumpster, anyway. 

I wonder what I could have done differently to keep the bird here. I wonder if he was sick, since he was acting strangely before he flew off.  Or, was he just sick of my boys trying to make him scold?  Or was he tired of the four of us being around constantly?

I think about when we got him back in May, and I wonder if I deserved to get him back at all.

I wonder if I should own another bird. Clearly, I don't know what I'm doing. 

And then there's the matter of younger and a dog--will I mess that up, too?

So tired.

It's been a week

 Fuck fuck fuckity fuck doesn't even begin to cover it. 

My bird is gone. I am trying to make my peace with that. Actually it all begins and ends there. He was truly my emotional support bird, and I am feeling his loss keenly. There is a Nugget-sized hole in my heart.  I can't even begin to enumerate all the ways he made my life better. I loved him, and he loved me. He was mine in a way nothing else has ever been. And now he's gone. 

So, the magnitude of loss is fairly great, whether I want to admit it or not. 

Struggling with all the other things. Went to the hospital to get an ultrasound on elder's gall bladder, liver and pancreas yesterday. That was my day off. We get to find out what they find tomorrow. Can't wait. 

Younger missed a session because I was out picking up elder and the technology couldn't be figured out in my absence. I yell and scream at elder that there's way too much going on, dad and I are doing the best we can, but both he and younger are going to need to step up. We can't carry everyone anymore. We are tired. And getting older.

And I'm feeling it.

I've been doing PT because that's my spa time, or the closest I'm going to get. Months of running my worklife from my dining room table is taking its toll.

I need a day where I can make a blanket fort, crawl in and stay there. 

I may decide to never come out. 

Closure

 So, I need to write down about the last two hours with Nugget.  I need to make sense of this in my own head, or at least sense I can live with. 

He was anxious, squawking, wings low and spread and quivering, crest down, the way he is when he suddenly realizes I'm not around.  "Oh, little thing," I would call.  The squawks would change to his "Cooee?" He usually takes off to hang out on the mirror, but this time he stayed on my shoulder, quiet.

This part is crucial. I forgot he was there. He weighs next to nothing, but he often lets me know by messing with my hair or clothes that he's there.

He didn't this time.

I'm straightening up the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, talking to myself, putting the coffee grounds and compostables together.  Putting things away.  I forgot he was on my shoulder. I think he's on the mirror, like he always is when he is hanging out. 

Except, I go to the compost barrel outside, and I am halfway between the house and the barrel, when he squawks and flies off.

A hundred thoughts fly through my head. But I can't ignore the one that tells me that this might be the last time I see him. I drop the bag in the driveway and run. He alights 40 feet up in the tree across the street. I scream his name. The neighbors come out. I point.  My elderly neighbor runs in and gets me a coat.  I stand underneath the tree calling to him. He calls back.  The wind blows, he struggles to stay on the branch. I keep hoping he'll let go and float down but I know he won't. 

He flies off into the backyards.  I run inside, change my shoes, put on a heavy jacket and race out again, this time with my elder son in tow.  We are walking through backyards, calling him. We hear him but can't see him. Then I look up, way up, about 40 feet up, and there he is. 

I tell elder to get the cage. The neighbors in that house come out and keep us company. I yell until I'm hoarse. Elder cries "I feel so helpless!"  I second that emotion. I stare up in wonder as I realize that little sucker is PREENING. As he often does in my lap when he is feeling safe. High, high up I see the shadow of an accipiter. Too big for a sharpshinned, likely a harrier. He looks, and flies on. I let out my breath and realize that this is likely his end. 

Robins fly in and roost around him. I wonder what kind of interaction there will be.  They fly off in short order. A little later a blue jay comes in to check him out. I half hope he swoops in and knocks Nugget out of the tree.

Oddly enough, he flies off,too.

It's just Nugget up there now. I see him catnap briefly a couple times over the course of those two hours.

I begin to think maybe he will work his way down. He has sidled down the tree a few feet.  He knows how to climb. But does he want to?

And squawking all the way, he takes off in a straight shot over the house. I run. Thinking that he'd maybe alight in one of the trees closer to our house.

But he keeps going. Carried by the wind and his own volition. 

And he's gone. 

And I don't hear him anymore.

Stages of Grief

 I keep hearing his conversational chips and chups.

I was often asked if he could do tricks. I'm sure he could have been taught, but that wasn't why he was mine. 

He was mine because we showed up in each other's lives at just the right time. He helped me weather a particularly bad storm less than a month into his time with us. And in return, he became one of the family.

He was my bird, but he also belonged to us, because as I always say, we are a unit. 

And we as a unit are feeling his loss.

I hung up just now from the SPCA, hoping that someone surrendered him. They saw my report, but so far, nothing. 

His cage sits in our backyard.  I could bring it in and stow it downstairs; I could turn this off in my head. I could pretend he was never here. 

But...he left his mark, and I feel his absence.  He is not the greatest magnitude of loss I've suffered in my life--he was a bird, a pet, after all. Not a human being. Not even a fur baby.  He weighed all of 90 g. Tiny thing, little bird, I called him.

I see him, hanging out under the table cloth, his own blanket fort. He carefully climbs down to the floor.  Explores, pecks around. I remind the boys to mind their step. Nugget chups his own reminder from under the table.

I feel eyes on me, and there he is, standing next to the chair, tiny little thing standing as tall as he can, looking up at me. I reach down, pick him up. He alights on my shoulder for a bit, then sidles down to my lap.  He preens, safe from all predators.

And then he tucks his beak into the down behind his wings. And sleeps. 

Hopeful Happy Ending

 It's a little weird how yesterday worked out.  

Our whole day hinged on one event.  And it's almost like the universe knew it as going to happen. 

First is the matter of breakfast. I seldom eat it. I have coffee, but depending on the day, I either have a nut bar or opt to intermittent fast.  Yesterday, I downed a whole leftover container of oricchiette and broccoli rabe that hubby made for dinner the night before. It was a salty, peppery wonder of awesome and I enjoyed it throroughly. And I marveled that I wouldn't have to eat again until dinner time. 

And, as it turned out, I wouldn't. At about noon, I was setting about the business of straightening up. Nugget was squawking to beat the band. I had gone up to get him, and he quieted down, as he always did, when he settled on my shoulder.

When he's settled, I often forget he's there. 

That happened in May when he escaped the first time.

And it happened again shortly before noon yesterday. 

I'm sitting at the computer finishing the business of sending alerts to every outlet I can think of about him.  I'll head out shortly and log another few miles on foot to see if I can find him. 

I need to try. But it's almost winter. He's a tropical bird. I hope he's warm. And I hope he's safe.

Thinking anything else will ensure that I won't function. 

Gone bird

 Nugget is gone.

Again.

And I'm afraid for good.

We were able to track him across the street and high up in a tree, first in front of Miss Gwen's house, then in the top of a tree in the back yard a couple doors down. We called to him, set up his cage in the backyard, Hubby said he could hear elder's anguished calling for Nugget from inside our house, which is no small feat and a testament to elder's lung power.

I watched an accipiter pass high over head.  His shadow paused over the tree and he moved on.

And he passed over again about 15 minutes later.

Nugget called back down, fluttered his wings, tried to edge down the tree, and after two hours, took off, east/southeast.  I bolted after him, foolishly thinking I could keep up.  But that was the last I saw of him. 

I thought I heard him as I endlessly walked the neighborhood, working in a spiral as all bird experts say you should. 

But here's the thing. Temperature is going to be below freezing tonight. Hiding will be harder. 

I'm afraid I won't see him again. 

He has brought me so much joy in the last two years. 

My sadness right now is at least as deep as that.

Better Day

 Still wandering through the valley of darkness, but it isn't as dark as it was yesterday. My trusty security bird is here by my keyboard as I navigate day 3 of this wanging great headache I've had since Monday (ibuprofen is barely making a dent). I've been trying to be okay for a long time, and lately I feel like I am hanging on by my fingernails (which have never been that strong, anyway). Found a preserve adjacent to where younger and I get PT and wandered through there while he had his session. It felt good to be out walking in the woods, but the deer stands told me it would be best if I wrapped up my walk before dusk.

If I can get the better of this headache, I am going to get this dining room in order. Tons of papers, tons of stuff to review, not enough hours in the day for everything that needs to get done,

Honestly I'd rather throw everything out. 

G wants to poke the bird.

The bird is not having it. 

So I went out for a walk to try to shake this headache. The sun is out, but there's a brisk wind blowing. I tried as much as possible to stay in the sun, since sunlight is a precious commodity these days. I struck out southeast, a route I usually don't take, and headed down the main road.  Ordinarily I don't like walking along it, but sunlight was a good enough reason to stick to it.

It was the uneventful walk until I headed back, striking northeast on a road that runs oblique to the other road.  Not preferred because no sidewalk and busy, but COVD reduces traffic and there's a generous shoulder. I look up in time to see an immature redtail hawk swoop in from across the road and alight on top of the wires almost directly over my head.  

And this one time I don't have my phone to get a picture. 

"Hello pretty boi," I call, and he looks directly at me. I mean, stares at me like "Who do you think you are, hooman, daring to address my awesomeness?"  And he brushed his beak against the wire once, then took off ahead of me, alighting this time on a pole.  He looked down at me as I passed under him again, and he took off ahead of me again, alighting on a pole a little farther down the road. 

This continued for about a quarter mile, until he realized that daylight was fading and it was time to eat.  He took off into the neighborhood beyond, and that was the last I saw of him.

I finished my walk smiling. He walked me home. 

December Thoughts

 I was reading back though my blog last night, and amazed at how little has changed.

Sure, the kids are older; I was hoping that I would see an arc of change. COVD has altered the arc to such a point that it seems more like we are back where we started, except now time is running out, doors are closing, my elder is losing ground daily, and I can't seem to put a stop to it. 

All I can think is that I am tired, I am sad, and feel like I am staring into the abyss.  Again. 

I started PT hoping to stop some of the ravages of time, and it seems to have hastened them instead.

So add broken to the list.

Sadness is overwhelming today. I will take my coffee outside and hope that fixes my head.