I was cleaning up dinner last night when I heard it.
It was my husband, I thought, laughing loudly at something back in the mancave.
Except, it wasn't.
It was elder, who sounded amazingly in the moment like my husband.
I listened for a moment, he and his brother, laughing, sharing a moment.
And marveled again at how any more I can't seem to tell my men apart sight unseen.
There's a lot going on.
Understatement.
Mourning the bird. Fretting over elder, health issues plus mental health stuff. Somewhat (?) freaked out by the events of the last week. Add work to the mix. Stir.
Is there an order to the things on my heart? Nugget is still very present with me. I'm still replaying that morning in my head, how I came down the steps from retrieving him squawking from his cage, looking at him perched on my hand, wondering that this little being chose me as his human, and realizing that every day was precious, that there may be a last time, and to cherish this moment.
That resonates. That I somehow knew this was the last time.
But I KNOW that trip to the trash with him on my shoulder was not premeditated. He wanted to be on my shoulder, and I put him there, and he sat quiet while I cleaned. The sequence: I was cleaning out the pantry and discovered a forgotten bag of Halloween candy, which had ants on it. I huffed in disgust and slipped on the slides at the back door and beelined for the trash bin. I completely forgot he was sitting on my shoulder; normally tugging at my hair and necklace as a constant reminder of his presence, he was still and silent. Until I was well outside and well beyond the back door.
Halfway between the house and the bins, he squawked and flew off. I gasped, dropped the bag, and ran after him screaming for him.
I'd like to get that moment back and redo it.
But then there are other things that made me think he was plotting to escape. All the times he went stealth and deliberately hid from us post his first foray. The squawking could have been the prisoner banging his cup on the bars.
What would I rather, I find him dead some morning, or have the uncertain end where the last I see of him, he's flying off squawking with the wind, carried by it, and the heady freedom he must have felt with the wind beneath his wings.
That's the other thing--he had one intact flight feather. He had trouble making it to the top of our china cabinet. He had trouble making it to me from the top of his cage from 10 feet away. I admonished him to trust his wings, because it seemed like he didn't.
Right up until he soared up into the trees across the street. He floored me.
Maybe that was his plan.
Small bird, big brain in that walnut head.
I'm feeling his loss.
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.
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.
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.....
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.
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.
