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Thursday, 28 August 2008

Bird Sign

By Chrissy McB

When I see a bird perched somewhere who appears to be looking at me, I wonder if it’s Pat. Has her spirit rested there for a while? Could it be that she sees through the bird’s eyes? (They harvested the corneas from her big gray eyes so a stranger could see.)

In her final days, though cognitive, she often seemed to see what others could not see. “I don’t want to be a cat, I want to be a person,” she said to the air. Who was she bargaining with? Is there really reincarnation? Who was she waving to? Did she see loved ones who went before her?

It couldn’t have been the drugs because Pat refused to be heavily medicated. Where is she now, my beautiful daughter? I hope it’s some place wonderful where she is reaping rewards. Does she only live on in our memories and in the DNA of her children?

The summer heat reminds me of the lingering days of her suffering. She would not have chosen to die in summer, for summer was her favorite time. (Although she was a good swimmer and a lifeguard when she was young, she was happiest sitting and reading, soaking up the sun, at the beach or pool and only occasionally going in the water to cool off.) I think of the refrain: “If ever I should leave you, it wouldn’t be in summer.”

How difficult it must have been to lie in that hospital bed, looking out at the river and the city skyline on those beautiful summer days, with the steady stream of family and friends visiting and be too weak to be the gracious hostess. How hard for the lead nurse on a cancer ward in the city’s most prestigious hospital to be the one who needs the care.

The radiation and chemotherapy had not stopped the tumor in her brain stem from growing! Pat loved life and didn’t want to leave – so many people depended on her. She knew her husband would take good care of the kids because he was nurturing and kind and loved them so much. But who would coordinate this color-blind-guy’s outfits and find his cell phone and all his other constantly misplaced items? How could she not be there for the graduations, weddings and births of grandchildren?

She wanted to go home, away from the tubes and catheter. I told her that she could go home when she got stronger. She gave me the look, that condescending look that she used to give me when she was a teenager and I didn’t meet her expectations. The mature Pat did not say “oh mother,” but the “puppy eyes” that expressed her soul betrayed her. She knew she wasn’t going home and she knew that I knew.

Now as I float in the pool and look up at that bird sitting in the tree, singing away, I begin to believe my own fantasy. Like Houdini, if Pat could send a message, she would.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. Instructions are here.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 02:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post

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