Baby Robin Rescue

“There was a baby bird in your tree we took down,” explained the tree man, pointing to the ground at the side of my house. “It’s there in its nest.”

Tucked under the downspout and against the bricks was a nest that held a rather large, fluffy, baby bird.  Its home had vanished into the tree chipper, its mother wouldn’t know where to find it, and night was falling. Thunder grumbled softly and the sky flashed Morse code that a storm was near. Humidity hung in the air, thick and uncomfortably sticky.

“What should I do with it?” I felt I should know but I didn’t.

It was clear the baby was a robin. It’s grayish-brown feathers filled the nest entirely, but it still looked too young to fly. Its little beak opened and closed expecting food.

“You can just leave it there for the night,” said the man. I sensed the attitude was to leave it in nature as close to its original home as possible.

I knew instantly I was not leaving this motherless, little baby robin alone on the ground where it was completely helpless and unprotected. It wouldn’t survive the night. Should I take it inside with me? Was there someplace else I could leave it outside? Even though I hadn’t held the chainsaw, I still had destroyed its home. Mama robin wouldn’t find it.

Ilene is my neighbor who also very conveniently is a vet. She was outside trying to get her lawn mowed before it stormed. Lightning flickered more regularly in the sky. I couldn’t wait much longer. It was getting dark and the baby bird still had nowhere to spend the night.

“Ilene! Do you have a second?” I shouted above the motor and motioned in my direction. She stopped the mower. “I have a baby bird here.”

We talked over the options. No, she could not take it. They didn’t work with rescue animals at her clinic. There was a vet clinic off the beltline on Rimrock Road that was open twenty-four hours and took wild animals. That was a possibility. Finally, we decided it was best to put the bird and its nest cradled on top of an abandoned nest in a bush to the side of my house.  It had a better chance there than on the ground. With flashlight in hand, we safely nestled it in.

My next job was to dig up a couple of worms for it and try to feed it. Sweat rolled down my face and back. I couldn’t see where I was digging.  Multiple holes were appearing in my garden and there was not a worm to be seen. Why was it so hard to find a dang worm? This was crazy. I was crazy.

After about ten minutes I abandoned the worm quest. Plan D was now in motion. I would take the bird to the vet clinic.

Flashlight in hand, I retrieved the baby robin, put it in a box, and placed it on the floor on the passenger side of the car. Tired and sweaty, off I went, hoping the thunderstorm wouldn’t hit until I returned home. My mother’s voice spoke quietly in my head, “Don’t go. Stay in for the night. You’ll get wet.” But my mother wasn’t around anymore. It was just shy of a month since she died, but she was still there chattering away at me.

I didn’t mind.

Keep in mind, I also didn’t listen.

I knew my actions were some type of response to feeling alone and a deep need to fix the unfixable.

Baby bird made some sounds. “Tweet, tweet.” What was it saying? I didn’t speak bird but decided to tweet back anyway. “Tweet, tweet, tweet,” I said.

The sky let loose torrents of water which made it tough to see the road. It was one of those downpours where you feel like you’re continuously under a waterfall and the windshield wipers can’t keep up. All this felt so insane on several levels. Tweeting back to the little bird was somehow comforting.  We tweeted back and forth for the rest of the trip until I found the clinic.

I covered my little bird with my coat and ran the box into the clinic. I suspiciously eyed an orange cat that was sitting on a bench just inside the door licking its paw. A woman at the front desk smiled and took the bird to the back room. That was it, I was done. I headed back out into the stormy night.

When I got back and buckled up in my car, I realized I hadn’t said good-bye to my bird.

Yep, I heard it.

My bird.

Somehow that little animal had become mine in a time span of less than an hour. Maybe it was mine the moment I saw it on the ground . . . I don’t know.  But I did know I had to dash back through the rain into the clinic so I could say good-bye.

I’ve been this way for a long time. I’ve learned to be okay with it.

“I’m back,” I announced as I dripped in front of the receptionist.

Foolishly I added, “I didn’t get to say good-bye to my bird.”

She stared at me for a long moment before disappearing into the back room and returning with the robin.

“Bye, bye,” I said. “Be a good little bird.”

I felt I needed to add a few tweets in there to make sure it understood.  I already felt foolish, so there was no point stopping. “Tweet, tweet . . . tweet, tweet.”

I think it understood.

Somehow, I think my mother did, too.

Face Fear

What I’ve learned about fear over and over again is that the anxious anticipation of something is always worse than the event itself. There have been conversations I have dreaded and events I was sure would result in my getting the short end of the stick. The events happened and life went on.

One of these events was returning to chemotherapy back in the summer of 2016. I wanted to avoid this option like I want to avoid a bad cold, negative people, and raw seafood. It was my second experience with chemo – an unwanted sequel to that of years earlier. Eribulin was the name of the chemotherapy drug to be used. It is a cell cycle specific drug that attacks something called the microtube structures within cells. These microtube structures help a cell divide and reproduce. Stopping the microtube structures from functioning results in cell death. Goodbye cancer cells. Normal cells grow back.

I was terrified of effects like I had had when I had chemo back in 2012. I threw up so much after the first infusion back then that I needed to go to the hospital for fluids. I contracted fungal pneumonia and the shingles a couple of months later that landed me in the hospital. I gained a lot of weight due to steroids to battle nausea. I was lethargic and my mind was in a fog for months after the treatments ended. I knew what going through chemo was like and it was something I really didn’t want to repeat.

But it was my best option.

The day came to receive the first dose of eribulin on July 26, 2016. No throwing up, no nausea, no lethargy, no weight gain. I lost my hair again and was without it for over three years because of this drug and the drugs that followed. That reality and my feelings associated with it were difficult to navigate again. Otherwise, I felt unbelievably good. I had energy and could focus on activities that I enjoyed.

The weirdest thing happened once I faced my fears of having chemotherapy again and started treatment. Without the fear, profound moments of immense peace, joy, and intention took hold of me. The depression I had struggled with lifted when I went off the oral chemo pills I had been taking. I wasn’t teaching at his point in time, but I didn’t feel depressed. In fact, eribulin was a new lease on life. Every day off work was a day closer to coming back. I didn’t realize at the time it was the end of my career. My feet didn’t hurt with every step. I could walk again. I could hike.

Fear is almost always worse than the event itself. The fear I held about doing more traditional treatment again was worse than the reality. The eribulin wasn’t difficult to receive or tolerate. It was pushed through a syringe over two to five minutes. I didn’t feel a debilitating loss of energy and almost no nausea. For the first couple of months, I found I actually had lots of energy and felt wonderfully healthy (aside from needing chemotherapy in the first place). Low white blood counts were an issue, but that was a common problem encountered with many cancer treatments.

There are new fears. It’s a repetitive cycle every time I start a new treatment. What side effects will I experience? Will this treatment work? Lots of “what ifs.”

I have a lot of fears of treatments not working.

Fears of not having options.

Fears of my team not caring enough.

Fears of getting worse and losing my independence.

Fears of lots of things that make me cry and those thoughts make me feel unsafe and very alone.

And then there are the fears that my lovely hairstyle will always look like I’ve electrocuted myself. It has calmed somewhat over time. That one makes me smile and brings me back to where things are okay. My curls remind me I have no control and the straight and narrow never was my path. I’m unruly like the clouds in the sky. My hair feels comforting.

I face fear every day as someone living with metastatic breast cancer. The fear of having MBC has become so commonplace that I know it’s there, but I try not to think about it and I give it the least amount of space possible if I have to think about it at all. I face it down and get on with my day. I face fear like I face the mirror in the morning. Some days it takes more work.

Every so often I sit with it. We talk. Mostly I feel. Then I’m done. Until it resurfaces.

Fear has been on my mind more than usual lately. There are more unknowns. My biggest fears revolve around cruel consequences if my treatment is affected because of COVID-19. These unknowns could severely impact my other unknowns. I’ve hunkered down as much as I can and it still might not be enough. I began this post writing that the anticipation of an event is worse than the event itself. This virus may be the one scenario where that isn’t true. I don’t know. It will continue to play out over time where one domino affects another, even if the dominoes at first seem unrelated. Facing fear does not mean to act willfully stupid. It doesn’t mean you roll the dice and take your chances. Facing fear means being informed and having a plan. Right now that plan involves choosing the most protective option in all my decisions. I will continue to face the fear in my life by making smart, well thought out decisions. I will be grateful in my belief I am staying safe. I must believe hope is more pwerful than fear. And it is.

RAIN and Self-Compassion

Life is crazy these days.

Crazy.

That is the word I keep coming back to over the course of the last month, weeks, and days. It’s even applicable to hours and minutes. It is difficult to escape because our lives have transformed to the confines of our own homes. The top story on local and national news now is the entire broadcast. Attempts to escape real life and watch a show on TV is interrupted with advertisements about how life has changed. I fill my time fairly successfully. The day still can feel long when I’m isolating alone. It’s almost too much.

I am tired of feeling stressed, overwhelmed, worn out, or numb by life these days.

Tara Brach is a well-known psychologist and author. Her work blends together Western psychology and Eastern spiritual practices. She is huge in the world of meditation and mindfulness. One of her main tools is rooted in the acronym RAIN and is a way to connect with self-compassion when experiencing emotional difficulty.

These crazy times have their share of emotional difficulty. My plan today is to share more about RAIN and how it works.

R – Recognize what is happening.

A – Allow the experience to be there, just as it is.

I  – Investigate with interest and care.

N – Nurture with self-compassion.

R – Recognize what is happening.

What are the thoughts, feelings, and behaviors affecting me right now?

Me: I am PISSED OFF about all my plans falling apart. A Triple F would fit nicely here. Travel, birthday, entertainment, and fundraising plans have been canceled. My birthday isn’t canceled but I’m starting from scratch. Whatever alternate plans I make may also get scrapped in the end. Workouts and book clubs are all experienced remotely. It’s depressing.

I feel like I’m not living and there was a successful effort to live each day fully before life shifted to being safer at home. I feel like a blob. I ate quite nutritiously for the first few weeks and now I’m seeing behaviors where I’m eating out of boredom or stress. I’m grabbing sugar over healthy nutrients. I moved around tons for the first few weeks and now that behavior has taken a bad turn as well. I feel sickish a lot of the time due to these behaviors.

A – Allow the experience to be there, just as it is.

Nothing is being fixed or avoided. Emotions and sensations are allowed to just be. Fear shows up here often.

Me: Yep, I’ve had the fear, I’ve had the tears. Mostly anger. A lot of disappointment. There’s worry and anxiety. Allowing is a good term for this part of the process because I can’t fix any of it if I tried. I am in a frozen state of numbness where I’m allowing and waiting.

I – Investigate with interest and care.

This may show up as what you are experiencing in your body or beliefs. Is my stomach in knots? Does my heart feel heavy? Has my breathing changed? What thoughts or beliefs match where my body gives its attention?

Me: I feel exhausted with all the nothing. There are times I let out the heaviest and longest sigh I have. My legs feel heavy. I wonder if I have weights attached to them as I climb the stairs. The mad, sad, bad feeling is over my heart. My stomach feels icky.

N – Nurture with self-compassion.

What do I need? How can I give myself the space to show myself understanding, comfort, and self-compassion?

Me: Based on what I’ve written, it appears that my heart, solar plexus, and root chakras are out of whack. These areas have corresponding body parts that are causing me grief and crying out for help. I can do some targeted yoga to support those areas and myself. I feel much better on days I can get for a walk outside and have some time in nature. Exercise nurtures me a lot. Sometimes physically putting up my hand and verbally saying “stop” is useful when negative self-talks takes hold. To me, nurturing is the most important part because nothing changes if I do nothing with what I’ve recognized, allowed, and investigated.

The first three really identify what’s going on. The last part makes sure I nurture, tend to, and take care of myself. I’ve heard the nurturing step is often not completed because people don’t know what to do. Someone I know suggested that if you don’t know how to do the last step, think about how someone else you know would do it. Choose someone you view as wise and compassionate. Visualize what they would do and then apply it to your situation.

Other ideas that work for me are one or more of the following:

  • Drink some water. Hydration is a good way to reset.
  • Walk around a bit. Keep blood and oxygen moving. Stretch. Kettlebell work usually does the trick, but kettlebells aren’t always handy.
  • Oxygen flow is again the focus. Take full, long, slow inhales and exhales. Breathwork is the simplest fix to support physical and emotional changes. It can improve mood and is thought to boost immunity.

As you know, I’m all about finding a way. Walking myself through the four parts of RAIN is one way to support myself, guide myself, and work with my feelings so I can lessen the crazy and emphasize something more grounded. Crazy is too hard to maintain. Grounding offers something calmer and more stable. I don’t know about you, but I could use calmness and stability during times where there are no solid reference points and prolonged times of uncertainty and unknowns.

My Most Protective Option

Choosing my most protective option has lately become a repeated refrain for me. I find myself comparing choices as I deal with a smaller world for myself and what I am able to do with limited options available to me.

In a school setting, teachers always followed the principle of providing the least restrictive environment for students with special needs. I came back to that idea time after time in work with special education teachers and instruction for students. I want the same type of tried and true standard for the circumstances I now find myself in as I shelter at home. The least restrictive environment would do nothing for me. Heck, the least restrictive environment would place me out and about without a mask in large crowds with strangers. What I needed was the exact opposite of the least restrictive environment. The most protective option fit perfectly. It fits every decision I’ve needed to make so far.

Medical

Being in the same room with my oncologist is preferred. I have been open to visits over the phone and video style because it mainly seems I have little choice. I could hopefully see her if I needed some type of physical interaction. If I’m choosing the most protective option, I must go with a remote visit. I may feel differently after a few months. Telephone and video have limitations. Eventually, the most protective option may be to see her in person as it may yield results that you can’t get without contact. Meeting face to face could eventually be more protective as circumstances vary.

My treatments have continued as scheduled. An army of gatekeepers and temperature takers await me at the uncrowded hospital entrance. Hallways are unnaturally empty. No one waits in waiting rooms and people are sent to their treatment bays immediately. I wait there alone. The nursing staff is cheerful even though they wear masks and protective face shields. I was not happy with the answers I received about how many days (yes, days) they were asked to wear the same surgical mask before getting a new one. That is most definitely not the most protective option for them even with a face shield. Protecting myself involves that those I have contact with are also protected. I do not want to be overly critical. I do want everyone to stay safe. I’ll follow up with a few more questions at my next visit.

Groceries

Getting groceries has evolved into quite a process. March 13th is the date I started social distancing and staying at home. Wisconsin’s Safer at Home order took effect on March 25th.  I could still shop during the first hour of business assigned as a courtesy time for the elderly and those with underlying conditions if that was my only option. It would still put me in a public setting. My other options are delivery or curbside pickup. I haven’t been able to nab a delivery time. Instead, I focus on getting a curbside pickup timeslot every two weeks. Slots open up online one week in advance at midnight. They are gone within minutes. I am sleeping and hopefully lost to my dreams at midnight, except when I need to reserve a grocery time. One night after I reserved a spot, I noticed all the available times were gone within ten minutes. It has gotten even more competitive since then. Last week they vanished within three minutes. Three! I am not sure exactly how many are offered each day, but the demand is much higher than the supply. I am thankful I got one and that for now I have figured out what I need to do in order to get what I need. Things change quickly. I just learned the window opens up at 1 PM rather than midnight. Time will tell if that switch makes ordering even more competitive.

I admit it also makes me sad that grocery shopping strikes me as a cut-throat world. My oncologist advised me to take this route as a way to keep myself and others I may come in contact with (like her) healthy. This is something I can do for me and for her. I feel some guilt in taking a spot that is in such high demand. I can stretch items and plan menus so I am more than comfortable shopping every two weeks rather than shop every week. At the same time, I need this service as much as someone else, so I must do what keeps me safest. It’s my most protective option. I will choose it every time.

Reserving a time involves multiple steps. Getting the groceries into my home adds several more. Items come out of boxes (cereal, protein bars, yogurt) so I don’t need to bring boxes into my home. Plastic items get wiped down with Clorox. Blueberries, blackberries, and other small fruit are taken out of their plastic containers and put into glass containers. I dunk foods in soapy water and rinse them. There is a sanitized and not sanitized half of my counter as I unload items. My groceries have never been cleaner. It’s exhausting and insane. Right now, it’s what I do thanks to a viral YouTube video.

Hair

When my hair grew back in 2013, I was done with coloring it. It could be natural. I was firm about it. I had to staunchly defend my choice to one or two who couldn’t understand it even though it had nothing to do with them. There’s always a critic. My hair was beautiful. A silver curl framed my face in a striking spiral. When it grew back in 2019, it was a lot grayer than before. I felt so old and felt I looked washed out. My wig was a much younger look and I liked what it did for me. I chose to get on board with coloring again and that was that. I certainly never thought a situation would unfold that would prevent me from getting my hair done. I have hair. I have quite a lot of hair. It is ironic that I can’t get it done or go anywhere. Who knows where I’ll be on the cancer road when stay at home lifestyles finally are no longer necessary.

I took matters into my own hands and colored my hair on my own. I ordered some that was free of parabens, sulfates, phthalates, and ammonia. It didn’t sound like it was too hard. The directions were straight forward enough. The company had videos to watch. What could go wrong? The only places I go are to my oncology appointments and to pick up my grocery order. No one sees me so now was as good of a time as ever to try something new. Chalk it up to a massive need to feel in control, but there is a bit more to it. I wanted to feel good about my appearance. Perhaps that sounds vain. Having hair that looks decent goes a long way for this metastatic breast cancer patient who wore a wig for three years. I want to keep my hair and I want it to look good, even if no one sees me. I see me.

Inconveniences vs. Problems

Rabbi Steve Leder appeared on TODAY with Hoda & Jenna earlier in April. He offered excellent advice on perspective and encouraged people to distinguish between inconveniences and problems. Not being able to go to a restaurant is an inconvenience. Having bad hair truly is an inconvenience. It sucks but it doesn’t make it less true. Not being able to breathe and needing a ventilator is a problem. Not having any food or a means of getting food is a problem. I need to remind myself that what I am experiencing personally through this so far have been inconveniences. I may shed a few tears as a way to deal with my feelings, but my issues remain identified as inconveniences, not problems. You can listen to the brief interview here.

Choosing my most protective options will continue to guide me in the days ahead. It offers a solid way for me to evaluate choices and make consistent decisions. It removes my feelings and provides me an objective format. Hopefully, it will make tougher decisions much easier because the safe choice is usually an obvious choice.

It won’t help me figure out if I should bake chocolate chip cookies or brownies. This isn’t an inconvenience or problem. Neither option is more protective than the other. Perhaps my litmus test doesn’t hold up in this situation.

Luckily, I know what I must do.