Little Birds Will Fly

The dove is back. 

Pigeon, I suppose. Since arriving on Monday, we’ve seen her daily, back and forth to the window ledge outside Violet’s window. They’ve moved us since, to the room next door – the one that isn’t designed for COVID positive patients. At least we’re not in that boat. They need to save the handful of specialized rooms for infection control. 

But this one has a bigger window.

From this angle, at this time of the afternoon, the sun angles down into the courtyard below and casts shadows against the glass. The reflection of the blue and purple aluminum balloons and rainbow sequins from a row of “Beanie Boos” that line the ledge freckle the view with twinkling color. The sky is blue – it won’t be for a few days, and as I remember from living for so long in this city, blue sky is a valuable commodity. A precious, fleeting gift, to be savoured.

The pigeon ducks down below the ledge against the building and I lose sight of it for awhile. From our previous view, we could see where it went. Here, we are blocked from the scene beyond the ledge, but I know what’s there now. I know the secret she holds.

She has babies. A flight of what I think is three or four squabs, are nestled into the rocks. It took us a few days to even notice them. They were camouflaged, and even once we recognized that there was, in fact, a family in the shadows, it was difficult to really make them out. They managed to keep privacy, even without a nest or a shelter to conceal them.

But for days, they were just rocks. Just grey masses in the dimness, on a seemingly meaningless ledge.

Now they are a beacon of hope. A sign that life continues to thrive. That amidst the shadows, there is light.

You just have to look for it.

Last night, when Violet fell asleep, I took a can of wine my mom snuck to me, along with two pieces of uneaten birthday cake still sitting in our hospital room cooler, and I sat in the parking lot alone. I found a candle app on my phone – blew it out (into the mouthpiece) and made a wish, and I cried. It was one of the only times I’ve really let myself feel it – the sadness, agony, heartache, terror of it all. It was like one final push during labour when you finally release that energy from within. It felt good – charged and luminous and acute, blazing out through the pours. Cleansing, like a brush fire, leaving singed, nourished soil behind. And then, suddenly, the parking lots lights came on all at once. Profound timing. 

I have been utterly blessed by the support and sense of community we have received through this so far. And by that, I mean it has been absolutely astonishing. As someone who lives her life for moments of connection and meaning, this has been a strange, seemingly paradoxical gift. On the one hand, no one would EVER wish to go through something like this. Your child – the single most valuable, precious thing in life – suffering such a terrifying, consequential disease. And yet, there isn’t one single way to look at this. There are millions, as there always are, and viewing this as a “sentence” for agony and fear is just not the lens I am taking.

You hear from many people that are cancer survivors that their disease is the best thing that ever happened to them. I always viewed this with some cynicism, assuming that there was, at least, a part of this sentiment that was a big forced. A “making the best of it” kind of approach. A sugar coating.

But now I can say without question that, in so many ways, it makes sense. I wish it were ME with the cancer, that is without question. God knows watching your little girl scared and in pain is total, complete agony. But not all consuming. Not what I would assume it feels like. Not what I’m sure all of the mothers out there imagining my experience are assuming.

It could be denial. This is all new, after all. And it is also not how I feel all the time. We haven’t had the biopsy yet, and watching her go into surgery, or sitting down for the diagnosis in a boardroom afterward will induce more anxiety than I am likely prepared for. But for now, mostly, I am at peace. I am grateful, because I am in this fascinating place of acceptance. We all experience things in life that are scary and painful. We are all on a ticking clock. We all hurt, all suffer, all go through this life with a million unknowns.

Every parent undergoes some version of this every day. Letting your precious children out into the world and having to trust that they will be ok. They will survive their pain. They will find courage and strength to conquer what life throws at them.

I am not unique in this. There are millions of parents that have had to endure similar tests of the soul. But what is unique about this is that I have somehow opened up a channel to grace and love that is showing up in ways I couldn’t have imagined. People are offering their love, their gifts, their time, their hearts. My family is proving to be infinitely stronger than they recognize. My child – my sweet, extraordinary little girl – is once again proving to me that she is utterly made of steel – fierce, stubborn determination nestled underneath an exterior of gentleness and joy. Laughing despite the fear. Worrying about everyone else.

While we’ve been here, there have been birthdays (mine included) and celebrations. There have been losses and pain. Close friends are undergoing similar situations. Babies have been born, and others have lost those they love, even in this tiny little frame of time. Life, and death, continue to go on.

The little pigeons will fly soon. We will watch them spread their wings for the first time, leap off the ledge, and trust that the wind will take them. Because that’s what little birds do. They trust the current.

I trust it, too, that current that flows beneath. That river of wellness and beauty and light. That “reason”. There is one, I know it. To everything. To this. And if anything, so far it is to remind me of all of this wisdom, all of this truth, that we so often forget when we are moving too fast. When we neglect to look in the shadows and notice the life that’s really there.