The life and death of a little bird

My wife was in the backyard gardening when she heard a plop. A bird had fallen from the sky.

It landed just outside of our fence in the paved alley way and lay there, twitching now and again. Let’s just say, it didn’t stick the landing.

Catherine heard the thud, and went to take a look at the little brown bird, still flapping her little wings, trying to right herself.

She told me later she thought the the bird was ‘stunned’ unintentionally using a line from the hilarious ‘Dead Parrot’ sketch by Monty Python. (‘That bird’s not dead, it’s pining for the fjords.’)

Catherine’s bird really wasn’t dead. Catherine put on gloves, picked the bird up and brought it into our backyard. She stroked it and talked to it for a minute and then opened her hands and it took to flight.

It flew up into the thick branches of the many trees in the backyards along the alley. Catherine’s heart was filled with joy as she imagined the bird soaring into the blue sky.

But alas, the next day she came to find the little bird in our backyard. It was once again on it’s back flapping it’s wings. Catherine ran inside to grab some gloves. When she came back and picked up her little bird, she saw that it had died. Catherine was near tears telling me the story.

“It must have been her time,” was all I could think of saying. I wondered to myself if this was how birds die. Do they just fall out of the sky when their time is up? Why don’t we see dead birds more often? Like a scene from Hitchcock, there seems to be hundreds of birds in our yard every day.

I proceeded on to some self-absorbed pondering. I’ve been in sort of a slow motion free fall since November of 2016 when I was diagnosed with Lewy Body dementia, a Parkinson’s-like disease that is caused by naturally occurring proteins clumping together and killing brain cells. Read more about my case here.

There is no cure. The average lifespan is 4 to 8 years after diagnosis. Atlanta columnist Lewis Grizzard entitled one of his books in the 1970s ‘Elvis is Dead’ and I’m Not Feeling So Good Myself.’

Well, I was all ready, I joked, to name my unwritten book (haven’t actually started one): ‘Charlie Watts is Dead and I’m Not Feeling So Good Myself.’ .

But then the bird fell out of the sky.

The bird is dead. …. and I’m not feeling so good myself.

Now, I wasn’t there but it did affect me through my wife’s words. Catherine had also told the story to our daughter Claire, and this morning Catherine told Claire she had some sad news.

“Your little bird died?” Claire asked.

As I write this, I am nearing the end of counting down and writing this blog with reviews,– the 678 vinyl records I have collected over the years.

I was 56 when diagnosed. Hummingbirds that flitter around our garden can have a 5- year lifespan. I’m on my 5th year of the disease and am not nearly as frenetic as those wing-beaters.I write in the blog: “Counting down my 678 vinyl records before I die of a brain disease.’

I feel gentle hands and at least one more flight, soaring high into the blue. And I know that Catherine will be there when it is my time, too.