Dazed and Confused

One of the joys of living at the beach is bearing witness to the permanence of the ocean. Its continual reaching towards the shore. Its mood changes from serene to stormy.

I like to stand at the edge where the last wisps of a foamy wave dance at my feet.

There, the water’s gentle action drags the sand away from me. Soon my toes are anchored.

But the ocean can be upending. If I try to run through the breakers, the force of the waves shoves my body, undercutting my stability. The current wrestles me, trying to pull me away.

I hold my breath until I can break free and get to the calm of deeper water.

Not unlike the ocean, cancer wants to toss me about.

Feeling numb in the physical places that surgery damaged nerves, I also felt emotionally flattened — less alive in the spaces where grief settles in.

I was traveling back to New York City to undergo another surgery. I could hear the soothing waves brushing the shore as I turned off the lights and closed the blinds. Maybe the tranquility of the morning sea was a good omen.

Back to the city

Later that day, we arrived in Manhattan, where my husband and I joined our Brooklyn-based daughter and her boyfriend for dinner. The Japanese restaurant was toasty and comforting. We were greeted by that distinctive aroma of five spice and simmering beef broth. Cherry red lanterns dropped from the tin ceiling while underlit horizontal driftwood panels created private sanctuaries between tables.

After much needed laughter and way too much udon, we bid our good-byes and took to the streets to walk back to our hotel.

Though enjoying the evening, my chest felt heavy. I remembered I wasn’t in New York for pleasure.

Winter wrapped around us. Icy air and dark skies contrasted starkly with the warmth of the cozy restaurant. Twinkling window displays indicated the holidays were near, the light splashing colorful shadows on the concrete.

As we turned a corner, a young man lunged towards us, holding up his hands.

“Stop!” he shouted. Dressed in a long black overcoat, collared shirt, and brown shoes, it was apparent the young man was neither a tourist nor a terrorist.

Startled, my husband and I halted abruptly.

“There,” the stranger said, pointing to a spot on the sidewalk. “That little guy hit a window. It stunned him and he can’t move.”

“What? Where?” asked my husband as our eyes struggled to discern anything in the dark shadows.

Then we spied it. A small brown bird with long curved beak appeared to be stiff and frozen. But alive. Its eyes were unblinking. Tiny gray feet splayed on the concrete trying to find a foothold.

The man snapped a photo. “American Woodcock,” he said, after searching on an ID app.

“He must have lost his way from the Park,” I murmured, my fingers feeling numb. Central Park was about a half mile away. “Poor baby.”

“More likely the nearby marshes,” said my husband. Our different take on habitat may help explain why we had endless discussions about whether to retire in the mountains or at the ocean.

Covered in sable brown and black spotted feathers, the woodcock’s eyes almost seemed to be behind his head. Apparently, his ebony orbs were positioned to see predators even when his head was down, digging for food.

He was suited for earthy forest bottoms or wet fields, not the concrete streets of the city. His Cyrano beak was designed to probe soil to snack on juicy earthworms, not tap skyscraper’s windows.

This little woodcock, slightly bigger than a man’s balled fist, was not home.

“Let me see if anything is broken,” said my husband. He crouched down as the bird, who suddenly looked annoyed, hopped two steps away.

Waiting for flight

Without speaking, the three of us waited silently for a few moments. Hopefully our shocked bird friend could recover and find his way.

The sweet smell of roasting pecans and sugar arose from a nearby street vendor. Taxis honked as traffic signals flashed their red, yellow, and green glowing lights through the blackened night.

Something in me stirred. I remembered my feeling at the beach earlier that day. My face surgically rearranged, my eyelid permanently scarred and droopy, I felt disfigured. Immobilized by sadness.

I too felt stunned.

As we stood sentry over the bird, several other people noticed us. They would quietly survey the scene, snap a photo of the little woodcock, post it and scurry away.

After a few minutes, our wounded feathered charge had recovered. He planted his feet on the concrete, gave a bit of a chest heave, and flew across the street to an alcove. No broken wing.

The man in the long black overcoat sighed in relief, waved and dashed across Third Avenue into the darkness.

A new group of New Yorkers surrounded our frail survivor, taking pictures of the woodcock’s new location.

The way home

“He’s going to be okay?” I asked my husband.

“He seems to be clearing his head, and didn’t break anything,” my husband replied. “If he’ll be okay? I don’t know.”

Stunned on the streets of New York, would the little bird find his home? I wanted reassurance from my pragmatic husband, however, he refused to offer up a happy ending.

Shivering as the cold air deepened the chill on our skin, with one last look at the shelter-in-place woodcock, we continued our trek to the hotel.

It was time for me to get ready for the next round of medical appointments and upcoming surgery.

Back in our room, hearing the murmured rush of traffic, I snuggled into my soft terry robe and wrapped my hands around a steaming mug of chamomile tea. The city’s lights sparkled outside of our 25^th floor window, carrying their holiday message of hope and renewal.

Next week, I’d be back home, my heart beating in rhythm to the ocean’s music. Waiting again, as my body and mind heals.

Picture Credit: Kristen Englenz, original drawing “American Woodcock”

Find more about hope and courage: Holding onto Hope or Courage