The morning before my brother dies, a small bird flies from a nearby tree into the wall of my house, and falls to the deck below. This is not a particularly novel occurrence. The wall is a large expanse of glass that distressingly mirrors the surrounding woods. It also offers a clear view of what typically happens next.
Sometimes the bird will die instantly. Other times, it is merely stunned, rests for a few minutes, then flies away. This time, the process is more protracted. The bird lies on its side, very still for a few seconds, then rights itself. It remains this way for a long while, its eyes open, its breathing rapid and visible. I watch, my own breath held. Then, it turns its head, left and right, and left again, signaling more alertness. Over several minutes, its body revives, suddenly appearing full, waiting to take flight. I exhale. I walk away, then quickly turn back. The bird is gone. It has flown away. It has survived. And so, too, I think, will my brother, who is lying in a hospital bed 7,000 miles away.
This is how it is as I remain mired in ‘anticipatory grief,’ the psychological term used to describe the sorrow that begins days, weeks—even months—before death will have the final say. I indulge in elaborate magical thinking. I look for symbolism in everything, anything that offers an alternative to the dread that has taken up residence in my consciousness. A week earlier, I watch a random tennis match on TV. A player is on the brink of defeat, but somehow, defying predictions, survives arduous point after arduous point, to eventually emerge the winner. It is not just a tennis match; it is a talisman; it portends something much larger. Coming back from the brink, rising like a Phoenix from the ashes, is surely what my brother, too, can do.
This is the thing about desperation’s grip on me. I see only what I want to see—because it is all that remains, all that I have left. The morning before my brother dies, I see a bird that skirts death, and lives to see another day. But I see this too: a bird is there, and then—in the blink of an eye and the turn of a head—it is gone. Like my brother. 💔