Birds: Not there for you, but there for you

Rock & Hawk is primarily about birds. Despite trying not to do this too often, I wanted to write about the traumatic brain injury that interrupted my life—in relation to birds, as in Common Black Hawk.

June 6 was my third eye surgery since November’s end. I’m lucky. It could be much worse. Some survivors have seizures, I don’t.

Purple Martin

Vision, speech, weakness on my right side, that hand’s fine motor. All improvable. My right hand functions, just not as well as my left. Writing right-handed, as I always have, is challenging and slow.

The hand feels numb. I force myself to use it, shampoo my hair just with my right hand. Sunday, using it to carry a cup of coffee, my middle three fingers felt as if burning. Sensation! The thumb has more to regain, but I’ve learned these things take time. In the scheme of things, small potatoes.

My voice and speech aren’t so bad anymore, I’ve regained confidence. For a long time I might’ve kept quiet out of embarrassment; now I talk. Speech therapy has provided ways to continue improving. I read aloud, think about how and when to breathe.

Common Yellowthroat

Whenever I meet with doctors about my eyes, it’s reinforced they’re uniquely wrong and inconsistent. Tough to solve a problem that changes. I see double along more than one axis, severity fluctuates. One eye test was given again and again, different results each time.

My eyes have had a lot of work, more wasn’t ruled out. I’ll get as many surgeries as it takes, but hope three did the trick.

Red-bellied Woodpecker

After surgery, you’re told not to exercise for two weeks beyond walking. Don’t carry anything over five pounds. Not massively inconvenient. Straining could pop sutures holding your eyes in place. At first, it’s nerve-racking just to sneeze or cough. Potential consequences are severe. To be safe, I wait closer to three weeks.

Walking means birding—though my camera is almost seven pounds (6.71). Three surgeries meant many weeks without exercise. My mental health requires exercise. When it was safe this time, I permitted myself a couple blissful hours.

Red admiral

This surgery was to correct my vision close up. I could drive without an eyepatch and do most things. Reading was the issue. Objects became double as they got close.

A third surgery would help me see a single paragraph, or just five fingers when looking at my hand. The first two surgeries were on one eye each. This was on both.

Osprey

Before surgery, I get into a gown, get weighed, get an IV, explain my meat allergy. I sign papers and speak with the anesthesiologist. Seeing my file or tracheotomy scar, people remark I’m lucky to be alive.

I’m hard on myself about recovery, that it isn’t over. I don’t believe anybody thinks I’m “milking it” or not doing enough. If anybody treats me like that’s the case it’s me. A survivor once told me it took four years to feel good—I’ve also heard longer. I’m being kinder to myself. It’s reassuring to remember other people don’t think of me at all, not that I’m not doing enough. I think of that scene in Jurassic Park and again of David Foster Wallace: “You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.”

Before surgery: Do you drink? Smoke? Drugs? None of the above. You aren’t supposed to drink after traumatic brain injury. I stopped. Never did drugs. Briefly dabbled with marijuana in college, as one does, but had a bad experience so stopped.

What I enjoy doesn’t require any of that. Birds, reading, writing, fishing, photography. Vision would be nice. It still isn’t right after two and a half years.

Herring Gull

These surgeries aren’t immediate fixes. The first two had a recovery window of at least two months, analogized to orthopedic surgery for your eyes. I imagine this one will take longer. Both eyes need to learn how they’re positioned in my skull.

Northern Flicker

After surgery, I saw more double. It’s improved since. The saying goes: It gets worse before it gets better. I don’t like to say it got worse. Was it good before? It got better with each operation, but was incorrect enough I asked for a third. Did I get greedy? Wanting functional vision doesn’t qualify as greed.

The surgeon who operates on my eyes pioneered this procedure. I learned of her through specific recommendation. Each subsequent surgery isn’t correction of mistakes, my eyes are just wonky.

The surgeon and I have a follow-up after a few days, another after two months. She determines if surgically adjusting another muscle could help; if so, gives me the option. I trust her, am grateful for her expertise and generosity.

At the most recent follow-up, she mentioned one muscle. It wasn’t easy to reach, risk wasn’t negligible. I decided to wait. It was just five days after surgery. Asking for more would’ve been greedy.

I’ve been through this three times. I come to, don’t see perfectly, get disappointed. Then my vision gradually improves. Surgery tightens muscles that need to loosen over time. I’m giving it time.

Bald Eagle and Red-winged Blackbird

As I wait, I dusted off my eyepatch to drive and read—though still try not to wear one. My default is not to. It slows binocular vision recovery. Eyes don’t get better at working together if you use one at a time. The goal is to never need an eyepatch.

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I got up early to drive emptier roads without one, to try. Drove to trails and an Osprey nest. I enjoy being up early. Predawn coffee, a sunrise walk, active birds.

Herring Gull

Driving without an eyepatch was doable. Its return was short-lived. I didn’t exactly have open arms, have since driven without one to appointments, meetings, onto a ferry, to bird, see friends. It will only improve.

Positive signs: A single doorknob, a single Eastern Phoebe. Sometimes my phone will stay double or a PDF will appear as two misaligned pages laid atop one another. Again, my eyes are inconsistent. Patience is a virtue.

When what I’m reading matters beyond enjoyment, I wear an eyepatch or close an eye.

Eastern Phoebe

You might think, just wear one all the time. I did before, don’t want to. If I try not to, I stubbornly believe my eyes will be forced to collaborate and my vision will get closer to how it was. Maybe I’m uncompromising to a fault.

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I was up early to drive a different day. Osprey again. For better or worse, I take a simple mentality to vision recovery. To make it work, make it work. Safely create challenging scenarios, de facto exercises. A doctor told me it doesn’t necessarily work that way. I try regardless.

Osprey with breakfast.

Osprey are models in resilience. They were flirting with extinction because of DDT, now they’re “a cosmopolitan raptor that breeds or migrates on all continents except Antarctica.” Audubon explains:

…there was a time, not many years ago, that the species’ future was anything but assured…The bird’s dramatic decline was documented by Roger Tory Peterson, who saw the number of active Osprey nests in the colony near his home in Old Lyme, Connecticut, go from 150 in 1954 to just 17 a decade later. Concerned, the eminent ornithologist wrote in an essay, “One year soon, I fear I shall find no Ospreys at Great Island—not one.”

Osprey working on the nest.

Beyond Osprey, I saw a Prairie Warbler and Scarlet Tanager. Both thrilled me, especially the tanager. Didn’t try for a picture. Wanted to let my eyes and brain make a single bird, luxuriate in the privilege of awareness.

It’d probably have flown off had I lifted my camera. As pointed out in a comment on Reciprocated Stares from Emma Liles, who writes True Nature: animals notice when “our intentionality changes, our energy moves outward, even so slightly.” The more exciting the bird, in my experience, the more likely it is to notice and fly away.

Belted Kingfisher

When my eyes became like this, I by necessity became more interested in birdsong. With a someday-birder-friend—I love sharing birds, he came away wanting binoculars—we were after a calling kingfisher. He knows about my vision, asked if I found myself relying more on my ears. Absolutely.

The Scarlet Tanager sings a “burry series of 4–5 chirruping phrases with a hurried quality,” like “a robin with a sore throat.” Its song was how I found it, got to watch a singing bird. Pictures don’t measure up. The bird throws their back, opening and closing their bill. A visual manifestation of what you hear.

It’s become necessary to learn to reframe. Objectively it’s not great to have had double vision for two and a half years and three surgeries. It’s taught me patience.

The friend I’ve known longest told me I needed this. He expressed regret that this took the form of a diffuse axonal injury and fourth nerve palsy. Regardless, it shone light on things to change, simplified through erasure, left a blank slate to repopulate.

Right after my first two surgeries, I birded. This time I couldn’t. Surgery was a Thursday, I was out of commission until the next week.

My first time birding afterward was in Rye, New Hampshire. Gulls, terns, Willet, Common Eider, cormorants.

Willet

Gulls have witnessed me in various states. I love gulls. Osprey mean a lot, but they’re objectively beautiful. Herring, Laughing, Bonaparte’s Gulls? The allure isn’t objective.

Birds aren’t “there for you,” but they’re there for you.

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For enduring that, here’s three songs.

A musical mushroom, “Human” takes on the flavor of its context.

Liz Cooper, “Outer Space.” Can’t go wrong with Liz Cooper. “Lights,” “Month of June,” “The Night,” “Dalai Lama,” “Fondly & Forever.” I’m sure I’ll include her again.

Finally, the eminent Dizzy Gillespie. I’ve known every word for years.