Six years ago when my health journey began it was a time when I sunk to the lowest point of in my life because my body had betrayed me and I felt trapped in a prison of pain and uncertainty. I'd been to multiple doctors, each appointment filled with glimmers of hope that were swiftly destroyed by the harsh reality that none of them were able to explain why I lost my ability to digest food and why standing more than 10 minutes sent me spiraling into waves of excruciating abdominal pain (among other numerous debilitating symptoms). When I was coming to terms with the likelihood I may not survive or at minimum not be able to walk again I found hope in a surgeon who offered a possible solution through kidney surgery, but with that hope came the terrifying realization that I'd once again have to go under anesthesia. Having been under anesthesia before for a prior abdominal surgery back in the 1990s held no comfort for me, only the stark memory of my sisters tragic fate in 1984, when due to the medical incompetence of a nurse anesthetist and anesthesiologist she wasn't given the required amount of oxygen during a minor surgical procedure, ultimately leaving her to languish in a vegetative state. Anytime I needed to be sedated following that time I'd become paralyzed with fear.
My sister was like a surrogate mother, my most trusted friend, my protector. Losing her when I was just 13 was like losing a vital part of myself. I was thrust into a world of confusion and pain, and I lacked the necessary tools to process the enormity of that loss. Although I was sent to therapy to work through my grief I struggled to articulate my emotions and couldn't understand the impact that moment had on my entire being. As the years went on I loss the ability to feel safe. Every doctor visit became nothing more than a reminder of how vulnerable I was. Well meaning people would always tell me "don't worry, what happened to your sister is rare" but the concept of rarity became a complicated paradox. "it's rare" for a plan to crash, "it's rare" to be struck by lightening, or "it's rare" to encounter an aggressive shark. Yet these platitudes felt like a cruel irony - comforts offered to everyone but me. I had lived through something extraordinarily rare and devastating, and the scars it left behind were not easily forgotten. Over time I came to realize those words did nothing to abate my fears; instead they illuminated the fragility of my life and the weight of loss, a reminder that security is often an illusion and that trust in the very fabric of existence can be a heartbreaking gamble.
I didn't know then that I was dealing with mast cell activation syndrome and that it could be triggered by something as common as stress.
In the months leading up to surgery I was a mental and physical disaster, grappling with a condition that left me feeling like a stranger in my own body. I hadn't been out of the house for much other than to go see doctors. In search of solace I started laying down on the deck in my backyard. I'd rise in the morning before everyone else in the house and head out to watch and listen. I found refuge in the sounds of nature waking up with me. It was late spring and the birds were slowly returning, there was music in the air. Chirp, chirp, chirp 🎶 It was comforting. I'd do this every morning and afternoon and slowly I started to feel safe again. It was as if the birds were telling me "it's ok, you got this, as long as you have us you have everything." I soon told myself I didn't need to walk, I embraced the idea of using a wheelchair and being pushed around in nature anywhere a paved trail may be. As long as I could sustain myself on the physicians elemental diet formula I was drinking, I told myself I was ok with that too, as long as I had the love of my family I was happy, as long as I had the birds every day I'd be absolutely fine. It wasn't long before I started taking short walks in the park behind my house, first 10 minutes, then 15, then 20. Each day I'd listen intently to the calls of the birds I once overlooked, marveling at their resilience and beauty. I really enjoyed photographing them. Slowly I started learning their names and recognizing their calls.
At that time I'd lived next to Alimagnet Park for 11 years and hardly explored its wonders but in my vulnerable state I was drawn into a strong desire to connect more with nature. This pursuit became a lifeline for my anxious mind.
In the years following that time I've developed an enduring love for birds. They are stunning creatures that I could listen to for hours but they're also amusing to watch. Beyond their aesthetic appeal, birds are an essential part of natural ecosystems. They help control insect populations, pollinate flowers, disperse seeds, and some even control rodent populations.
For me spring and fall are the most thrilling times of the year in the avian world. Spring is particularly magical because the birds are returning to Minnesota from their wintering grounds, meaning it's a time of renewal. The silence of winter gives way to delightful chirps and songs; nature awakens once more. I eagerly venture outdoors to find and count the ducks I see, keeping an eye out for the return of the robin, and explore the wetlands in search of my favorite, the red-winged black bird.
As autumn approaches, I find myself drawn to the places where migratory birds pause to rest and refuel on their journey southward. These fleeting gatherings are thrilling, as one day there may be hundreds, maybe even thousands to see, and the next day they may be gone entirely. The diversity of bird species gathering in the same space is astounding. Swans, ducks, geese, pelicans... all together on the same lake. It's fascinating to witness their flight patterns and the unity within their migratory routes.
Birds serve as a reminder, that despite life's hardships it is essential to keep moving forward and find joy in the present moment.
Wild birds navigate a relentless struggle for survival, from the instant an egg is laid until their last breath. Predators lurk at every turn, targeting their eggs, chicks, and adult birds, while diseases such as avian botulism, avian flu, and West Nile virus threaten their well-being. The challenges they face are many; mite infestations in their nests, dehydration, and collisions with man-made structures can all claim their fragile lives. Yet despite these relentless obstacles they continue to sing, travel, and raise their young, teaching us that joy can be found amid adversity. Their tenacity enchants me and encourages a hopeful perspective on life's challenges.
