55 Days: The Broken-Winged Bird
Outside the hospital where I work, a terra cotta-colored retaining wall defines the space between the sidewalk and the main entrance. Embedded in it are ceramic figures created by children: a hot air balloon here, a serpent there, a smattering of hearts and stars.
One of these, a bird, first caught my attention during my internship. Rendered in bright hues of green, blue, purple, red, and yellow, everything about him suggests flight: wings spread wide, body arced as if turning in the air, head pointed purposefully downward, searching for something below.
But his shape is not up to the task. His torso and tail are more manatee than wren. One wing is truncated, squared at the end, either by accident or by design.
This bird became a talisman for me. Leaving the hospital at the end of my shift, often rattled by what I had witnessed, I would pause for a moment to drink in the sight of him.
I’d think, “You’re okay, so I’m okay.”
The bird was — he still is — my reminder that, no matter the shape of our wings, no matter the bodies, minds, circumstances, or events we experience in this life, we are all capable of finding our own ways to fly.
“If you can fly, then I can fly.”
Yesterday, a baby died in the PICU.
His passing was peaceful and heartrending. The valley his parents must walk through now — I would not wish that trouble on anyone.
Imagine pumping the breast milk your body created for a baby who is no longer breathing. Imagine his empty crib, the unopened packages of diapers, his favorite toy, the onesies in the drawers where you placed them prior to his birth, holding such hope for the future.
Imagine the barista at your regular coffee shop, seeing you un-pregnant for the first time, gasping, “Oh my god, congratulations! How’s the baby?”
These are but a few drops in the deluge that will drench this family in the coming days, weeks, and months.
If I can offer them anything, it is the faith of that broken-wing bird: however shattered and changed their grief may leave them, eventually, they too will learn to fly.
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Cheryl Dumesnil is a poet, writer, editor, and writing coach, with a side hustle as a medical social worker. Her books include three poetry collections, What Is Left to Say, Showtime at the Ministry of Lost Causes and In Praise of Falling; a memoir, Love Song for Baby X; and the anthologies We Got This: Solo Mom Stories of Grit, Heart, and Humor and Dorothy Parker’s Elbow: Tattoos on Writers, Writers on Tattoos. To learn more about her work, visit cheryldumesnil.com.
