In Memory of Fiddler

My mom and Fiddler

More than fifteen years ago, teenaged me returned on a December day to see a fluffy gray bird huddled against the chimney on our house. 

I'd been on a walk with Mom, a slow walk, trying to ignore the way her conversation was growing increasingly fragmented, trying to be patient when she lost her train of thought or zoned out or suddenly turned negative. Her seizures— the seizures that had appeared out of nowhere about a year ago— were under control, but the medication was worrying us. But the doctor had said that the new medication was the only way to keep her from dropping to the floor and thrashing around in public without a moment's warning. And he was right, wasn't he? Doctors were paid to prescribe medication, weren't they? The fact that her emotions were slipping away, that she had started being unable to cry, that she had started finding it harder to string thoughts together, were just unavoidable side effects of keeping these seizures under control. 

Teenaged me didn't have the mental or emotional tools to deal with this growing dread. I just walked a lot.

Mom and I paused on our front sidewalk as my brother Eric pointed up at the bird on our roof, who sat with its eyes closed, a sphere of gray fluff that appeared at first to be a mourning dove. 

"What is it?" Mom asked.

I squinted, noticing the slender crest rising from the bird's head, and faint red cheeks. "That's a cockatiel!" I exclaimed. "What on earth is a cockatiel doing here?" Our street was a dead-end surrounded by woods, and none of our neighbors had a pet bird.

By this time the rest of my family had piled out of the house, and the six of us looked up at the bird, who opened an eye to look at us, then shut it again and snuggled closer against the chimney.

"Get a sheet," Mom said, "and a ladder."

"I'll get her!" Mary said.

Dad and my brothers grabbed the ladder from the side of our landlord's house and leaned it against the roof. Mary clambered up, carrying a sheet. 

The bird's feathers flattened, and with a burst of speed, it flew away.

All of us sighed in disappointment. 

However, the bird immediately turned, made a tight circle, and landed right back on the roof, looking vaguely dazed. It blinked, then snuggled against the chimney again.

Mary sneaked up close to it, baby-talking the bird the whole way. She gently tossed the sheet over the bird and swaddled it. The bird made a couple annoyed squawks, but then settled down into a confused-sounding chirtle? Mary edged her way down the ladder, we called a neighbor who owned a dog for help, and a few minutes later, we had a large dog crate in our living room with a little cockatiel hanging onto the wire from the inside and looking very confused.

Mom called Animal Control and asked around to see if anyone had lost a cockatiel, but no one had. We never figured out where she came from or how she'd gotten to our roof— it soon became clear that she could barely fly.

I set down to do the most important task: naming the bird. Even if we delivered it to a shelter or gave it away, it needed a name. "Fiddler," I said. "Because we found it on our roof!"

Mom knelt down beside the cage and placed her hand on the side. The bird made an adorable little peep and scuttled over next to her. My mom's eyes crinkled as she smiled. She had grown up with pet parakeets, and always loved birds. My dad had always said he didn't like birds, and that they were messy and pooped everywhere, so they'd never had one. 

I looked at Mom, talking to Fiddler with a high-pitched voice and nearly squealing with joy whenever Fiddler made a cute little chirtle back at her. I looked at Dad, watching Mom, watching Mom express more emotion than she had in days, watching the way that she focused on this little bird and smiled, truly smiled.

That's when I realized that Fiddler wasn't going anywhere.

"She's your pet," Dad told Mom. "You know me, I don't like birds."

I hadn't seen Mom so happy since the seizures had begun.

~~~

The very next morning, Fiddler transformed from a sweet, friendly little bird into a tiny ball of rage. The shock of her outdoor adventure must have worn off, because she was terrified of all of us, including Mom, and loudly hissed or screeched if we came within four feet of her. Mom and Dad bought her a cage and accessories, and Fiddler furiously bit Mom as she transferred Fiddler into the cage. 

Mom didn't seem to mind at all. She identified the bird as a female, and fretted over the shape of Fiddler's feet, which were pretty deformed. "Do you see how scared she is?" Mom said. "She must have been mistreated by her former owners."

This was the first pet that my siblings or I had ever had, and we felt a bit let down by how unfriendly she was. Fiddler made it clear she wanted nothing to do with us. But Mom patiently approached Fiddler several times a day, softly speaking to her and leaving treats in the cage. Every day, Fiddler got a little less terrified. Every day, Mom got a little closer to getting Fid on her finger.

My sister Mary with Fid

 After about a week, Mom had finally convinced Fiddler to step on a treat bar that Mom held in her hand, and let her out of the cage to explore the house a little. Fiddler immediately discovered her favorite spot: an open shelving unit that divided the kitchen from dining room/living room. Fiddler would fly to the very topmost shelf and sit with her beak touching the wall. She'd get fluffy and even sleep up there sometimes, but if anyone came near, she'd look very suspicious. Only Mom could come near enough to get her to step on her finger and go back in the cage.

It was Christmastime, so my family and I were gathered in the living room and watching It's a Wonderful Life. Fiddler was high up in her fortress of solitude, watching along with us. We had forgotten that she was out until we heard a flurry of wingbeats. Fiddler sailed into the living room and landed squarely on Dad's chest as he reclined in his chair. "Peep!" Fiddler brightly screamed in Dad's face.

We were all shocked by this turn of events, and Mom convinced Dad to not ruin the moment and let Fiddler continue sitting on him, since this was the first time Fiddler had taken initiative to fly to anyone. Dad grumbled something about birds, and we kept watching the movie. Just as we were getting to a dramatic part of the film, we heard Dad squawk in surprise, and looked over to see that Fiddler had waddled up to his face and had started preening his beard. She looked very proud of herself, using her beak to comb out of the tangles in his beard. Mom began laughing hysterically, and we yelled at Mom not to ruin the dramatic moment in the movie, and Dad rolled his eyes but let Fiddler continue to happily pick away at his beard. Once Fiddler had thoroughly ruined the dramatic moment in the film, she flew back to her cage, put up one foot, tucked her beak into her back, and went to sleep. 

She was part of the family now.

~~~

The first time Fiddler ran into a window, I realized how much she meant to us. 

She had barely flown at all since we got her, but Mom had been training her to flutter a few feet from person to person. But one day, Fiddler felt like stretching her wings, and she flew right past Mom, sailed through the open space in the house, and ran squarely into the picture window. She slid down the glass like a cartoon character.

I felt like my heart stopped. Mom's gasp was louder than a shout. Mom, Dad, and I all went running over to the motionless body on the floor. 

Just as Mom reached her, Fiddler flopped upright and said, in a rather dazed sort of way, "Peep?" 

Mom began sobbing, something I hadn't seen her do in months, not since the drugs had kicked in. She held Fiddler between her hands and kissed her soft feathers while Fiddler tried to bite her to get her to let go. 

"Stupid bird!" Dad yelled. He was crying too. 

Fiddler shook out her feathers, preened herself, and moved on with her life as if nothing had happened. 

I realized that someday Fiddler would die, and I would have to deal with it.

I hoped that day was far, far away.

~~~

Fid liked making tissue boxes into a "nest"

Weeks turned into months. Mom would sit at the computer for her online teaching job, with Fiddler sitting on her shoulder or in her lap. Mom slowly descended into numbness; it felt like she had aged twenty years over the course of the months. Her seizures, which had stopped for a while when she started the medication, returned with a vengeance, and all the doctor did was up the dosage on her drugs. 

Soon it felt like Mom had no emotions, and all her energy was focused on doing her work. I couldn't talk to her about the swirl of teenaged problems that I was tangled up in. We could talk about things for about five minutes at a time before she lost focus, and I learned not to expect that she would have emotions. One day as we walked together, I began crying about something and she— usually one of the most empathetic people I knew— just stared at me as if observing an alien life form. 

I had lost my mom, and I had no hope of getting her back. 

But when I saw her with Fiddler, I saw her truly happy. 

I saw her light up when she uncovered Fid's cage in the morning and Fiddler would chirp at her. 

I saw her giggle when Fiddler would crawl onto her shoulder and get tangled up in her hair and preen her ear.

I saw her relax into contentment when she scratched around Fiddler's head and neck, and Fiddler would close her eyes and turn her head like a cat.

Mom loved Fiddler, and Fiddler loved her.

I was happy that Mom still had something in her life that made her feel emotions the way she was supposed to. 

~~~

Gradually, Fiddler warmed up to us, and us to her. She would sit on dad's arm and eat seeds from his hands, and she let each of us hold her (although she would still sometimes look down at our hand, suddenly realize that she was on One of Those Things She Did Not Like, and screech at us). Mary even figured out how to pet her head and preen her feathers. 

We called her nicknames— Fid, Poodler, Poodner, Pood. We got used to her excited cheap whenever the microwave beeped. We learned that she never bit in earnest. I learned to bounce my hand gently when she perched on me, and she'd get sleepy and start chewing, a sign of contentment and sleepiness. 

She had a lot of personality. When she wanted alone time, she would dramatically yawn and tuck her beak into her back, then stare at you with her eyes open, willing you to go away. If you didn't go away after a while, she'd take her beak out and yell at you— then pretend to go to sleep again until you finally left her alone. She learned to exist in the "flock," but Mom was her obvious favorite. None of us minded.

~~~ 

Fid keeping my dad company while he painted

More months passed. By the time Mom was having three seizures a week, she finally got a new doctor, who ordered a hospital stay where they'd hook her brain up to a machine and monitor her to figure out what was happening.

We took good care of Fiddler the week that Mom was in the hospital. Fid was agitated all week, often flying around the house and looking disgruntled when she couldn't find Mom. When Mom returned from her hospital stay, Fiddler cheeped for five minutes straight and then preened Mom for the next hour.

The study revealed that Mom did not, in fact, have epilepsy. The seizures didn't originate in the brain. She had been taking the wrong medication.

The doctor said that her seizures must be psychosomatic, took her off the medication, and said there was nothing else he could do.

Mom still couldn't cry, but the rest of us did. 

Fiddler snuggled up next to Mom as usual, and didn't mind at all.

~~~

Fiddler continued to stay by Mom's side all day, whether Mom was editing papers or teaching piano. Mom went to a new naturopath, and then a holistic chiropractor, and though neither of them were able to diagnose her condition, they gave her coping mechanisms that helped her ward off seizures, or deal with them when they happened. She learned the things that triggered seizures: florescent and LED lights, heat, humidity, noise, vibration, sugar, stress. When Mom would lay in bed after having a seizure, Fiddler would climb down from her cage, walk across the floor, climb up onto Mom's bed, and sit next to her face to preen her. 

Month by month, the seizures lessened. Mom started looking less gray. She began to carry conversations again. She began to have empathy again. I felt like I was watching her age in reverse, the unfocused bland existence peeling away layer by layer as the drugs worked their way out of her system. 

The nightmare was never truly over, but one day, I realized that Mom had settled into a pattern of only having a seizure every few months, under specific conditions. And her personality was back. Aside from being largely unable to cry, she was back to her old self. I had my mom back.

One thing hadn't changed: her bond with Fiddler. Fiddler had been the closest and brightest light in her darkness, and that had forged a connection stronger than any pet/human relationship I'd ever seen. Mom still lit up every time Fiddler peeped at her or flew to her or head-butted her asking to be petted. Fiddler was Mom's emotional support animal, who had been a steady companion through so much pain and confusion and sadness.

~~~

Years flew by. The family went through upheaval and change as my dad had major health problems, as my siblings and I began stretching our wings, as a string of landlords forced us to move several times in a few years. Through it all, Fiddler came with us, unfazed by the changes so long as Mom was there. Dad finally began admitting that maybe Fiddler did like him after all, when she would sit on his shoulder while he was painting, as fluffy as could be.

Once, Mom had to have her appendix removed, and due to complications was in and out of the hospital for a month and a half. We weren't sure if Fiddler would remember her, but each time Mom came home from the hospital, Fiddler would go crazy, hopping around the cage and yell-chirping at the top of her lungs. She knew who her mommy was.

The next year I married Zach and moved out, but visiting Mom and Dad meant visiting Fiddler too. She was looking a bit scruffier these days, and didn't fly as well as she used to, but her life was good: not only sitting on Mom's lap or shoulder, but perching on Dad's shoe and picking grit out of the crevices. Our little nephew stared wide-eyed at this fascinating creature, and loved to watch her fly. He learned to say her name and brightly called it whenever he walked into a room where she was perched, usually half asleep. She was sleeping a lot more these days.

~~~

A few weeks ago, Mom and Dad went on a trip, and Zach and I bird-sat. Fiddler had been plucking, and so I had to begin each day wrapping her in a towel and rubbing hemp oil on her neck while she squawked at me and gave me warning bites. Her eye looked swollen and we took her to a vet, where we got three more medications to give her. 

Zach and Fid enjoying fresh air together

As I held her wrapped in a towel, trying to keep her from eating the eyedrops, I felt how small and fragile she was. 

Even though she hated the medicine, directly afterward, she would shake it out and return to her fluffy— if bedraggled— self. I kept her next to me while I was editing papers, and brought her into the living room so she could sit in the sunlight. When I walked into the room, she would usually chirtle at me.

One day she climbed down onto the rug in a pool of sunlight and sat there for an hour with her eyes closed and her feathers fluffed.

~~~

As a kid I hated reading books about beloved pets, because in the end, the pet always dies. 

Pet's lives are too short. 

It feels like too much to bear.

~~~

"We're taking her to the vet on Thursday, and I'm not expecting good news," Mom said. "I've been crying all week."

Zach and I had dropped by for a visit before leaving town for our anniversary trip. I heard the words, but didn't really process them. Sure, Fiddler was looking sicker and thinner by the day, but… hopefully the vet would fix it, there would be another medication, or something. I didn't even let the ramifications sink in. 

I told Mom I would be praying. I glimpsed Fiddler sitting in her cage with the golden sunlight shining on her. She was fluffed out, just as she was the day we found her on our roof.

I didn't know that this was goodbye.

~~~

On Thursday, Zach and I were back home and quarantined, waiting on results of Covid tests. 

Dad texted me to say that Fiddler was gone.

Mom and Dad buried her under a redbud tree in my sister's backyard. My sister, Covid-positive, watched from inside the house. Neither of us could go and hug my parents and hold them and process this crushing grief.

Mom cried. She cried on the phone that night when she talked about Fiddler's death and her last moments with her beloved bird. She said that she'd been bawling every day. 

She had cried more this week than she'd cried in the past fifteen years put together. 

She had cried the tears that had been locked up by the drugs and suppressed by the rewiring of her brain, cried the tears that this little bird, this gift from God, deserved. 

She said she felt a hole in her heart. She said the house felt empty.

I cried a lot, too. 

To many people Fiddler was just a bird, a cute pet. To me, she was a beacon of light in the darkest times of my family's life, a companion to my mom in sickness and in health, and the being that gave my mom joy when nothing else did. I'm so, so grateful for the gift of her presence throughout the years, a constant in our lives when everything felt so up in the air. She was a symbol of my mom's healing, a reminder that life goes on and that love doesn't change, even when people do. To tell Fiddler's story is to tell my mom's story, because the two of them are inseparable from each other.

Fly free, Fiddler. We miss you.

~~~