birdie

In this part of the country as we near the summer solstice, it starts getting light as early as four in the morning. With the windows open and my eyes closed, I can hear the birds begin their glorious racket. At times they sound far off, a distant echo, and at others I can almost guess in which nearby tree they're perched.

Calvin has had seizures five days in a row, though no more than one or two a day and only one grand mal. As a result I've been awake at least two nights for hours before the dawn. The fact that his seizures were provoked by a virus and a low-grade fever (and, perhaps, the full moon as it hovered overhead just as he had his grand mal) is some consolation to me, as opposed to being purely spontaneous. It seems as though the homemade THC rescue med is working well to stop his partial seizures while thwarting them for the remainder of the day. Sadly, it hasn't always prevented his grand mals.

Today, it is nearly ninety degrees outside, just slightly cooler than yesterday, so we are both sick indoors trying to stay cool and get well. I sit on Calvin's changing table as he rests and naps, bites his toes and plays with his toys in his nest of a bed. From an upstairs window I see what I think is a baby finch splashing in one of our birdbaths, flapping its wings and ruffling its feathers. I think of how much Calvin reminds me of a little bird: his small frame and quick heartbeat, the way he opens his mouth for me to feed him and, if he is very hungry, the way he bangs the table or claps his hands for more. The birdlike chirps and coos he often makes when he's most content remind me of some sort of feathered friend, as well as how he splashes in the bath, just like that finch.

And, like a baby birdie does with its mother, when I crawl into bed with him, he curls up under my wing into a ball smaller than you might imagine. As he rests his head on my chest, I can feel his little heart a-flutter.