Suddenly, there was a flurry of pigeon activity outside my bathroom window; always a pair, sometimes a trio. I watched this for a day or two before I realized they were scoping out a cote. This made sense for the pair. The third I imagined to be an anxious mother-in-law or the avian equivalent of a real estate agent. There were dozens of inspections before the first twig was brought in to construct the heap that would eventually serve as a cushion for mama’s eggs. They were shopping – buyer’s market.
The hardware to secure the left shutter to the bathroom window doesn’t function, and the enclosed space that defines is perfect for holding a pigeon’s sloppy nest. But the interior wall is glass, so while the couple may enjoy all the modern amenities of a dream cote, they wouldn’t have much privacy. As the nest piled up, I figured my frequent invasions on their space would convince them to move to a better building, but when, a few days later, I cautiously lifted the curtain to check, I was greeted by two beautiful eggs nestled on a little pile of soft trash. From then on, as soon as I came into the room, mama pigeon would spring to her feet and fly away. I tried to limit my intrusions, but it was difficult. It’s a bathroom.
Then a curious thing began to happen. I had been mentally apologizing each time mama’s brooding was disturbed, and after a few days, she stopped hopping to her feet. She just sat there, her inquiring eye alert but not afraid. We had learned to coexist.
Not so with the drugs I’d been taking for Parkinson’s. When it turned out that what I thought was my ninth and second-to-last week of withdrawal was actually the “dreaded fifth” the drugs were sent to a friend’s house on vacation. I was taking no chances with reacquaintance.
The dreaded fifth is aptly named. Bottom was identified and hit with a loud, painful slam. I’m now approaching week seven, and I’m beginning to feel vaguely human. But only sometimes, and the progression is neither steady nor straight.
My first reaction when JJ broke the news to me that – due to my having started the ten-week countdown at the beginning rather than at the end of the dosage reduction period, I hadn’t skipped blithely through withdrawals but was just shy of the halfway point – was horror. Great! I get to feel indescribably awful while living alone, in a walking town I’m unable to walk in, during a lockdown. And it could last for at least five more weeks. But in many ways being alone has been a blessing. For a few days last week, the presence of even my most cherished friends caused me to tremble uncomfortably. And knowing that my brain’s putting me through unpredictable emotional and physical contortions was alarming only me, was rather a relief. No one was going to send me to a hospital to be force fed the drugs I had spent weeks flushing out of my system. I was miserable, but I was safe, and on this path feeling safe is essential to a good outcome.
I’m now approaching week seven. Week five was simply awful. Week six was full of surprises, but overall a lot easier to bear. There is a fair amount of variation in how I feel hour to hour even as the week as a whole is less burdensome, but I am confident (as I can be) that week seven will see at least sparks of normality.
Then yesterday, while randomly reading from JJ’s book, Recovering From Parkinson’s, I ran across a series of passages that together delivered a narrative that exactly described my experiences of the past two weeks; case studies of patients who were by chance in withdrawal and recovery simultaneously. That reassured me.
I’ve been keeping a daily log of no literary merit, but anything narrative requires dexterity and a tolerance for being at the computer with all the tiny movements that that demands, and my body quickly rebels, so writerly writing (like with grammar and stuff) had to be put on hold. Fortunately there is Netflix (which works “most” of the time) and YouTube and PBS, with movies I’ve loved and love seeing again, and others I’ve long wanted to see. That Netflix has different films available on my computer than it does on the television is a mystery. But now that I am not in the rage phase of withdrawals, solving it allows me to use up time going back and forth between the two screens trying to effect a work around I discovered which is also maddeningly inconsistent. Everything that takes up time without agonizing side effects, is welcome.
Each day yawns wide at waking, often with only a shiatsu, a visit, or a phone call as punctuation, but I somehow get through the hours to bedtime. Then sleep may happen for two hours or ten, depending on what I do not know, but nights are got through as well. That it has been a year of variations on this theme for millions of us prevents me from dissolving into self pity. We all recognize the outlines of those yawning days, even if the particulars are different.
I’ll get through this, and it will be worth it. We are getting through this, and hope dearly the larger resolution will be worth it, too.
In the meantime, mama pigeon grows ever more used to my presence. I can sit right next to her and admire her soft iridescence without provoking a ruffle. I read that pigeons reproduce over the full course of their lifetimes, so this brooding is something she is probably really good at. Perhaps in admiring her I will learn something about hatching my own promising outcomes. Nothing is for naught.