One For Sorrow, Two For Joy

         I’d thought it was a Chaffinch, but Dad was quick to point out that it had darker feathers and more of a blue back. Therefore we all knew it was a Bullfinch. It was the first time I’d seen one in our garden. I watched with amazement. I loved birds. I loved how no two where the same. I loved the agility, the freedom, the grace. When I was planning my future, I’d always wanted to do Zoology. I’d always wanted to be a noted Ornithologist. Studying birds, and being paid for it. It was an unachievable dream, but I still dreamed nonetheless. As I watched in fascination, dad asked if I wanted him to get my camera. I said no, because in my case, a memory will last longer than a photo. Today, I was given three weeks left to live.

         Bonfire Night. Two weeks to go. Mum had gotten everything we’d chucked out in April out of the garage and made a massive bonfire. I was sat on a chair, wrapped up so much I looked like the Michelin Man. I was losing my speech and hearing by now. Dad carried me everywhere, I could only move in short spurts, and it took all my energy. I watched the fire grow and grow. Spark to life as I died beside it. Beautifully repulsive. Dad came over and put his hand on my shoulder. I tried to say something to him, but he didn’t hear. He stooped to my level and listened again; but still couldn’t understand. As I used all my energy to shout, he shook his head and couldn’t comprehend. I got more and more frustrated, Dad got more and more upset. Listen to me! Hear what I’m saying! He continued to shake his head and look bemused. I struggled to bring my hand to my head, but it was nothing more than instinct to throw my wig onto the fire. A single tear stained my cheek; a million flooded my father’s.

My hospital bed. One week to go. Doctors, charts, drips, meds, obsessive hand washing and death. The sheets of my bed were too crisp, too clean and far too white. The flowers next to my bed would look better on my coffin. I hated being given flowers, what were you supposed to do with them? Once cut, they’d start to die immediately. The beauty isn’t worth the life. I hated my pessimism. It’d always been a part of me, just like my right hand, or my big toe, it wasn’t something I thought about much when it was there, but everyone would notice if it was gone. It was just who I was. Mouse came to visit. His hair had grown quite a lot since I last saw him, even though that wasn’t very long ago. He looked uneasy. He talked to me about Kingfishers, Kestrels and Whinchats; though I could barely hear him, I knew because he’d bought books. Picture books of my favourite things - ones he’d obviously made himself, with big sparkly letters spelling out ‘For my Amanda,’ on the front cover.. I’d miss him. I told him I loved him, but he didn’t hear. So I told him everything else that was on my mind – and he didn’t hear that either. Bliss. I fixated on the thick black frames of his glasses and drifted into unconsciousness. Sweet, sweet unconsciousness.

Today is the day. I know it is, I can feel it in the beep of the machines and the flow of the IV. A nurse comes in, I don’t recognize her. Is she blond? I don’t know, maybe it’s strawberry blond. I lose my train of thought. Dizziness, nausea, sleep. I wake again. Mouse is here. I think it’s Mouse, anyway. It might be my Dad. Whoever it is points to the windowsill. I see a lone Magpie. One for sorrow. I laugh to myself. Laughter’s the best medicine, they say, and I’m going to need a load of it to get better. So I laugh to myself until it makes me tired, and then I fall back into the comfort of oblivion. Beep. I’m awake. Beep. Bereavement, loss, decease, me. Beep. Mouse, Mum and Dad hold me in one way or another; I tell them I love them through every pore in my body. Beep. Gathering pace and running towards the light. Beep. Freedom, agility, grace. Beep. And in my last moments, I see another magpie land on my windowsill. Two for joy. And that’s all I need. That’s my blessing to go.