Above
all birds, the hummingbird gives me that feeling of the mystery and
the wonder of life. Such a vibrant little body, such color, and wings
that beat faster than thought. I felt as if I could watch the whole
of life if I could hold a hummingbird in my hand once.
― Gladys
Taber, The
Book of Stillmeadow
I’ve
done that. I’ve held a hummingbird in my hand. What a splendid
creature he was, his luminous, emerald-green feathers accentuated by
a necklace of magenta. It was an awesome and wondrous experience, but
it didn’t feel like one at first. Oh, the stress and struggles
that were upfront payments.
This
hummingbird encounter takes place at a house my son and
daughter-in-law recently purchased. Its layout is key to the
narrative. The new home is an expansive, two-story Mediterranean,
with a spacious foyer separating two wings. A massive
glass-and-wrought-iron door greets visitors at the foyer’s
front, while across the room from it, double glass doors open to a
patio. To one side of the foyer, a winding wooden staircase rises to
the second floor, where master and guest suites are separated by a
five-feet wide, ten-feet long bridge. This walkway is off-centered
and closer to the back of the house than the front. From its rails
one looks down onto the foyer below. The ceiling in this area rises
fifteen feet above the second floor, with six-feet-high gridded
windows looking out to the front and back of the property. In the
rear of the house, a roofed patio runs its length, with several sets
of limestone steps leading down to a lower, mixed-use area. At one
end of it is a lawn shaded by towering Ficus trees. At the other is
an L-shaped swimming pool. Between them, a bar with a thatched roof
shares the space with a fire pit.
It’s
a warm day in April and the family is away for Easter break, while I
watch the house in their absence. Renovations are underway and
painters are busily working in a hallway off the foyer. The patio
doors are open for ventilation. I’m standing in the foyer when
I hear a buzzing sound similar to what a bumble bee makes. Except
it’s not a bumble bee; it’s a hummingbird! It’s
flown through the open patio doors and up past the second floor to
the foyer’s high back window. The tiny bird is moving up and
down the gridded panes, unintentionally using its body as a battering
ram, as it tries again and again to pass through an invisible shield.
“Come down here!” I yell up to him, as if he knows
English. He’s apparently lost track of how he got inside, so
it’s up to me to help him get back out. Adrenaline courses
through my veins, but this is no time to panic. The hummingbird’s
life could depend on me keeping my cool.
The
upstairs walkway is close enough to the back wall that I might be
able catch the bird if I can find some kind of net and a ladder. The
pool skimmer net comes to mind. Its handle is telescopic and might
reach high enough. Outside, I find the skimmer net, and in the
garage, I find a step ladder. I return to the foyer, hoping the
hummingbird has freed himself in my absence, but he hasn’t. The
tiny one is still beating himself against the window. He’s
clearly stressed and I fear he’ll collapse before I can save
him.
I
extend the net pole to its full length and set the ladder next to the
railing. Standing on its top rung, I can just reach the high window.
It’s crucial to catch the bird quickly, but at the same time,
I’ve got to work carefully so I don’t hurt him. Over and
over I strain to sneak up on this avian escape artist, moving the net
in front of and behind him, but at the last second, he always evades
me. I try using the net to coax him downward, but that doesn’t
work either. My arms are exhausted from the exertion and I cry up to
him, “Please don’t fight me! I’m trying to help
you!”
I
can barely hold the net up anymore. My arms ache and burn. My neck
hurts. My shoulders hurt. I need a taller ladder. I rush back to the
garage to find one, but I don’t, and when I return to the
foyer, the hummingbird is gone. After all my hard work, did he just
fly away when I wasn’t looking? I scan the room but don’t
see him anywhere and I can only hope the poor thing found his own way
out. Drained, I go to the kitchen for a glass of water, but as I
drink it down, one of the painters, who does not speak English, comes
in and motions for me to follow him. We walk down the hallway toward
the foyer and he stops just before we get to it. He points to the
floor. I look to where his finger leads and see the hummingbird lying
on his side and breathing heavily. Fighting back a surge of panic, I
kneel down and gently, carefully, pick him up and lay him in the palm
of my hand. He doesn’t move. Eyes open and chest pulsing, he
lies there without resistance. The tiny bird is clearly exhausted and
must be dehydrated, as well. He needs sugar water, pronto.
The
quickest way to get it is from the patio feeder, but with the
hummingbird in one hand, I have only the other to work with. Using
that hand, I remove the feeder from its hook, take it inside, and
wedge it in upside down in the kitchen sink’s drain. That holds
it in place and I manage to twist the bottom off and pour some of the
nectar into a cup. I grab a straw from the cupboard and go out to the
lawn, where I delicately lay the hummingbird in some grass under a
Ficus tree. “You’ll be fine,” I assure him.
Having
volunteered in an avian ICU at a local wildlife shelter, I know how
critical it is to control the amount of fluid you give a bird at one
time; they can easily drown if given too much. I suck on the straw
and draw a teaspoon or so of liquid from the cup. Using my finger on
the top of the straw to create suction, I release sugary fuel onto
the hummingbird’s beak a drop at a time. Some of it gets into
his mouth and I see his tongue moving as he swallows. I continue this
process, drop, drop, drop, for what feels like an eternity. My
patient seems to be coming around, but he’s still far too weak
to fly away. He needs rest and more fluid. My cup is empty, though,
so I race inside to get what’s left in the feeder. When I come
back out, the hummingbird is lying where I left him, but he’s
alert and I’m hoping for a full recovery.
I
feed him all the fluid in the cup, but he still seems to need more,
so I hurry back inside and mix some using warm tap water that barely
dissolves the sugar. When I return this time, though, my little
charge is gone. I look down at the space where he’d been, now
empty, and I can only hope he’s recuperated more than I
thought. Disappointed at missing his departure, I turn and head back
to the house. But as I pass the patio bar, I see him lying like a
fallen leaf on the limestone tiles. “Please don’t die,”
I implore, as I lift him up.
Sitting
on a chair with him in my hand, I drip more of the nectar onto his
beak. After a few minutes, he perks up, as if rousing himself from a
brief rest. The hummingbird leaves my hand and flies off into a Ficus
tree. My emotions are mixed. I’m happy and relieved that he
seems to be okay, but I’m still worried about whether he’s
wholly recovered. What if he’s fallen again but somewhere out
of sight this time? I walk the grounds, meticulously searching for
the little guy, but I don’t see him anywhere.
I
return to the house and slump into a kitchen chair, worn out but
content. I replay the hummingbird episode in my mind, memorizing the
moments so I can share them with my kids. But soon I feel an urge to
go back outside, to check just one more time and be sure my patient
hasn’t relapsed. At first I don’t see him anywhere and
I’m about to go inside again, but then I spot his brilliant
body on a step leading down to the pool. He isn’t lying on his
side, though. He’s sitting up and looking straight at me. We
stare at each other for maybe five seconds and then he flies up into
a tree, where he’s out of sight. It’s as if he came back
to say thanks and to show me he’s okay. As I slowly turn to
leave, I’m grateful for that. I’m elated but also sad,
and it feels like I’ve just said a closing goodbye to a dear
friend. What a marvelous experience that was, though. As Gladys Taber
wrote, “It was like I watched the whole of life with that
hummingbird in my hand.”
Cynthia
Todd has penned academic articles, thought pieces, and short stories,
along with two books: a historical fiction novel and a narrative
nonfiction/memoir. The novel, Through
the Window,
was self-published in 2012 but never came near garnering $500.00 in
royalties. Cynthia received no payments for her other works.
Educationally, she earned both bachelor’s and master’s
degrees in psychology, later completing doctoral coursework in school
counseling. Professionally, she worked with disadvantaged youth,
juvenile offenders, and both middle and high school students. The
author is currently semi-retired and living in Phoenix, Arizona,
where she assists at her son’s real estate agency.
