When I broke my back this year, I spent many months in bed, staring out a three-foot-wide window at tiny slices of tree, bush, and sky. The view never varied except for droplets of rain, splashes of sun, dustings of snow, and the occasional ping of hail bouncing off the glass.
I was so used to living an active, engaged, exciting life. Now, the highlights became a pause in the pain, a visit from someone I wanted to see, or a new limited TV series from Korea on Netflix. I ate lying flat on my back, and my husband Paul went to great lengths to cook and serve beautiful food, even though I couldn’t see over the top of the TV table that stretched over my midsection.
Paul became my full-time caregiver, and I winced with shame, guilt, and helplessness. I kept waiting for him to explode with frustration or anger at having to take care of everything, and I mean everything, while I could do nothing to help. It never happened.
“Why are you doing this for me?” I asked.
“Because it’s what we do,” he answered, as though he couldn’t understand my question.
The only strong emotion Paul expressed—and he is a fully emotional and emotionally expressive human—was sadness that he couldn’t do more to help me. How did I get that lucky? How could I ever repay him? He didn’t comprehend why I was uncomfortable with being so needy. “I’m just doing what we do,” he insisted.
One day, Paul seemed especially cheery. “I’m going out but I’ll be back in about an hour. Just call if you need me.”
When he returned, I could hear him whistling as he entered the house. The next thing I knew, he was outside, waving at me through my slice of window. I waved back. I could hear him tinkering in the side yard but didn’t think much of it. In fact, I soon fell asleep.
When I woke up, the view from my window had changed. Seemingly suspended in midair was a wire, and hanging from that wire was a clear glass hummingbird feeder with liquid inside.
“I didn’t know we had a hummingbird feeder there,” I said to Paul when he appeared at my bedside.
“We didn’t. I built it for you.”
“How did you do that?”
“I bought a vertical steel pole and a smaller horizontal pole to place on top of it. I dug a hole for it to stand up in. My goal was to make the pole invisible so all you would see was the feeder. And then you could experience the joy of seeing the birds feeding very close to you.”
That first day, no birds came. Nor did any come the second day. By the third morning, when Paul drew back the curtains, the first hummingbird arrived. And they haven’t stopped coming, pausing, sipping, perching, and sometimes pushing others away ever since. Just as surprisingly, even though I am no longer completely bedbound, each arrival has brought a renewed burst of joy to my heart and my life. I never get tired of standing, sitting, or lying down to watch the little winged ones, and feeling blessed by their visits.
“I hope you can feel my love,” Paul says modestly.
“I do. And I thank you. Every single time.”
