THE LAST ONE



Fred Sterling was obsessed by a rare bird, not to mention young, wealthy, and doomed. Isabel Hicks shares his obsession, but can she escape his fate?



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Isabel Hicks
Journal, April 3, 2017
Day one – in search of Sterling's purple heron!


Arrived at Sterling Boathouse. Windows open, doors unlocked, but no electricity. Note on the kitchen table, prob. from caretaker: “Gone to get new generator. Use attic bedroom. OK to take canoe out.”

Hopefully the caretaker gets back to hook up the generator before dark. But I’m at Glasmere Pond with a canoe and a waterproof notebook, so I’m elated.

This place is magnificent! Gilded Age, robber baron luxury, the only property built on the pond. The dock has three slips designed for yachts—empty except for a rowboat, and a lone canoe, stored upside down on a couple sandbags.

Unfortunately, the bedroom I’m in must be the servants’ quarters (!). It’s tiny, with just a cot, a bureau, a framed photo of some elderly relative, and a tarnished silver hand mirror.

Sterling was a Yale freshman in 1915 when he identified his new species of heron. I was a freshman too when I fell in love with this bird. I would sketch the specimen in the natural history museum, and dream of coming to this pond to prove the species survived. Five years later, I’m here.

Fred Sterling was the first to see the purple heron, and so far, he was the last. Why no sightings since 1915? Maybe after Fred died suddenly the next year, the family didn’t allow other naturalists on their property. All we know is the mounted specimen in a glass case. The deep amethyst hue of its wings, the elongated neck and ballerina legs, the feathery white plumes sweeping over the nape— magnificent.

I’d love to get a visual ID and DNA sample of Sterling’s heron this week. More likely I’ll just get a perimeter survey of the pond.

I wonder how Sterling felt when he heard the call of the purple heron. “The heron’s call is just as if a flute could laugh,” he wrote. He wanted to collect the bird for science, but he must have also admired its beauty. How long before he fired his gun?

7:45 pm
Still no caretaker. Phone service nil. Will annotate today’s notes in the last daylight. It’s been a strange day, but thrilling.




I.S. Hicks
Field notes, 04-03-2017

2:15 pm. I take the canoe to the south-east quadrant where Sterling made his 1915 spot. A hundred meters from the shore, I drift, so I don’t disturb nesting birds. I hear a grebe, a moorhen, bullfrogs. I listen, I wait.

At 3:47 pm, I detect an unfamiliar call, a rippling, lively sound, with a hiccuping rhythm, and breathy musical tone. “Just as if a flute could laugh,” Sterling said. I agree.

I can’t tell where the heron is situated. The sound bounces on the water. Is it an echo, or multiple birds? Tree branches empty. Marsh grass is still. The sky is clear. I don’t see any birds, but the trilling call rises and rises.

The high-pitched keening gets louder, hysterical. It’s literally painful; I cover my ears with my hands. Where are the herons? Is this an alarm call?

The banshee dies down. I return the canoe to the boathouse, 5:20 pm.



Journal, April 4
Day two, dawn

Yesterday afternoon I came back to the boathouse exhilarated and soaked with sweat. No hope of any more work. I lay down on my cot in the attic, but somehow I felt the eyes of the old man in the photo penetrating me. I turned the portrait face down and slept.

Woke up at first light today. No caretaker = no generator. No generator = no coffee. No coffee = migraine.

Despite the headache, I couldn’t be happier. I’m almost positive I encountered a colony of Sterling’s heron. I have all week to take photos, maybe get a DNA sample if my luck holds.

The herons are out there. I can feel it.



I.S. Hicks
Field notes, 04-04-2017

Entering boat slips at 6:20 am, I am struck by a smell of decay in the water.

A massive bunch of algae bloomed overnight near the docks. Rotting duckweed floats on the surface. Maybe my migraine is to blame, but it smells like rancid oil.

(The following notes have a personal tone, but I include them to explain why no observation occurred today.)

As I examined the algae, I thought I glimpsed another canoe. I guessed the paddler might be a local who could tell me the algae infestation. I shouted and waved.

The canoe drew closer. The paddler didn’t acknowledge my wave. Her slender arms, like a dancer’s, flashed in the sun as she paddled. The smell of algae grew stronger. Taking up the the binoculars, I saw her long hair was wet, dripping into the canoe. Wet hair, tangled with duckweed, oozing mud.

My headache throbbed. I stumbled to the bushes to throw up. When the nausea passed, the canoe was gone. The algae had spread.

No further observation today.


Journal, April 4
Near midnight

I must have slept thirteen hours. My headache is gone. The house is pitch black, of course. Using my headlamp to make journal entry, though it needs recharging badly.

Thinking more about Fred Sterling tonight. Yesterday I felt troubled by the photo on the bureau, a portrait of a white-haired gentleman. Now I feel compelled to look at it again. I think it could be Fred.

In the unsteady lamp light I read the inscription: “Fred, 1916, sophomore year.” He’s just 19, but his hair is as white as an old man’s. Later that year he would be dead.

I wish to God I could turn on the lights. Why am I here all alone? The headlamp flickers, and dies away. I hold up the silver hand mirror to my face. Even in the dark, I can see what I fear. I am a young woman whose hair has gone white, all white.




END

Wahoo Doray, Dahoo Doray, Welcome Christmas!

Last night the Schwartzes came over and we had a low-key but warm-hearted Christmas Eve celebration. We enjoyed: 

1) Cheese and crackers and fruit and cookies sent by my parents.
2) Intensely fantastic apricot jam sent by Melissa and John.
3) Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies made by Kate McD.
4) Tempting and delightful veggie dishes from La Cuisine, courtesy of my coworkers.
5) Hot chocolate and sent by my parents.
6) A few sips of red wine courtesy of Kate McD.
7) Opening the last advent calendar window that Melissa C. sent us from Hawaii.


Later today our Christmas dinner will feature tamales sent by David and Heather.

In other words, we are having a fantastic Christmas. It's a lot like Christmas morning in Whoville after the Grinch tried to steal all the Christmas stuff : we have no tree, no stockings, no roast beast. And yet our home is filled with Christmas spirit, thanks to the kindness and love of all of our family and friends.

Walking, reading, beet salad and other pleasures

Robert and I just had a delicious dinner,  an array of yummy treats from Branford's La Cuisine, a cafe that does catering and sells prepared foods. Robert ate more food than he has in days because it was all so yummy and varied: Beet salad, Moroccan carrots, wild rice/orange pilaf, roast pork loin, a meringue cookie.  This is thanks to my super-thoughtful co-workers at the library who gave me a gift certificate to La Cuisine to help out with Robert's recovery.

Robert is still spending much of the day in bed, but he's breaking it up with a few hours a day sitting in a chair reading. The elegant wooden rocking chair he got for his 30th anniversary at Yale is the most comfortable chair for him right now. He sits in it and looks all librarian-ish with his reading glasses and the tall stack of last week's New York Times newspapers that he is determined to catch up on.

He's doing laps around the house without a walker. Today he added an additional "speed lap" to his routine. I think tomorrow I'll suggest we add stairs to the routine.

Everything seems to be going pretty smoothly, thank goodness.  Meals and insulin shots happen in good time,  the laps around the house take place, pain meds are taken at the right time, tooth brushing happens at least once a day. It does take a full time assistant to direct all that activity (me) , but I'm really pleased that all those daily routines are happening without a great deal of trouble.

Things are good and there are frequent smiles in the house. The cat has gotten over his fear of the walker.

The shortest of updates, but positive.

Fortunately there hasn't been as much to report for Robert while he's at home -- less drama = more healing. His pain meds are getting more widely spaced, he's taking laps around the house with no walker, he's eating better, life is not too shabby. THANKS to everyone for your cards, calls, presents (!) prayers and thoughts!

Home!!!

Here are the simple thoughts of a very sleep-deprived blogger.

HOME HOME HOME.
GET ROBERT INTO BED.
ARRANGE PILLOWS.

Now it's my turn:  SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP HERE I COME.

Oh, no, I have to go to the pharmacy to fill Robert's prescriptions first... maybe I should tell people on the blog that we're home.... then,

NAP NAP NAP.

With the cat.

There's no place like home... there's no place like home...

We just got the word that Robert can go home this morning-- what a blessing. The rest of the morning seems to be a whirlwind of activity as all the staff members whiz through the room and give us their instructions for how to continue to care for Robert. After all the long stretches of time where nothing much seemed to be happening at the hospital, the discharge process seems like a "so long, been good to know you" flurry.

An ambulance company is taking Robert home, "bed to bed," so I don't have to worry about getting him up our long, steep walkway to our front door.

Home this afternoon, we hope! A good long nap is what we have planned first.

Lots and lots of details about why we are still in the hospital

Good news! Robert was up and walking today, on his own, without the walker, and even up and down stairs! In fact, he was better at going up stairs this morning than he was before the surgery. We had both sort of forgotten that that was the point of this whole thing, to improve his physical functions.


The physical therapist has more or less convinced us that we would be better off bringing Robert straight home rather than going into rehab. Yes, I've been wishin' and hopin' for the move to rehab, but the physical therapist pointed out that the exact things that are hindering Robert from getting better at the hospital will also be true in rehab. Just like the hospital staff, the rehab staff will manage his insulin in the same one-size-fits-none approach. He'll be woken up every 45 minutes by his roommate, the cleaners, cell phones going off, and the staff yelling pleasantries to the more hard of hearing customers. The risk of infection will be much greater around other patients.She convinced us both that home will be a much better environment for his well being. He will get assistance at home from a physical therapist and home health aid, so professional care will continue.


Seeing him walking around -- standing straighter and walking more briskly than he did before the surgery -- was a revelation. "Rehab is supposed to get you to this point and then send you home,' said the physical therapist. "Robert did all that work here, with you, and he's ready to go home."


Yet another hematology doctor wants to look Robert's blood before giving him the okay to go home. This after two hematology doctors gave the thumbs up. I'm starting to think that they view his blood as an especially tantalizing mystery they look forward to examining each morning, and they are loathe to let this source of excitement leave their lives.

More background for those who like this sort of thing: What is the big mystery about his blood? His platelets dropped dramatically after the surgery, gradually bounced back, and they can't figure out why. In a practical sense, the reason why matters because they don't want it to happen again-- low platelets means increased risk of blood clots. But I am starting to think that the wizards of hematology are so fascinated by Robert's humours that they have conspired to strengthen the spell of hospitalization and thwart the lovely princess who gallantly tries to free him (that would be me).


Okay, not really.

And the final problem -- managing his blood sugar -- I think I finally figured out a way to deal with that problem. All along, Robert has been ordering meals based on what he feels like eating, and then eating more or less of it depending on how yummy or ghastly it turned out to be. Meanwhile, the nurses have been giving him insulin based on a one-size-fits-all scale, like "Dinner is 15 units of insulin." I'm oversimplifying, but that's the problem: they use a math formula to figure out his insulin before anyone has a good idea of what he will really eat. His food and his insulin have not been coordinated well, and it's made for a roller coaster of glucose highs and lows.

As of today, I am testing his blood hourly with our tester kit and cracking the whip on how much food Robert eats. At home, he would give himself the right amount of insulin for what he knows he is going to eat. Here, we can't do that. So he'll have to do the opposite, and eat the amount of food that is appropriate for the insulin the nurses have already given him.

I started this blog entry at about 10 am this morning and I have been writing and erasing and writing all day. I hope we've settled down for the evening.  It's been a busy day: I've counted a lot of carbs, advocated for my patient like a fiercesome warrior,  and gleefully jumped up and down when I saw Robert walk up the stairs.