Posted on: Sunday, May 11, 2003

Lesson in caring comes on bird's wings

By Michael C. DeMattos

Every Saturday, my 6-year-old daughter dances ballet, and every Saturday, I watch her.

I sit just outside the glass windows and slowly sip my coffee, whiling away the morning. Inside the studio, a classical melody flows and the girls dance to the music of their heart. Outside the studio is a cacophony made up of parental chitchat and the sounds of children running around and playing. It is a much different dance, but a dance nonetheless. The little birds often provide the music.

One recent day I noticed the little papaya birds were particularly vocal. Looking around for the source of the maddening chatter, I noticed a lone bird sitting on the causeway. He was very small and didn't seem to be moving. Dozens of people walked by. Most tramped on, oblivious of the little chick, but some stopped, stared, scratched their head and looked confused.

I decided I would check it out and slowly went downstairs. I walked slowly because I was pretty sure the bird was hurt and I suppose I was hoping that someone else would do something about it. What difference could I make, I wondered.

The baby bird weighed no more than a few ounces and neatly fit into the palm of my hand. He could barely move. Looking up, I saw that there were nests perched atop each of the massive floodlights arching out from the third floor. The little bird had taken quite a fall.

After my daughter finished class, the little bird was in a box in the back seat of our car. I had one hand on the steering wheel and the other around a cell phone. Luckily, I remembered my friend, a veritable Dr. Dolittle. This little guy would be right up her alley. But as fate would have it, she was not home. So much for making a difference, I thought.

We decided to head to her house anyway. My daughter named the little creature Birddy and quickly became his "mommy." She gently stroked his head and told him that everything would be OK.

I knew better. I knew there was a good chance that Birddy would die. He took a big fall and appeared to have hurt both his wing and leg. Within 20 minutes Birddy began to convulse.

My daughter asked, "What's happening, Daddy?"

"Birddy is having trouble breathing, honey. I think he is hurt pretty bad."

Her eyes welled up immediately and she asked if Birddy was going to die. I was silent. The tears flowed down her face. She turned all her attention to Birddy.

"Don't worry, Birddy, I am here for you," she said.

Within a few minutes, Birddy died, and my daughter sobbed aloud.

"We did all we could," I told her.

"But he died," she said, swallowing her own words.

"Yes, he died. He was badly hurt, and we did all we could. We tried to make a difference, but it doesn't always work out. Sometimes, despite our best effort, we fail," I explained.

There was quiet, and then my daughter said, "Before he died, he had a friend."

I looked at her and whispered through my own tears, "Then maybe we made a difference after all, honey."

Family therapist Michael C. DeMattos has a master's degree in social work.