The Kingfishers

By Jeane Carman  

Clara stretched out on the chaise lounge in the sun filled atrium in the Italian Villa she shared with Antonio. The Adriatic Sea, visible in the distance, sported white caps on a turquoise background today. A sparkling marble floor, a pool, and luscious flowering plants surrounded her. She was reading from National Geographic Society’s Song and Garden Birds, in particular a section on The Belted Kingfisher (Megaceryle alcyon).

This Kingfisher, one of a world-ranging family, owes its second Latin name, alcyon, to classical mythology. Alcyone, daughter of Aeolus, grieved so deeply when her husband perished in a shipwreck that she threw herself into the sea. The pitying gods transformed both lovers into kingfishers who roamed the water side by side. She continued reading. The Kingfisher jealously guards fishing rights, patrolling his stretch of shoreline or stream, advertising boundaries with a harsh, grating call. It is a high-pitched penetrating sound similar to the clicking of a fisherman’s reel. The Kingfisher is a solitary bird, seldom seen in groups except during courtship. It tunnels in banks of ponds and creeks. The female has a rusty band across her breast.

Clara put down the book, gazed into the turbulent sea, and began to write in her journal. I record this myth today because I am reminded that Antonio and I gave each other a belted Kingfisher as an anniversary present for our 40th anniversary. The bird, with its slate blue and rust coloring and a white band around its neck, a wooden sculpture, stands on our mantel. As I read this myth that gives the bird part of its Latin name I believe there is significance in our choice of this particular bird, although we did not know it at the time. In many ways there are parallels in the description of the bird’s behavior and Antonio’s and my relationship. We too tend to be elusive or aloof at times, interspersed with intense closeness and noisy conflicts, like the birds’ calls, protecting our space, our privacy.

The poignancy of the myth of connection and transformation in tragedy fits as well. I remember thinking, but not saying to anyone in the past ten days, I am startled yet relieved at the revelation of the situation that was there all along--- as if a veil lifted to make the truth clear. I am still grieving my brother’s death, but as Auntie Jo said in reference to her mother’s long mental decline, “There are worse things than death.” How does Antonio perceive himself? Does he know that he is losing short-term memory, meaning e.g. computer skills, use of a calendar? Do I say anything to him, and when? Have the children noticed the changes in behavior? I’ve known something was not right, but I thought it was depression after Antonio lost his job.

In this present moment I need to be a compassionate listener, speak softly and gently, take care of myself. I need to write, to walk in the sun, and practice breathing meditation. I will find a support group, use the help line, I will document changes as suggested by Ellen, and work toward a thorough physical assessment for Antonio. There is help available. Medication can slow down the process if the M.D. believes this to be the first stage of Alzheimer’s Disease. If I can get Antonio to the doctor.

In the meantime I will try to continue the work on my manuscript. I do so wish to complete it, if even just for my goal and not a publisher. The story is important, even if it only stays within our family.                            

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Two and one half years later.

Clara settles in to write in the same sunny, warm spot in the atrium of their villa. Antonio went for a complete physical yesterday, the first in over a quarter of a century. He hates going to doctors. Only the hospitalizations for emergencies have forced him near one. He didn’t want me to go with him, so I wrote a brief note on yellow lined tablet paper with my concerns about memory and depression. I’d taken it to the office and asked for it to be placed in his record. I knew I was taking a risk by using a color that bright, in my handwriting, but I thought it would catch the doctor’s attention. Instead, it caught my husband’s eye. Antonio blew up at me the minute I walked in the door from my writer’s group. “Why did you do this to me?” he raged “There’s nothing wrong with my memory! he stated vehemently. The M.D. says my memory is very good, better than most my age.”

I was speechless. Waves of shock washed over me. I felt betrayed by the doctor. I thought he could have been a little more careful about having the note placed in Antonio’s view. Couldn’t he have read the note and placed it under the history sheet? I hardly remember what I responded to Antonio in my overwhelmed state. But I do remember saying “The doctor doesn’t live with you. The children and I are concerned.” I wish I’d added--- I did it because I care about you.

I am still reeling from this encounter, yet there is relief. The hiddenness, the cover-up, the façade has dropped, at least for this moment. I am shocked out of my recent temporary denial.

Only time will tell if he will remember this event tomorrow or next week or next month.

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