“I think I should go check on her,” Mellie said as she turned toward the barn.
“No,” I said, putting my hand in front of her. “I’ve got it.” Picking up my pace to almost a full run, I rushed to the barn, vaguely aware of Noah and the two women moving into place to finish felling the tree behind me. My thoughts were on Birdie and on needing to make sure she was okay.What happened back there?
I entered the barn, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. Looking around, I couldn’t find Birdie. I wonderedif she had instead gotten into one of the cars, when I spotted the corner of a white coat peeking around the edge of a short wall midway down the building.
Grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator to the left of the barn’s entrance, I all but sprinted in her direction, rounding the corner to find her huddled on the floor, knees pulled into her chest, back against the wall. Her breathing was fast and shallow, and her eyes were clenched shut. My heart plummeted as I realized what was happening.
I crouched down beside her. “Birdie,” I said softly. “Birdie, I’m here next to you. Can you hear me?” She whimpered in acknowledgment. “Is it okay if I touch you?” She whimpered again, her head moving in the slightest nod.
Touching her lightly, I put my hand on her shoulder, then paused, waiting to see if she would react. After a moment I moved closer, circling my arms around her and drawing her into my chest. I held on tightly, whispering softly in her ear. “Shhh, it’s okay.”
After a few minutes I felt her body start to relax and her breathing became more even. I loosened my arms slightly but didn’t let go. “Birdie, if you can, I want you to breathe with me, okay? We’re going to breathe in for five seconds, hold it for five seconds, and then let it out for five seconds. Can you do that?” I felt her nod against my chest. “All right, let’s breathe in together.”
Inhale, hold, exhale. I counted softly as I guided her through the breath. With each second, more tension left her body. Without letting go of her, I reached behind me and grabbed the bottle of water, opening it as I handed it to her.
“Now I want you to name five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. Can you do that?”
She took a sip of the water, nodding. She stayed pressed to my chest and I kept my arms around her.
“Five things I can see,” she said, her voice shaky. “Um, I can see the wall of the barn. A bale of hay. A bench. My shoes. Your coat.” She took a deep breath, steadying herself.
“Good. Now four things you can touch or feel.”
She paused, thinking. “My hair on the back of my neck. This bottle of water. My legs against the ground. Your arms around me.”
“Three things you can hear,” I gently prompted.
“People laughing in the distance. Wind in the trees. Your heartbeat.”
My stomach flipped. “Two things you can smell.”
She inhaled. “Pine. Peppermint.”
My soap and shampoo. “And lastly: one thing you can taste.”
She paused again. “The water.” She pulled her head back, chuckling as she took another sip.
I smoothed my hand over her hair. “Good girl. Better?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Do you want to talk about it?”
Birdie looked down, the fingers of her left hand fiddling with the seam on the inside of her mitten. “You remember how I said my mom’s birthday was on Christmas?” she asked.
“I sure do.”
“Well, every year we would go out as a family the day after Thanksgiving to cut down our Christmas tree. The last time we went was the year Mom was sick. She was in the middle of chemo and was so, so sick. We had to bundle her up in two coats and multiple hats because she couldn’t maintain her body heat and had lost her hair. We had to stop every few minutes to let her rest; toward the end, my dad had to carry her back to the car while Connor and I dragged our treebecause she was so tired. But she didn’t want to miss out on what she considered the official kick-off of the Christmas season. She hardly stopped smiling the entire time.” Birdie blinked, and a tear trickled down her cheeks. “I didn’t think today would be so hard,” she said as the floodgates opened and tears started flowing down her face.
I opened my arms again, and she fell back into my chest, her shoulders shaking as she wept. “I miss her so much,” she sobbed.
“I know,” I breathed into her hair, running my thumb over her temple. “I know you do.”
Time stood still as I held Birdie, letting her cry against my chest as I smoothed her hair away from her face. After what could have just as easily been a few minutes as a few hours, her crying quieted and she spoke quietly into my shirt. “It doesn’t get easier, does it?”
I didn’t have to ask what she meant. “No, sweetheart. Not really. It gets different—the sharp edges of the grief soften, and you learn to laugh and breathe and live your life again, but it doesn’t get better. The grief is always there with you. The sweet moments are always a little bittersweet and the bitter moments are always that much harder. But it’s not a reason not to live your life. She’d want you to live your biggest, fullest life, Birdie.”
Birdie sat back, wiping her eyes. “How did you learn all of this?” I looked at her, my eyebrow raised in a question. “I mean, I knowhow,” she corrected herself. “Obviously you’ve lived it. But the panic attack. Helping me through it…all of it. How did you know what to do?”
