On birds, murder mysteries, and perspective

A story about books and birds and—if you indulge me—recovery and life stuff, too.

AASL is 100% reader-supported. Upgrading to a paid subscription helps keep all the posts free. Thank you for reading Ask a Sober Lady; I’m glad you’re here!

---

About two weeks ago, my partner and I noticed a Robin building a nest under the eaves of our toolshed. We had recently put up outdoor cameras and had one extra, so we positioned it on the shed's roof, giving us a great view of the mom making her nest. It was a solar-powered camera, so we didn’t have to change the battery and potentially disturb the nest. We had ourselves a perfect little Robin-cam setup.

We watched as the Robin, who by this time had been given the name Reba, fastidiously brought muddy twigs to the nest. She used her yellow beak to weave the new additions into the nest and then pushed her big belly into her handiwork and wiggled around to make the indentation where her eggs would incubate.

As one does, I started Googling everything I could about Robins and learned that Reba would likely lay an egg in the next week or so. And she did. It was just sitting there one evening, the classic blue egg that was such a mesmerizing shade, the internet told me, that Tiffany and Co. based their infamous blue boxes on it.

I was elated. I sent a picture to my family, posted it on Instagram, I told strangers about it, and, if they were up for it, showed them the video. I got weird about Robins fast, and it would only get worse.

The following day, my obsession hit a new stratosphere when the video captured Reba laying her second egg. I was now glued to the camera as only a lifelong animal lover with ADHD can be. Work? What is work? Have I told you about the Reba-cam?

Why yes, I will take this opportunity to show you Reba pictures, thanks so much for asking.

In my real, non-Reba-obsessed life, I’ve hit a particularly stressful patch with work-related things. For a few weeks, I’ve been teetering on the edge of full-blown panic. The Reba-cam was helping with that, as was something counterintuitive: a fictional serial killer.

I’m an audiobook fan generally, but when things get particularly stressful, I spend my downtime listening to fiction of the psychological thriller/murder mystery variety. I need something that immediately sucks me in, is more gruesome than whatever minor hell I’m facing, and has a smart detective on the case.

By Saturday afternoon, there were three beautiful blue eggs in the Robin’s nest. The end of the 12-14 day incubation period seemed agonizingly far away—all I wanted in the world was to see those babies hatch and squawk and get their mouths barfed in by Reba, which is gross but also amazing. In the meantime, I showed everyone I came into contact with a video of the cute little wiggle Reba does when she’s settling into the nest.

On Sunday morning, Reba wasn’t in the nest. It was also pouring. The nest was decently sheltered from the rain, but maybe she was off looking for worms and bugs. Throughout the day, I kept checking the camera, only to find three blue eggs and no Reba. Towards the end of the day, another Robin hung around the nest, but wouldn’t touch the eggs. (I guessed this might be Reba’s mate, but don’t know if that makes it better or worse.) He hopped around the outside of the nest, staring down at the eggs and then looking all around for, again, I’m assuming here, Reba.

As day turned to night, and I frantically Googled the various reasons Robins might abandon their nests, I grew increasingly upset. There was a chance something happened to the eggs—maybe they were never fertilized or otherwise unviable—and she just took off. There was a chance something happened to Reba. The male kept returning to see if Reba was back with her eggs. The whole thing was so unbelievably sad, and I couldn’t stop watching.

To distract myself, I turned to my book. One of the subplots follows a very sweet animal lover who has also been addicted to heroin for the better part of two decades. Her childhood was about as traumatic and abusive as it gets—the closest thing she has to a father is the elderly veterinarian for whom she’s worked on and off since she was 17. He is quirky and unfailingly kind and respectful to neglected and abused animals of all types.

The vet has early signs of dementia, but with her there to keep him on track, he can keep practicing. His cognitive decline enables her to invent fake pets so she can skim opioids to keep her from going into withdrawal. She is understandably wracked with guilt about consistently betraying the one person who is truly kind to her. She is terrified of him finding out about her addiction.

On Sunday, when I put on my audiobook in an attempt to distract myself from my obvious over-investment in bird tragedy, I got to a scene that undid me. The vet catches her about to use heroin. He sees the infected abscess on her leg from IV drug use and bottles from his pharmacy. She has been caught as red-handed as a person can be.

“Goodness,” he says, gesturing to the infection. “May I help with that?”

It turns out the old vet has always known about her addiction. As he cleans and sterilizes the wound, he reveals that he knows about the fake pets that provided cover for her medicine theft.

“Nothing in here surprises or dismays me,” he tells her. He knows she’s suffered unspeakable abuses. He knows she is kind and good with the animals. He tells her that he lost a son to addiction, and he wishes he’d spent the last months of his son’s life telling him how loved he was instead of railing against his addiction and kicking him out of the house.

Friends, it was at this point that I burst into tears and sobbed. I sobbed in a way that seemed unreasonable, considering it was triggered by birds and fictional characters. My brain was not interested in reason; I was too busy picturing Reba wiggling herself down on those eggs and the new bird who kept looking for her but wouldn’t go too close to the three blue ovals in her nest.

I thought about how rare it is for someone who does bad things in service of their opioid addiction to be treated with judgment-free kindness. I thought about how guilty, scared, and ashamed this woman had been for 300 pages of this book, only to realize that the vet’s paternal love for her was unconditional. And then I cried some more.

When I was in AA, I never had trouble with the higher power concept because for me, it’s always been nature. It’s a power “greater than myself” because it’s objectively beyond my control. Just because we set up a camera feed doesn’t mean my dreams of high-res videos of babies hatching and lovingly nurtured by their mom would come to fruition.

---

What questions do you have about substance use and recovery? What topics would you like me to address in the newsletter? Click the button below to send me an email.

---

The natural world is majestic, brutal, and infinitely complex. I assumed I knew what would happen in that nest over the next three weeks; I was arrogant. Maybe whatever happened is for the best. Maybe it was something tragic. I’ll never know.

What I do know is that you can do everything right, and things might still go wrong. There are plenty of real people who deal with trauma and abuse by numbing themselves with substances because it’s the only time they feel relief from the bone-crushing pain they’re carrying. Sometimes people can quit on their first attempt, sometimes it takes longer, and others never do. People deserve respect, love, and kindness regardless.

Recovery from addiction may not be as complex as the natural world, but it’s far from simple. What works for one person may not work for the next. When you’re living proof that recovery is possible, it can be tempting to assume that whatever worked for you will work for someone else. It’s an assumption often made in good faith. You want people to know that recovery is possible. You tell them that you have been where they are and made it through—that there is hope. That’s important.

But we only see part of what’s happening in a person’s life. Or a bird’s life. Reba spent all that time picking the perfect nest spot, weaving in muddy twigs to make it sturdy, shaping it with her body, laying the eggs, and protecting them fiercely for a few days. I don’t think she would have gone to all that trouble only to abandon viable eggs, but I don’t know. I had a single, limited view into her world. I wouldn’t know what it looks like if she realized the eggs are unviable. I could only see what the camera would show.

I assumed I knew what would happen with the nest without considering all the possibilities. I took for granted that there would be a happy ending without thinking about the dangers she might face on her journey to and from the nest. I would say I wanted the Disney movie version, only Disney murdered Bambi’s mom right in front of our eyes, so they clearly have no problem making children cry.

I realize birds and fictional veterinarians are strange subjects for a recovery column, but when you’re hit with a perfect storm of emotion, it’s probably a good idea to examine it. I wish I were more like the veterinarian in this story, capable of showing unbelievable patience and grace through a crisis over which I have no control. Capable of finding beauty in every bedraggled creature, regardless of their capability or temperament.

I’m still sad that Reba is gone—whether it’s off to a neighbor’s yard or a more tragic fate. But I’m grateful I got to see her and her eggs and maybe her handsome man friend for as long as I did. And I’m grateful for the reminder that having one sharp, high-def view of something doesn’t mean you’re getting the full picture.

---

Send questions and feedback to askasoberlady@gmail.com. By sending a question, you agree to let me reprint it in the newsletter with your name redacted or changed. Emails may be edited for length or clarity.

I’m not a doctor or mental health professional, so my advice shouldn’t be construed as medical or therapeutic. You are free to take or leave it.