The Birch Trees

They’ve been swaying in a constant breeze since I arrived a month ago. Their thick, white bark wrap around relatively thin but sturdy trunks and they’ve been planted at the edges of grass, a large public lawn too small to call a park. On a northern California gardening site, I read that all birches are native to cold climates and lands with moist soil. This part of California can’t promise either of these things, at least not consistently. Birches grown here, the article stated, are “good trees [in] bad locations.”

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This is far from a bad location for me, but I’ve certainly uprooted myself and I’d like to think I’m a “good tree” making her way in unfamiliar territory. Unfamiliar in that I’ve never before moved in with my oldest brother, who has late-stage MS, and his wife (my sister-in-law), with the intention of helping out as much as I can. The land is familiar, though, and this house I’ve known for decades, having visited it time and again when my sister-in-law’s mother, “Grandma Lee,” lived here. And just up the highway, about 40 miles from here, I earned my BS and MS degrees at Sacramento State in the late ‘90’s and over yonder in Oakland, 75 miles west of us, I lived for a few years until the murky Bay Area skies chased me back to New Mexico.

Only a few weeks here, and I seem to be measuring time in empty boxes and lessons learned. How many of my belongings have I unpacked? How many tasks am I able to carry out (correctly) for my brother’s caregiving routine? There are seemingly countless strategies used when supporting a human with advanced MS. Most of his bodily movements require help from another/others and his depleted cognition needs a figurative hug, as well.

The first week, I passionately joined the caregiving team. I observed, took notes, listened intently, ran around the house doin’ chores, and drove around town on errands. I mediated peace between their two dogs and my cat while, of course, unpacking and breaking down boxes.

Then one night, I walked smack into a closed sliding glass door. I’d been so tired, I was walking with eyes downcast, barely able to keep them open. My nose was swollen for several days thereafter. Another time, I hit the back of my head on my brother’s electric lift. It’s a hard and large piece of equipment, suspended in the air like a heavy metal dragon. After that, I was struck by a seasonal allergy attack that put me in bed for a couple of days.

I needed to slow down. I need to slow down, and calm down. My family is not pressuring me to help on full throttle. I’m the one with expectations of myself that are beyond my capabilities.

There is also altruism, which has always been a seductive and tricky concept to me. I’d like to keep a critical eye on it. No matter how modest I believed myself to be, I still possessed a sense that moving back to California was a noble undertaking. It may very well be, but somewhere in my gut, I associated “noble” with a short-term blast of giving. As if I have the power to predict the timeline of my brother’s progressive MS. As if I know how life and death may unfold themselves into any given person.

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Outside, the breeze has kicked up again and the long, thin limbs of the birch trees, those lazily drooping downwards, shimmy and spin in a slow, circular motion, as if they are stirring invisible pots of late spring air. It has been a couple of weeks since I began this blog post and the days since then have been dead calm and very hot. Today, the trees are dancing again.

I hope to someday learn something from these trees, but first, to sit and to take the time to actually listen. “You can do your yoga out there,” my brother said yesterday, pointing out the window to a public patio beneath the trees. “That’s a good idea,” I smiled. “I just may do that.”

Note: everyone should be able to access the SoundCloud audio file at the top of this post, whether or not you have a SoundCloud account. Please let me know if you have any issues accessing it, and I would be happy to walk you through the steps. Thank you!