The Pond
In Rockville Centre, Long Island NY there is a good sized pond, called Smith Pond, right there in the middle of things- it’s barely separated (on one side) from busy Merrick road- by a few feet of earth, a cement divider and chain link fence. It’s a 5 minute walk from the Hampton hotel, where my 21 year old and I waited out neurosurgical consults and then their actual neurosurgery; a Cranio-cervical fusion that would hopefully save their life (and at least some quality of it).
For more than two months, being able to walk(or run) to that pond held me together- and was where I processed our losses and gains, all the medical trauma, where I caught a breath from all the heaviness of caregiving somebody so very sick and bedbound …and where I made friends (mostly plants and animals). After a first round of giving meds in the morning, in the almost complete darkness, I would grab coffee and dash out- blinking in the sunlight- and see how far I could make it around the pond before being called back.
In late September and October the smell of the wild clematis and honeysuckle would hit me just as I turned the corner.
And then
Good morning bees!
Good morning milkweed with your crazy giant pods!
Good morning invasive spotted lantern fly!
Good morning pond!
Good morning geese!
Good morning swans!
Good morning millions of giant lily pads!
Good morning frog I never see but hear plop in!
Good morning Red-winged Blackbird!
Good morning Catbird!
Once there was a tiny, deep red crayfish in the middle of the path. Arms up! Looking for trouble! A few times I met a St Bernard and got to pet its massive shaggy head. Cormorants, all kinds of ducks. Gulls, bunnies, muskrats.
I looked things up that I saw, and I learned that there is no “seagull” but instead many, distinct species of gulls (Bonaparte’s gulls! Laughing gulls!) I learned what a coot actually is (not an old person! Not a duck!)
More than once I startled a heron and watched it fly up and away right beside me, giant wingspan, taking off like a small plane. Sometimes it was windy and everyone was rushing all over. Sometimes it was sparkly and still and silent.
I’d bring reports back on what I saw, to my kiddo, for when they could tolerate talk. When faced with unknowns or questions on medical strategy, they would ask “what does the pond say?” And I would go find out.
The pond would say “stay, wait for maybe a sooner surgery date” (when it was still, but murky) or “hover for a bit- don’t fly home just yet” (when I saw a kestrel float and then land up on top of a post)
We are home now, 5 months into uncertain recovery, and I’m still there at that pond, wondering how this is going to all play out, wondering how our life is going to be. Trying to stay in the moment with all the big-ness, the feelings and the unknowns. Trying to notice all the little beautiful things.
The pond says “hold on”.
April Coppini
May 2024
In Rockville Centre, Long Island NY there is a good sized pond, called Smith Pond, right there in the middle of things- it’s barely separated (on one side) from busy Merrick road- by a few feet of earth, a cement divider and chain link fence. It’s a 5 minute walk from the Hampton hotel, where my 21 year old and I waited out neurosurgical consults and then their actual neurosurgery; a Cranio-cervical fusion that would hopefully save their life (and at least some quality of it).
For more than two months, being able to walk(or run) to that pond held me together- and was where I processed our losses and gains, all the medical trauma, where I caught a breath from all the heaviness of caregiving somebody so very sick and bedbound …and where I made friends (mostly plants and animals). After a first round of giving meds in the morning, in the almost complete darkness, I would grab coffee and dash out- blinking in the sunlight- and see how far I could make it around the pond before being called back.
In late September and October the smell of the wild clematis and honeysuckle would hit me just as I turned the corner.
And then
Good morning bees!
Good morning milkweed with your crazy giant pods!
Good morning invasive spotted lantern fly!
Good morning pond!
Good morning geese!
Good morning swans!
Good morning millions of giant lily pads!
Good morning frog I never see but hear plop in!
Good morning Red-winged Blackbird!
Good morning Catbird!
Once there was a tiny, deep red crayfish in the middle of the path. Arms up! Looking for trouble! A few times I met a St Bernard and got to pet its massive shaggy head. Cormorants, all kinds of ducks. Gulls, bunnies, muskrats.
I looked things up that I saw, and I learned that there is no “seagull” but instead many, distinct species of gulls (Bonaparte’s gulls! Laughing gulls!) I learned what a coot actually is (not an old person! Not a duck!)
More than once I startled a heron and watched it fly up and away right beside me, giant wingspan, taking off like a small plane. Sometimes it was windy and everyone was rushing all over. Sometimes it was sparkly and still and silent.
I’d bring reports back on what I saw, to my kiddo, for when they could tolerate talk. When faced with unknowns or questions on medical strategy, they would ask “what does the pond say?” And I would go find out.
The pond would say “stay, wait for maybe a sooner surgery date” (when it was still, but murky) or “hover for a bit- don’t fly home just yet” (when I saw a kestrel float and then land up on top of a post)
We are home now, 5 months into uncertain recovery, and I’m still there at that pond, wondering how this is going to all play out, wondering how our life is going to be. Trying to stay in the moment with all the big-ness, the feelings and the unknowns. Trying to notice all the little beautiful things.
The pond says “hold on”.
April Coppini
May 2024
