ESSAYS
An Ancient Lament | Lessons from Icarus
by Brigid O’Kane
Meeting Icarus for the first time was a big deal. In August of 2000, Jason and I had just started dating, and I knew this introduction was critical. I wasn’t sure how I would react when I met him, but the moment I saw him, I felt my heart fill with love, and I still love him to this day. Icarus came into Jason’s life as a one-year-old African Grey Timneh Parrot. When I met him, he was 11 years old—a beautiful and highly intelligent 8.5-ounce buddy. A powdery white mask surrounded his eyes and connected at the front of his face where the two halves met. Two dark nostril holes rested on either side of his hooked beak. Soft, rounded, little feathers covered the top of his head and swept around his white mask, filling in his cheeks. These speckled feathers quickly transitioned from the chalky white around his eyes to the dark, warm grey covering his neck, shoulders, and wings.
When stretching his wings, he revealed the hidden parts of his tummy that slowly shifted to a lighter shade of not entirely white feathers, dappled with specks of a soft light grey. His dark, shadowy tail was accented with beautiful, rich, deep maroon feathers, perfect for a proud and curious bird. Icarus’s talons gripped his perch as he rubbed his beak on the wooden dowel. Then he looked at me with his light-yellow eye as his pupil adjusted to the light.
Suddenly, he pushed off into the air and took flight. He flew around the room and aimed for a large, floppy plant, which was extremely difficult to land on. “I don’t think so,” said Jason as Icarus abandoned the idea of settling in the plant and began to fly toward his perch. He may have been going too fast to reasonably calculate his landing accurately and overshot his peach, hitting the lowermost part of his body and tail. Frantically flapping his wings, he recovered and backed himself up enough to safely grip and steady himself on his roost. Without hesitation, Icarus said, “Oops, dammit,” and then he laughed, “Heh heh heh.” Yeah, he did that. I immediately got Icarus’s sense of humor. This was the beginning of a magical and wondrous relationship I had with a bird.
He was a fantastic companion for both Jason and me, like a two-year-old little brother. Not only was he good at cracking jokes, but he was also very affectionate. He would lie in our arms and snuggle, warming our hearts. Ear rubs were always appreciated and welcomed. We would push aside his little feathers to reveal the soft bare skin around his ear and rub him there in gentle circular movements as he cocked his head to achieve the perfect angle. Ick demonstrated his understanding of our words and world through his extensive vocabulary. For example, he could count to 5. He did this slowly in a low pitch from 1 through 4, and then, proudly, he would raise his tone and finally say “5.” We would hold up various fingers and ask him, “How many?” Ick would say the correct number if he was in the mood to play along. One afternoon Ick was out on the kitchen counter. Jason held up two fingers and asked Icarus, “How many?” After a long pause, Ick didn’t answer. “How many Ick?” Jason repeated. We waited. Nothing. Lowering his tone, Jason said, “Icarus, how many?” With his head hung low, Icarus just looked at him. “Two, Icarus, two,” Jason said. Immediately Ick jumped up and said, “Good boy,” followed by a laugh.
It took time and care to get to know Ick’s individual qualities and understand the nuances of his personality as he changed over the years. But always, he was an excellent listener. This consistent, unwavering ability to listen was impressive. He would ‘playback’ noises that he heard. For instance, the sounds of my morning routine of making coffee and feeding the cats echoed through Icarus from his cage. I would reach for the cupboard and hear the soft squeak of the door opening as Ick made this noise before I opened it. He would make a highly exaggerated sound of me drinking my coffee before I drank and make the sound of my coffee cup hitting the countertop before I set it down. He would make the beep of the refrigerator before I pushed the button to get water. It would go on like this most mornings, even if he was drowsy from a late football game the previous evening. The truly remarkable thing wasn’t the fact that he did this but that he did it from the other room where he couldn’t see me.
Sounds of the past stayed with Icarus; when he expressed them, he touched our hearts. “Hey, Dad” was often said the way Jason would say this when he called his Dad on the phone. Icarus continued to say this on occasion years after Dad had passed. He would also “meow” in the same soft way my orange tabby cat would “meow” six years after he passed. Haunting were these sounds that would arouse memories of love and loss.
There was a very soft ‘vooooo’ noise he would make that was strange. He did it often enough, and we could not figure out where it originated. For years, we would listen to him when he made this sound and wondered, what was he saying? Where did that come from? One morning I uncovered his cage and said, “Good morning.” I usually said this a few times, hoping he would pick up on those words and say ‘good morning’ back to me. While unlatching the door and reaching in to let him out, I stopped when he began to make that 'voooo' noise. The house was quiet, with very little traffic outside. I listened, but I didn’t hear anything. “Voooo’ said Ick as he looked up at me. Then I heard it. There in the distance, was the sound of a train blowing the horn. We didn’t realize the noise was a train because there was usually more noise in and around the house. Or maybe we assumed the noise of a train to be a ‘cho cho’ noise like we were taught when we were little. I was impressed with Icarus’s ability to accurately articulate every sound he heard when he wanted to. He loved the sound of the train.
His extended vocabulary included “Cookieeee,” “Want that?” “What you doin’?” “Good Girl,” “Studioooo,” the list goes on and on. When we left the house, Icarus would say, “Goin’ to the studio?”
When we said to Icarus, “Funky Chicken, come on Ick, do the Funky Chicken,” he would spread his wings halfway and flap them in the strangest way while jerking his head from side to side, which made us laugh every time. When we said to him, “Eagle,” he would majestically spread his wings wide while holding tight to his perch or our finger and flap his wings hard, creating busts of rushing air with each grand winged gesture. He liked the word “kisses” and asked for them a lot, and we always gave them to him. On occasion, when Jason and I would happen to have a quiet, intimate moment that usually included a hug, Ick would interrupt us with a long, drawn-out “Aaaah.” This, too, made us chuckle every time.
Ick loved music. When my daughter Alexandra would practice violin Ick would join in bobbing his head to the beat with various loud clucks and whistles. This would be so distracting that we would have to give him a cookie to quiet him down so my daughter could finish her lesson. Then he would watch her as he dunked his Pecan Sandie chunks into his water and quietly nibbled. We would dance with him mainly in the living room, with the loud music streaming over the speakers. He would position himself on my finger as I held it out for him horizontally. I could feel his steady grip around my finger tighten as we moved and danced together. His version of dancing was dramatically raising and lowering his body to the beat as he did the ‘head bob’ like he was at a rock concert, and all the while, he would cluck loudly to every other beat. This clucking sounded like someone’s fingers stamping, only louder, much louder. His favorite playback was the whistle sound from the song “You Dropped the Bomb on Me” by The Gap Band, where he would loudly, and I do mean loudly, repeat the high-pitched siren sound that slowly dropped to a lower tone. When he was on a roll, he would do this over and over and over. Then we would give him a cookie to quiet him.
On Friday morning of February 5, 2016, Icarus wouldn’t give me ‘kisses’; I just thought he was in a mood. When he was perched on the faucet above the kitchen sink, I gave him a bite of a homemade scone, which he usually would accept with a cheerful chirp of gratitude. But this time, he abruptly threw to the side. He did have a bit of a temper. When he was really bad and needed to be disciplined, well, Jason usually handled him. I mean that, literally. He would turn Icarus upside down in his hands, and Ick’s tail would curl over his tummy in a somewhat reminiscent way of a lobster’s tail. It didn’t hurt him, but Icarus would squawk and squawk. Sometimes, he just needed his space, and we would give it to him. However, as the day progressed, Ick pretty much kept to himself.
Saturday morning, Jason took our daughter Alexandra to her basketball game, and Ick slept in unusually late. It was about 11:00, and I was getting ready to leave the house. I wanted to get Icarus up and ‘give him some ear’ before I left. I woke him gently with sweet talk and ‘good mornings’ as I folded back part of the dark green blanket that covered his cage. Light entered as I started to unlock the door, and I could see him clearly on his lower perch. Immediately I could tell he was very sick.
Alarmed at his condition, Jason took him to a bird specialist at 1:00 that afternoon. After running tests, the veterinarian said Icarus was either dehydrated or experiencing kidney failure. One would kill him, and the other would not. We were devastated. He was supposed to live another 30 years. We had planned for him to go to college with Alexandra. We moved his cage to the smaller bedroom on the second floor, where we set up a space heater to keep him warm. We watched him in shifts, observing his pain and thinking about what we would do if it were his kidney. Reluctantly, we decided that if Ick was going to leave this world, we wanted him to be with us at home, not alone in an incubator.
On Sunday morning when we woke him, Icarus was very weak and in much more pain than the day before. However, he was peaceful and slept a lot. It was heart-wrenching to helplessly witness this as he slowly lost his ability to move, which started when his talons locked up, then his body, then his wings. Again, Jason and I took turns watching him. Icarus’s still body rested in the groove created by our legs in a towel we placed on our lap. He tried to move in various ways, but his body wouldn’t let him. The only thing he could move was his head, which he did as he made faint chirping noises. A gentle rise and fall movement came from his chest with each breath.
Icarus was ever present in my consciousness that entire day. For him, I became the ‘pain eater’ channeling his pain into the abyss of love. I intently observed his beauty, uniqueness, and regal qualities, and through this act of love, I felt my love for him flow through him. I became the ‘giver of love.’ I felt deep gratitude for the many gifts and lessons of wisdom we received over the years from this wise master. The entire day I was centered and connected at a higher level. This, I believe, helped him as he faded.
I listened as Ick would listen. I heard music in every noise. The space heater was set on auto, and it would turn on and off at various intervals. When it was off, the house fell silent. In these moments, I could hear the quietness of the room. I heard cars, dogs, planes, the wind, the house, and of course, the quiet 'voooo' of a train. I really listened and found it to be deeply meditative. I heard every sound that came from Ick. Every time he made a “Coo” sound and tried to move, I would comfort him. I would tell him, “It’s okay Icarus,” “Sleepy time Ick,” “You're a good boy,” “Night-night Icky Bird.” I would sing to him and tell him happy stories as I pet the top of his head. The day progressed like this. That evening on my watch, he “Cooed,” and I felt him move.
I sat up and to my surprise, his left wing was fully stretched out. His right wing was trapped under his little body as he struggled to get it out from under his weight. I gently pulled his right wing out, and he stretched both of his wings wide. Then, he rapidly flapped his wings as if he were flying. “Oh, Icky Bird,” I said. The seven seconds or so as he fluttered his wings felt like an eternity. Then he was still. I looked through the darkness to see if he was breathing, “Ick are you there?” But he was gone. He had flown away. Fly, Icky bird, fly.