One Bird at a Time

By Jennifer Collins, Malvern, Ohio

As appeared in

I gazed at the blank paper on my easel, listening to the birds outside my window.

Sometimes it was that moment just before I put brush to canvas that was hardest. Besides, this was an important painting, a gift for people who had helped me through one of the toughest times in my life. It had to be exactly right to show them how I felt.

I’d been diagnosed with breast cancer a few months before and it changed my whole life. There was so much to go through: consultations, surgery, radiation.

My husband, Ed, was totally supportive, but he couldn’t always stay beside me during my treatment. Even my friend Kim, a breast cancer survivor herself who called me every day, felt very far away in Florida.

I dipped my brush into a pot of water. A new bird flew over to join the others outside in song. As an avid bird-watcher I couldn’t help but admire him: a bright red cardinal.

For me, bird-watching wasn’t just a way to pass the time. Birds were God’s way of showing us the beauty in the world. Even now, when I wasn’t able to go outside, I could look out my window and see them. It was as if he had created them so that even when life got ugly we would have something beautiful to remind us of his love.

I’ll be outside with my binoculars again soon, I promised the cardinal, watching him swoop from one branch to another. My radiation treatments were coming to an end and with them, hopefully, the end of my cancer. 

I thought back to the August day I started my sessions at Mercy Medical Center. Ed had already missed so much work caring for me, he couldn’t come with me. I had no idea what to expect. A scary, cold building full of machines?

Instead I walked into a cozy waiting room with cheerful paintings on the walls and an even more cheerful receptionist behind the desk. “It’s good to see you, Jennifer,” she said. “Just have a seat right over there and I’ll call you when the team is ready.

She gave me a reassuring nod, like she knew how scared I was. That little bit of kindness, like the bright paintings on the walls, made me feel stronger.

I almost hated to leave the receptionist behind when I went to the treatment room, but it turned out the technicians who worked my machines were just as comforting. “Just watch—you’ll miss us when your six weeks are up!” one of them joked as she adjusted the dials.

That first day I couldn’t imagine missing anything about the place, but as my final treatment approached, I realized it was true. Oh, I wouldn’t miss the treatments, but the people were a different story: the reception staff who knew my name and my schedule better than I did, the technicians who told jokes to put me at ease, even the cleaning staff who greeted me with a smile. Their kindness made all the difference.

A tradition at Mercy was for patients to bring something in on their last day, donuts or cookies they’d baked to celebrate. That’s why I was at my easel. I’d been painting as a hobby for a couple of years. But what should I paint for the staff at Mercy?

I closed my eyes and thought. The cardinal chirped, as if offering a suggestion. That’s it! I opened my eyes and thanked my bright red muse. I would paint a bird! Something beautiful for people to focus on. Ed thought that sounded like a great idea. “If anyone knows the beauty of birds, it’s you,” Ed said.

My painting was finished a few days later: a cardinal sitting in a pine tree. But something was missing. I mixed some paint and added a pink ribbon—the international symbol of breast cancer awareness—curling out of the bird’s beak. I called the painting Strength because that’s exactly what the people at Mercy gave me when I needed it.