Ticks suck! Mindful birding with chronic Lyme disease
“What brings you in today?” the doctor asked as she sat in a chair next to mine. She looked about my age — mid-forties — but unlike me, she didn’t slouch or have dark bags under her eyes. Opening her laptop, she waited for me to begin.
I inhaled, trying to hold back the tears starting to choke at my throat. But the words tumbled out: I’m exhausted all the time, my heart is going crazy, beating hard in my chest then not beating at all, I have arthritis in my wrists, I get cold and hot but not like a fever, I can’t think straight or remember anything, and when I leave my house I feel like I’m having a panic attack!
Her fingers clicked and clacked, taking notes. “Do you spend much time outside?” she asked.
Birding with Lyme disease. Photo courtesy of Amy Sugeno.
“A lot, ever since I was a kid. I love being outside.”
“Do you ever remember getting any ticks on you?”
“All the time when I was a wildlife biologist, which I did for almost twenty years.”
She nodded her head and typed a few more notes before finally looking up at me. But after she’d asked about ticks, I was pretty sure I knew what she was going to say. I’d been trying to find help for several years, seeing several doctors, only to continue getting sicker. It wasn’t until I started my late-night relationship with Dr. Google six months earlier that I started to have the same suspicion as my doctor.
“I’m sorry to tell you,” she said, “but I think you have chronic Lyme disease.”
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For weeks after that appointment, which was at the end of autumn, every day unfolded in the same way: enjoy a dairy-free, gluten-free, sugar-free, caffeine-free breakfast; swallow a mountain of pills; rest until lunchtime. After lunch, rest again until it was time to pick up my son from school. Sometimes, I’d get a burst of energy and go on a short walk, which looked more like shuffling. Nevertheless, it felt good to be outside where I could hear the birds chipping and flitting in the treetops. It felt good to be connected to life.
Rufous-crowned Sparrow. Photo: Mary Ann Melton/Audubon Photography Awards.
When I rested, I often sat in an oversized chair in our living room, staring out the window at the birds. In the mornings, I’d sit with my breakfast as different birds would come and go. It was one particular bird, though, a Rufous-crowned Sparrow, who always caught my attention, and I looked forward to her arrival each morning. I’d watch her search the bare ground for breakfast, then stop, cock her head, and tilt down to peck at something before standing upright again and scratch-hopping at the dirt with her pale pink feet. My eyes soaked in her smooth and well-rounded belly, cinnamon cap, and black moustache painted on with a thick brush from the base of her bill down along each side of her throat. I would become so absorbed in her habits, I’d forget about being exhausted and housebound. I forgot to wonder if I’d ever be able to hike or camp again. I wasn’t caught up in worry about whether I’d be robbed of my career or if my son would be left without his mom. When I was with her, she was my whole world.
Over the next few months, as I felt myself change from bat-catching, snake-handling biologist to timid and fearful sick person, the birds outside my window changed, too. The Lincoln’s Sparrows and Dark-eyed Juncos began to leave with the south winds, and the Summer Tanagers and Painted Buntings arrived in their place. Seeing them, I ached to visit my favorite places to enjoy spring migration. But a new fear had emerged: I was terrified of being outside. Outside is where ticks live, and just one bite could send me right back to the doctor.
The first time I went fly fishing post-Lyme diagnosis. I was only able to fish for about 30 minutes before getting too tired, but it felt great to even just be out there. Photo: Amy Sugeno.
Living in fear didn’t suit me, though. I felt restless, caged-in. And I was resentful that something the size of a sesame seed was keeping me from doing what I love. But I couldn’t even look at a photo of a tick without my chest squeezing. How was I going to enjoy watching birds if I was looking down at my pants every minute, obsessively checking for ticks? How could I settle into a good hike if I was constantly fighting panic attacks?
Once again, I turned to my old friend, Dr. Google, for help. Use permethrin, Dr. G told me. Wear long pants. Stay in the middle of the trail. Definitely don’t get off the trail. The little buggers live almost everywhere. In water and snow, these are the only places ticks don’t live.
Water and snow. If these were the tick-free zones, the places where I could let my guard down, then that’s where I’d start. Once I had enough strength back, I grabbed my fly rod and vest and drove out to my favorite river. I stood right in the middle where ticks didn’t stand a chance of reaching me.
As for snow, that’s more of a challenge in central Texas. But ever since falling in love with snowshoeing years before, I’d really wanted to buy my own pair. So after my credit card was safely back in my purse, all I had to do was wait until the mountains out West turned white.
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Soon enough, though, I didn’t want to limit myself to water and snow. I also love deserts, prairies, and forests. Somehow, I would to have to figure out how to live with ticks. Enter: mindfulness.
Yellow Warbler. Photo: Alejandra Lewandowski/Audubon Photography Awards.
My practice has taught me to be present with every moment with nature, whether looking out my living room window at a Northern Cardinal, cherry-red and splashing in the bath, or wandering wild places in search of wilder birds.
I have learned it’s not necessary to go fast or far to appreciate nature. I take precautions: using permethrin, wearing long pants, and mostly staying in the middle of the trail. But if there is a flower too beautiful to enjoy from a distance, I will step off the trail, knowing the risks but refusing to embrace fear. And when I see a Yellow Warbler from my porch in spring, newly arrived from his long migration over ocean waters, I remember to celebrate his beauty and wish him health and ease in his uncertain journey ahead.
Editors note: We are grateful to National Audubon and to Mary Ann Melton and Alejandra Lewandowski (the two bird photographers in this guest blog post) for allowing us to use the photos of the Rufous-crowned Sparrow and the Yellow Warbler to help illustrate this piece, thereby providing more visual interest, and making Amy’s story more accessible to those who may have a print disability.
