Battle scars, a friend named Angela, and the surprising medicine of a bird feeder

First, thank you. To everyone who reached out after reading about my crazy night, your messages landed in exactly the way they were meant to. I felt held.

I took a long hot shower today, and with that came a jarring first look at my unbandaged port scar. I will be honest, I stood in the bathroom and got a little hysterical. Crying. The kind of cry where you do not quite recognize the person looking back at you.

Bobby rushed in and reassured me. He told me this is part of my battle gear, the doorway where the arsenal of medicine will come in to kill what is trying to take me down. I needed to hear that. I am still working on seeing it the way he sees it, but I am getting there.

My dear friend and neighbor Angela Mason checked on me early this morning, and we ended up grabbing coffee and a little lunch at an artisanal coffee shop in downtown Crown Point called The Sip. Angela is a born caregiver. Her advice is always practical, straightforward, and deeply meaningful. Today she handed me fiber for my water and a few other very real tools to, well, keep things moving. If you know, you know.

I cannot believe I am talking about this stuff publicly. But here we are. This chronicle is the whole picture or it is nothing, and apparently fiber is part of the picture now.

A few months ago I bought a bird feeder with an AI camera (a Birdfy). Between the weather and everything else, it sat in a box. Yesterday Bobby finally got it installed, and within 24 hours something I did not expect happened.

Three distinct guests have already shown up. A House Sparrow, a Brown-headed Cowbird, and a Northern Cardinal who came right up to the lens like he wanted to be seen. Every time one lands, my phone pings. And every single time, my mood lifts. Noticeably. Measurably. In a way that feels almost too big for what is happening.

Fair warning, I am on some hard painkillers, so if this gets a little out there, that is the disclaimer. But I am speaking from the heart, and this is where my mind is going with all of this newfound time on my hands.

I needed to understand the why. So I asked Gemini whether there is real psychology behind why birdwatching shifts mood, and there is a surprising amount of research on it. I had it summarize what I learned in an infographic, and it is genuinely profound. Let me walk you through it.

The infographic frames it as a pivot from a life of chaos to a life of quiet, and the bird is the bridge. Five threads stood out to me.

1. Hard fascination to soft fascination. A high-pressure career and a serious health focus demand what researchers call hard attention, the kind that drains you. Birds offer soft fascination, gentle, effortless engagement that lets an overtaxed mind actually rest. This comes from Attention Restoration Theory, and it explains why a 30 second cardinal visit can feel like a deep breath.

2. The somatic smile and a cortisol counterbalance. A cancer diagnosis floods the body with cortisol. A positive, novel sensory event, like a flash of red at the feeder, nudges the nervous system the other way and releases endorphins and dopamine. The body literally relaxes in response to a small good thing.

3. Transgenerational anchoring. Birds become associative anchors. For me, they connect to Nonna's sketches, to my mother's journey, to my mother in law's quiet passion. They are transitional objects that thread me back into a feminine lineage I want to feel close to right now.

4. Agency and the digital sanctuary. Setting up a habitat is, in itself, a curative act of agency. The Birdfy app turns it into a tiny digital sanctuary. Species identification, notifications, good news pings instead of bad ones. I am a curator of joy, not just a patient.

5. The symbolism of the sentinel. The Northern Cardinal in particular is a prominent symbol of life force across cultures, tied to intimacy, recognition, and feeling seen. A steady, vibrant signal in a world that has felt anything but steady.

The key takeaway, and the part I keep coming back to, is that this is not a distraction. It is a psychological anchor. A new sensory awareness that helps me navigate a new reality.

Today held a hard cry over a scar, a coffee with a friend who shows up with fiber and love in the same breath, and a small red bird who has no idea he is part of my treatment plan. All of it is medicine. Different doses, different delivery systems, but medicine.

To everyone walking this with me, thank you. Keep the messages coming. And if a cardinal lands near you this week, take it as a hello.