I held Madison in my hands tonight as he died. I will be forever grateful that T stayed on the phone with me while I watched his death. She talked of Christmas light snafus and her children and losing at Sorry. I know she felt helpless and awkward, but she loved me enough to wait with me.

Never have I hated MS more than this evening. I often joke about my cheese hole brain. I sometimes try to talk about the frightening changes I observe in myself. Yet, I never stop hating the cognitive changes. Oh, how I hate them.

Friday last I was frantically packing up for a blessed week and a bit at B's house. At the last minute, I noticed the metal clip that I use to anchor open the door on the bird cage lying on the antique record cabinet that stands beneath it. I scooped up the clip and stuck it on top of the cage so I would be sure not to forget it. When Madison hangs out on the door, if it is not anchored, he swings wildly about. I was thinking of him.

But it is as if that moment never happened. I completely forgot about the clip, even when I set up the cage in B's house. I completely forgot about a clip I use daily. I completely forgot.

Madison, ever the nibbler, took delight in chewing off the pink plastic that coated the metal clip. I noticed that his appetite had dropped off, but I attributed it to both the fact that he and Fancy had just finished molting and we had traveled a fair bit to get to B's house.

I should have remembered the clip. I did not.

Wednesday, much to my horror, I discovered that he was bleeding from his nether region. Frantic and frenetic, I called the vet, knowing full well that treating small birds is rather difficult and most often results in failure. She advised to get to the Penn State clinic if no vet was near because antibiotics might help him.

B found a vet, called her mother-in-law to babysit so I would have to go alone, and drove Madison and I to the vet. He had a prolapsed rectum, most likely from trying to expel the plastic. The vet restored it to its proper place (twice), mixed up four medicines and sent me home with instructions to keep him warm.

For the rest of my stay at B's, I sweltered at night so that Madison might have a chance. He didn't much like the medicine and seemed to aspirate it each time I gave it to him. He continued to lose weight.

Damn that clip. Damn this disease.

He stopped bleeding some time on Friday, started to eat a bit more, moved around the cage, and preened himself. I thought he might make it. I was worried, but I thought he was getting better.

He continued to lose weight.

Last night, Madison flew over to me, not quite making a distance he used to overshoot. He hung out on my shoulder, preening himself and taking a nap tucked beneath my chin. I thought he was getting better.

But tonight when I arrived home, I found him huddled on the bottom of the cage. When I picked him up, he collapsed, his labored breathing shuddering his whole body.

I held him. I gave him water with the syringe. I whispered sweet nothings. I called B. She was gone. I tried T. Even knowing she's not a bird person and would feel rather helpless, I called her. I didn't want to be alone. As I listened to her, I cradled him in my hands, trying to comfort him even as grew weaker.

Right before he died, Madison sat up and looked straight at me. For the briefest of moments, I dared to believe that he had just been sleeping. Then just as suddenly he fell back limp against my hands and breathed just one last time. It was as if he was saying good-bye.

I feel horrible. I am sad that a bird that should have had a couple of decades or more living left in him is dead. I am sad that one of my true companions is gone. I am worried for Fancy and how she will take being alone, since Cockatiels are flock birds. Tears are streaming down my face even now.

However, I feel horrible because he should never have been in this position. I should have remembered that clip. Every day for the past seven years, I have used it on the cage after opening the door. Why didn't I remember?

What a wretched caregiver am I...