Return Of The In-Grown Feather

In my late teens, I had a yellow canary called Cyril. Each Spring morning, when he puffed out his little chest and let forth his shrill call for a mate, I felt certain it was being heard across several neighbourhoods. Indeed, so frequent and strong was his whistle that I expected swarms of female canaries would soon descend upon our back garden in fertile response to his bold invitation. However, it turns out that all the nearby female canaries were also confined to their cages or aviaries. So, alas, Cyril´s masculinity was never fully tested.

But his bravery could not be questioned – as I was soon to find out.

The Spring of 1981 saw me in London where, as a 21-year-old, my main ambition in life was much like Cyril´s. I had entrusted the care of my fluffy friend to my mother who called me one day, completely unexpectedly. “There´s a lump on Cyril´s shoulder, where his wing attaches to his body,” she said. “In human terms, it would be like having something the size of a large apple sitting on your shoulder,” she added. Despite it being the whistling season, Mum said Cyril had hardly let out a chirp since the lump appeared.

“Surely he has to go to the vet,” I urged. We agreed.

Two days later, more news. “It´s an ingrown feather,” Mum reported. “The vet said this is when a new feather wants to come out, but it doesn´t break through the skin. Then, because there´s still pressure coming from behind, the feather folds back onto itself and rolls up into a ball beneath the skin. If left untreated, it gets infected. And that´s where Cyril is at now. He´s got this hot, painful and pulsating infection occupying half his shoulder,” she said.

“What can be done about it?” I asked.

“Without surgery, he will likely die.”

“And with surgery?”

“The vet said it´s very risky, but some birds pull through”.

Three days later, another call from Mum. “The vet just rang to say Cyril has survived the operation and is now in the recovery ward”. Phew, I gasped. “To stop him from moving around when he wakes up, they´ve placed him in a toilet roll. You know, the grey cardboard cylinder which is all that´s left once you´ve used all the sheets of toilet paper,” she explained.

“So he can´t spread his wings…and damage the wound,” I surmised

“Exactly,” Mum replied.

I felt helpless being so far away, leading the life of Reilly in London. But what could I do? As the hours passed by ever so slowly, the image that would not leave my mind´s eye was of Cyril´s brave little body – all 10cm of him, 15cm with tail feathers – stuck in a toilet roll, fighting for his life.

Just a few months ago, here in Tarragona, I woke up one morning and discovered I had a painful, pea-sized lump in my left armpit. As in, quite painful. And red. Over my morning cup of tea, I googled… “pea-sized lump in armpit”. The medical sources all gave pretty much the same view: Could be caused by any number of things, most of them benign. Very often it´s an enlarged lymph node responding to a nearby infection, or it could be a cyst, or an ingrown hair, or a harmless fatty growth.

Oh, yes…or it could be cancer.

During that first day, it got redder, bigger and more painful. It was now almost the size of a marble. By the time I got to see my doctor three days later, I had run all the lymph node cancer scenarios through my mind umpteen times and was feeling very awkward about the whole affair. What type of cancer might I have? Cancer of the armpit? I´d never heard of that. Or is an underarm lump a signpost for something much more sinister elsewhere?

My doctor took one look at it and said rather matter-of-factly: “It´s an ingrown hair. There´s no doubt. Quite common and certainly not cancer. You´ll be fine”. She explained that a hair follicle had been unable to break the surface of the skin and had become infected. In Spanish it´s called: un pelo enquistado. She was able to extract a bit of puss and prescribed antibiotics. A visit to a nurse at the same medical centre a few days later resulted in more puss being removed: and, by this time, it was clear the battle had been won. Less redness and not much pain. It went away fully over the following week, though I have been put on notice that it might happen again.

When news finally reached me in London about Cyril, it was sombre. “The post-operative shock was too much for him and he died in his toilet roll without ever regaining consciousness,” Mum sadly informed me. “The vet said he fought hard and lasted longer than most canaries”.

So, RIP…Cyril. Now that I know what you went through, I wish even more that I had been there to help you, little fella.