The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir (6 page)

I’ve
known this little girl for many years.  I’ve watched her grow up.  She’s
beautiful, runway beautiful, a model.  There’s one word that sums up who Nicole
was. Nicole was a stalwart.  When she did something, she gave it all she had.
If it was the right decision or if it turned out to be the wrong decision, she
put every bit of herself into it.  She never did anything halfway. 

Nicole
had been sick for a very long time.  We consider a person lucky if he dies and
is revived, but Nicole died and came back not once, not twice, but three times
or more on separate occasions.  The doctors would say, “We don’t think she’s
gonna pull through this time,” and again Nicole would pull through.  But there
comes a point when one discovers that what’s on the other side is far better
than what’s on this side, and this last time when her heart stopped and she got
a good look at what awaited her on the other side, Nicole said, “I’m not coming
back this time.”

His final
words,
“I’m not coming back this time,”
resonated with me because of a
turn of events that, although they involved others, was seen as a whole only by
me.  I had prayed for Nicole endlessly.  On previous occasions when she’d
suffered cardiac arrest, I would stand in the hospital hallway praying, not
that God’s will would be done, not even that Nicole’s will would be done, but
that Nicole not be taken from me.  Each time, she was given back.  But this
last time, with the situation much graver, I prayed a different kind of prayer.

I remember
the day very well.  It was the Thursday following Nicole’s collapse.  I was
driving home from the hospital to shower and change when I felt a familiar and
undeniable invitation.  Trying to explain what it feels like to be wooed by the
Spirit of God, is like trying to explain the Grand Canyon at sunset.  It defies
language and is only fully fathomed when people experience it for themselves.   The
call is an irresistible one, and I had already begun praying as I turned into
the driveway.

Barely
inside, I lay on the floor stretched out before the presence of God.   As I
poured out my whole heart, there was intentionality in every word I spoke.  I
told God Nicole’s prognosis, and then I reminded Him of what He said:
With
faith, we could command insurmountable mountains, and they would crumble into
the sea.
  Because I believe that with God the impossible is possible,
Nicole’s simply waking up was not enough.  Only a complete healing and
restoration would do.  Improbable I know, but faith doesn’t rely on odds or
statistical data.  God only requires that we
have
faith; the rest is up
to Him.  I knew that God’s ability to communicate with Nicole was not hampered
by the coma, so, notwithstanding my own prayer, I wanted Nicole to know that
the ball was entirely in her court; the decision had to be hers.

That same
day, Calvin came to the hospital.  I was feeling exceptionally well because of
my prayer.  Our visit was very pleasant and light-hearted as we stood at
Nicole’s bed, one of us on each side.  I told him about the events of the
previous Friday when her heart had stopped as well as the prognosis that had
been given.  However, I didn’t share with him my prayer.  To discuss it, I felt,
would somehow diminish it.

Calvin said
that on his way to the hospital, he had asked God what His will was in this
matter so that he would know how to pray.  “As I was walking into the
hospital,” he said, “God told me what to say, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to
talk to Nicole now.”  He then turned to Nicole, grasped her hand and said,
“Nicole, the doctors have said that you will not wake up, but the doctors are
not God.  God said that if you choose, you can wake up and continue this
battle.  He’ll be with you no matter what, but it has to be what you want.”  I struggled
to hold back tears as I listened to him repeat to Nicole exactly what I had
said to God in prayer. 

And as I sat
at the graveside listening to Ricky’s words, the truth of the whole matter came
full circle.  I had asked God to honor Nicole’s desires in this matter; God in turn
spoke this to Calvin who in turn spoke it to Nicole. For the first time, the
ball was completely in Nicole’s court; she could either throw it back and
continue the game or keep it and go home.  She chose home,
“and I’m not
coming back this time.”

The next day
was overcast and cold.  I lay in bed looking out the window at the bare trees
when Eunice tapped on the door.  She pushed it open and asked, “Are you
awake?”  I nodded without turning over to look at her.  I didn’t want her to
see my moist, swollen eyes.  “I’m going in to work today.  Will you be okay by
yourself?”  I wanted to say something, anything, but the pressure was building
in my chest, climbing toward my throat.  Opening my mouth would’ve been loud
and messy.

Through 15
years of friendship, she’d learned how important it was for me to keep on my
game face at all times, even for those with whom I was close.  She didn’t press
me; instead, she walked over, placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “I know
you’re heavy this morning.  Call me if you need me.”  She walked out and
quietly shut the door.

I showered
and dressed and systematically went through the house looking out windows. 
Stark trees against a gray sky; brown, wet leaves packed into tight places; a
smattering of small birds hopping about; the quiet road with an occasional car
scooting along.  I went outside and stood in the driveway.  The ground was
scattered with acorns and pine needles. 

I thought
about sweeping up or emptying and stacking the flower pots or hosing something
down.  I wondered why I was even there and thought I should go home and when
Monday rolled around, I should go back to work.  I thought maybe I should go to
the cemetery to see what the grave looked like now that it was filled in.  I
wondered if Nicole was cold.  I regretted having had her buried in a skirt. 
What was I thinking?  It was January.  She hated being cold, so I imagined her
thin, bare legs wrapped in a heavy thermal blanket.  I wondered if the casket
lid was too close to her face.  Like me, she was terribly claustrophobic.  If
the satin lining was touching her nose, she’d go bananas.  I wondered about
worms.  It was too cold for worms; I wondered if there were worms in the flower
pots.  I went back inside.

There was
nowhere for me to be, no hospital to run to, no dialysis center to go to, no
prescriptions to call in, no doctors’ appointments or transportation to
schedule.  My cell phone rang; it was Calvin.  He said I’d been in his thoughts
all morning and he wanted to see if I needed anything.  I didn’t.  “Have you
made peace with it, or is it still quite surreal?”

“Surreal.”

“And it will
be for a while.”

“I’m okay,
though.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.  Two
things I want you to remember.  One, your only child is gone.  I can’t even
imagine the pain you’re feeling.  But if you survive this, and you will, your
heart will never break like this again.  And two, don’t cheat the process. 
Don’t feel like you have to rush through this.  Allow yourself the time you
need to get through this properly.”  We prayed.

Eunice
called and asked how I was doing.

“I’m good.”

“Feeling a
little better?”

“I believe
so.”

“It’s gonna
take time, Nancy.”

“I’m going home
today.”

There was
silence for a moment.  “Why are you going home?”

“It’s time
for me to go home and get on with it—and I’m going back to work Monday.”

“Well, only
you can decide what’s best, but I think it’s a little too soon.”

“I’ll be
fine.”

By that
afternoon, I was home.  It was my first time in the house alone.  Nicole had
gone into the hospital on December 6, and I had been in the house alone, but
this was different.  She was dead now, and everything looked and felt
different.  Even the silence sounded different.

I dropped my
overnight bag by the door and stood looking around trying to get a feel for the
space.  Her bedroom door was open, and from the hall I could see the clothes Eunice,
Sherry, and I had left on the bed.  I walked down the hall and into my room; I
sat on the bed exactly where Nicole was sitting when it happened.  I imagined I
was her.  I wondered what she saw, what she felt, what she was thinking the
moment it happened.

I put the
tea kettle on and drew a hot bath.  As I lay there soaking, I thought about
what I would do when I got out of the tub.  Of course I would make a cup of
tea, but that would only take two or three minutes, and what would I do while I
was sipping the tea?  Every moment I was consumed with what I was going to do
the next moment because without something to do, I had nothing to do, and if I
had nothing to do, I would start thinking.  

That night I
lay in bed staring at the ceiling.  Unable to sleep, I threw the covers back,
slid down to where she was sitting when it happened, and again I imagined that
I was her.  I let myself fall backwards onto the bed just as she had.  I tried
to imagine at what point she lost consciousness.  I wondered if she knew I was
running toward her, if she felt me pull her from the bed to the floor, or felt
me pumping her chest, or heard me screaming her name or praying for God to help
me.  I wondered what her last moments of consciousness were like and if she had
the presence of mind to know she wasn’t alone.

Nicole’s
greatest fear was being alone.  I learned this one afternoon when she asked me
what
my
greatest fear was, “…and I don’t mean snakes,” she said. 
Everyone who knows me is well aware of my fear of snakes.

“I’m afraid
of losing you,” I said.

“Why would
you lose me?” 

“I don’t
know; it’s just a haunting fear that someday you might be gone.” 

She snubbed
the idea that I would ever be without her, and she often teased that, to the
contrary, I’d never get rid of her.  I followed by asking what she was afraid
of.  Because she often talked about her dread of having diabetic children, I
was sure this would be her answer.  Instead, without even pausing, she said,
“I’m afraid of being alone.”

This daughter
of mine who lived on the edge was afraid of being alone.  I never would’ve guessed
it.  How could she fear something as precious as solitude?  To fear being
alone, in my opinion, is like fearing a tuft of cotton or berries on a vine. 
But her health had begun to decline, and uncertainty loomed larger than life. 
So whatever her reason for this fear, whether I understood it or not, I made
certain that as long as I had breath in my body she’d never be left alone.

The next day
was Wednesday—41 days since Nicole and I last talked, eight days since she’d
gone to hospice, five days since she’d died, two days since she’d been buried. 
I waited for the phone call or the knock at the door, the voice of some
apologetic emissary to give me the good news, that there had been a terrible
mistake, and Nicole was still alive.  But there would be no such call, no knock
at the door, no telegram; just long, lonely days spent remembering her voice
and wondering how this could’ve happened, wondering what more I could’ve done
to save the only precious thing in my life.

The
following week, I went back to work as planned.  As the other employees came
in, I greeted them as I would’ve any other morning.  I wanted it to be like any
other morning.  I checked emails, returned phone calls, and sifted through the
notes people had left on my desk.  A few colleagues came into my office to
share their condolences, but for the most part, the others followed my lead:
laughing, talking shop, and acting as if nothing had happened.  This worked
wonderfully for a few hours.  Then, without warning, the words unfolded in my
brain: Nicole is dead!  I was filled with an unrelenting terror, as if I’d just
gotten the news for the first time, as if up until that moment she had been
alive and well, and some shrouded messenger showed up and delivered this
terrible news.  To my horror, this messenger would continue to come unannounced,
no matter when or where, and utter those words, and each time my world would
rotate a little further off course.

As I sat in
my office, one of the professors dropped by to discuss some projects.  We
talked about demands and requirements like we did each semester, and as she
turned to leave she looked back, her face twisted with discomfort, and said,
“I’m so sorry about your daughter, but I just don’t know what to say or do.” 

“It’s okay,”
I said.  “I’ll be fine.”  But the truth was, I didn’t know what to say or do
either.  I wanted someone to sit me down and explain to me what was happening,
why my baby was dead, why it felt as though my heart and lungs were on the
verge of collapse, and why I couldn’t sleep at night even though I was
exhausted.  Though I continued to work and tried to find some sense of
normalcy, this feeling of displacement only increased over the coming weeks.    

One evening
as I made my way home from work, I struggled through a torrential downpour.  By
the time I made it inside, I was drenched and cold.  All I wanted was a hot
shower and, for once, a good night’s sleep.  As I walked into the house, I
could feel the angst clawing its way from my belly to my throat the way it did
every night.  At work, surrounded by people and activity, I was sufficiently
distracted, but once I was home, the images would pull themselves together to
haunt me as soon as I would fall asleep.