The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir
Read The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir Online
Authors: Nancy Stephan
The
Truth About Butterflies
A
Memoir
By
Nancy Stephan
Copyright © 2011 by
Nancy Stephan
All Rights Reserved. No
portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations
in reviews, without the written permission of the publisher.
Rum & Baker
Publishing
P.O Box 49
Dallas, GA 30132
Printed in the United
States of America
First Edition (Amended)
ISBN:
978-0-615-43545-9
Library of Congress
Control Number: 2011901809
For
Nicole
The
muddy water is gone
The
beautiful blue water is here
Just
like I promised
The first
time I saw a dead person, I was eight years old. My cousin Kenny and I had gone
with Aunt Betty to a funeral parlor. While she talked with the salesman, we played
among the casket displays. Aunt Betty would order us to settle down and stop
touching things, but when she’d turn around, Kenny, who was 10, would make
funny faces and touch something anyway. Of course, I had no idea what these
things were used for until the next day when I saw my mother lying in one.
Aunt Betty
had explained to me a couple of nights before in the hospital that my mother
had gone to heaven, so at the funeral I stood, I imagine like any child would,
trying to figure out why she wasn’t moving. I couldn’t associate her being in
heaven with her being dead even though I knew what death was, that is to the
extent young children are capable of knowing these things.
The night my
mother died, we were in bed together. I seldom slept in my own room because my
closet had French doors, and I was convinced that someone or something was
watching me through the louvers. Even if I started off in my own bed, I always
ended up in hers.
As my mother
lay sleeping, I was startled by a heavy gasping sound she suddenly made. As
quickly as she’d made the horrible sound she was once again quiet. I’m not
sure how many minutes I lay there before trying to wake her. I’m not even sure
how I knew something was wrong, but when I couldn’t wake her, I turned on the
lamp beside the bed. Her eyes were closed like she was sleeping, but her face
was blue and mottled. I immediately called Aunt Betty, and my cousin Bobby
answered the phone. I told him that my mother was cold and had blue lines on
her face like spider webs and that she wouldn’t wake up. He said that I was
dreaming and should go back to bed. But when I insisted that something was
wrong, he said he’d call Aunt Betty at work.
Aunt Betty
arrived very quickly, it seemed, and so did the ambulance. My mother was a
nurse, and they took her to the hospital where she worked. We weren’t there
long before Aunt Betty, who had been talking to the doctors, started crying. The
nurses, some of whom worked with my mother, were also crying and hugging each
other. A doctor came and knelt in front of me and told me I was a very brave
and smart girl. As things began to settle down, Aunt Betty said, “Everything’s
okay, honey; your mama’s in heaven now.” In that instant, I must’ve decided
that going to heaven and being dead was not the same thing.
From the
hospital, Aunt Betty and I went back to her house. She told me to go climb
into bed with one of the boys, of which she had three: Kenny was 10, Bobby was
12, and Stevey was 14. “Honey, go straight to sleep, and don’t wake the
boys.” And I probably wouldn’t have, but when I walked into the room, Stevey
was already awake and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“My mom’s in
heaven.”
He was over
on the top bunk, and he sat straight up and swung his legs over the side. Even
though it was dark, I could see him clearly.
“No she’s
not!” He scolded.
“Yes she
is.”
“Shut up,
and stop lying!”
“But she
is.”
He was quiet
for a moment, and then he called out loudly, “Mom?” Before Aunt Betty could
come in, Stevey jumped down and went out of the room. I heard him ask, “Mom,
where’s Aunt Sue?” By then, Kenny and Bobby were up, and all the lights were
on, and no one slept after learning that my mother had gone to heaven.
At the wake,
the confusion began to set in. I wondered how my mother could be in heaven and
at the same time lying in a box at the front of the room. Aunt Betty said she
was there so people could tell her goodbye, but no one did. There were no
conversations at all between my mother and anyone in the room. People just
milled about in small groups and talked in hushed tones.
I asked Aunt
Betty if I could write my mother a note. She gave me a piece of paper and a
pen and sent me off to compose, probably thinking it would keep me busy for a
while. However, it only took a moment for me to scribble out my message.
Afterwards, and unaware that handling my mother’s body was inappropriate, I
headed to the casket to give her the note. When I grabbed her wrist and lifted
it, a collective gasp filled the room. Aunt Betty rushed over, and together we
placed the note under my mother’s hand. She whispered one admonition as we
walked away from the casket, “Honey, don’t touch Mama.” There was little
chance of another gaffe as I remained at my aunt’s side throughout the
evening.
When it was
over and she said it was time to go, I started to cry. The preacher told Aunt
Betty to let me cry because I needed to grieve, but my tears had nothing to do
with grief. I was crying because we were leaving, and my mother still hadn’t acknowledged
my note.
I was well
into my twenties before I actually began grieving my mother’s death. Up until
then, refusing to believe that she was dead, I’d convinced myself that she was
living in another country and when the time was right, she would come back for
me. At eight when she died, I was oblivious to the one dark onus that colored
our world. But within a few short years of her death, I had come to understand
these things and believed that if my mother would just come back, I would be
strong enough for the both of us.
As a
teenager, I began asking Aunt Betty a lot of questions about my mother’s
death. When she gave me the death certificate, I believed that it might’ve
been fabricated, that maybe she herself had paid someone to create the phony
document just for my benefit.
With the
advent of the Internet, I discovered the online social security death index. I
found my mother’s name, and then once or twice a year I would revisit the site
to see if her name was still there. But age and wisdom prevailed, and I
eventually made peace with perhaps what I had known all along: my mother was
dead, and she wasn’t coming back.
Over the
years, I’ve experienced the deaths of friends and loved ones. Like many, I’ve
been shocked by phone calls in the middle of the night. In some cases I’ve
been relieved to see death come to those whose lives had been choked out by
disease and suffering. But no amount of experience would prepare me for the
death of my own daughter, which left me teetering between life and
dissolution.
Some have
said I should’ve seen it coming. Others have said I should be relieved that
it’s over, but I’ve learned that
over
doesn’t always mean
the end,
and what we might consider
ending
is simply
continuing anew
.
This is my daughter Nicole’s story; it’s our story. Living it has left me
breathless. Sharing it has given me wings.
January
2008
There
are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't
want to know but have to learn, people we can't live without but have to let go.
~
Author
Unknown
My joints
were aching and refused to be consoled. An elderly lady in the drugstore told
me I was aching because of the chill in the air. “It’s what comes on us with
age,” she said. As I toggled between analgesics, trying to decide which would
be best, the lady said, “Baby, get you some Epsom salts and saw bean.” I’d
been subjected to many folk remedies, including goose grease and asafetida, but
never saw beans. I had no idea what they were or even where I might find them;
it really didn’t matter as I had no intentions of buying any. Out of respect,
though, I nodded and listened attentively as she explained the cure for my
aching joints.
Turn up
the thermostat. Run you a tub of hot water. Pour about two cups of Epsom
salts over in there. You soak in that ‘til the water grow tepid; them salts
will draw all that pain off you. Towel off real good, and rub some saw bean on
them aching joints. Slip on some flannel PJs and a housecoat and wrap up good
and tight. Then go straight to bed.
She leaned in closely and whispered,
I mean
straight to bed, no relations.
I chuckled,
trying to remember the last time I’d heard sex referred to as relations. I
didn’t bother explaining that “relations” was the last thing on my mind, that
my body, grieving and starved for sleep, was turning on itself, and that my
only child was dying. Instead, I smiled in appreciation of her kindness. A
few more bits of advice and she disappeared down the aisle. I put the Naprosyn
back on the shelf and dropped the Motrin into the basket. After I picked up a
few more items and headed to the register, the lady reappeared. “Here you go,
honey.” She dropped two items into my basket: a carton of Epsom salts and a
bottle of saw bean, which to my surprise turned out to be Absorbine, Jr.
Arriving
home, I took a couple Motrin and a hot shower, but my joints were simply
inconsolable. Four hours later, unable to sleep, I went into Nicole’s room and
rummaged through her vast collection of medications and found a bottle of
Percocet. Within 30 minutes, I was feeling the euphoric effect of the drug,
and I curled up in bed with the hopes of a painless, restful sleep. I would
need to be strong the next day, clear headed and able to conduct myself
graciously. Therefore, a good-night’s rest was essential.
Two hours
later, however, I awoke to the sensation of my stomach being fed through a meat
grinder. The pain coupled with nausea was nearly unbearable. On my knees in
bed doubled over a pillow, I moaned and prayed, but there would be no relief. By
morning, the aching in my joints had somewhat subsided, but the nausea from the
Percocet was unrelenting. I had hoped to face this important day well rested.
Instead, I dressed and headed to the hospital a sleepy, nauseous mess.
As I took
the familiar path from the parking deck to the main lobby, past the gift shop
and up to the 5
th
floor, I was keenly aware that it would be the
last time I walked these halls. Either God would heal Nicole, and she would be
done with all of this foolishness, or He would take her home, and she’d be done
with all of this foolishness. Either way, I would never again walk these halls
with the gnawing anguish of not knowing whether or not she’d be okay.