The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir (23 page)

I sang happy birthday, and I read her, her birthday cards. The
card from her paternal grandmother had a purple octopus on the front, a card
for a little girl. Inside she’d written, “My beautiful granddaughter, WAKE UP!”
And when I read that to Nicole, I paused to look at her, to see if she’d do as
she was told. In that moment, I was filled with desperation. Since
December 6
when this
whole thing started, I had shown nothing but strength and resolve. I had only
spoken positive things. Every word that had come out of my mouth was
life
.
But right then, desperation consumed me. With the door still closed and the
curtain still pulled, I lay my head next to hers on the pillow, and I wept and
pleaded for her to come back to me… to
please
come back to me.  

If a girl is going to come back to her mother, surely her birthday
would be a fine day to do it. If not on her birthday, then on Christmas, just
three short days away. What better Christmas gift for a mother than that her
daughter should come back to her on Christmas morning.  And if not on
Christmas, then on New Year’s. There’s so much symbolism in coming back to your
mother on New Year’s Day; after all, it’s a day of new beginnings.  All of this
would be so simple if she’d just open her eyes and look at me. If she looked
into my eyes for only one second, I would know whether or not my “
30 days
” was long
enough, or if I should hold out for Valentine’s Day. What could be more
glorious than a girl coming back to her mother on the rosy-red day of love? But
Nicole didn’t open her eyes and look at me on her birthday, or Christmas, or
New Year’s, so I kept my word. The “30 days” had dwindled down to 5. The next
day I would visit the first hospice center.

As I drove up the long, secluded road that led to the first
hospice on my list, I thought
what person is able to die peacefully in a
place surrounded by these ridiculous pine trees?
 When I reached the
parking lot, I sat for a while looking at the ridiculous cars and wondering
about the ridiculous people who drove them. I walked in, and there was no one
to greet me, no one in sight; it was like a ghost town. It was obvious that I
couldn’t trust these people to look after Nicole. But before I could walk out,
some ridiculous woman walked over and asked if she could help me. “I’d like to
see the facility.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’d be happy to give you a tour. Are you
considering hospice for a parent?”

“No.”

And
she waited for me to give her more details, but I didn’t, and so there was an
awkward moment of silence before she took me to see the facility. But I had
already decided that this was not the place for Nicole; it was too quiet, and
the lighting was all wrong, and the colors were off, and the bedspreads were
ridiculous… and those ridiculous pine trees flanking the road.

Before I left, the lady handed me a brochure. On the front was a
graying woman with a loving arm wrapped around her gray-haired mother, who
obviously had lived a long, full life, and now, thanks to her caring daughter,
was going to die with dignity in a hospice. This brochure had nothing to do
with Nicole and me, so as soon as I walked out the door, I dropped it in the
trash.

The next day, I visited the second hospice center on my list,
which was newly built and quite a long distance from my house. Throughout the
day, I kept putting the visit off, and by the time I did arrive, it was already
dark. When I walked in, it was as if I’d walked into someone’s living room.
There were two or three nurses at the desk, and one of them came around and
said, “Hi honey, how can I help you?” I’d walked in with the intention of
giving my stiff-upper-lip answer of
I’d like to see the facility
, but
what came out was, “I need a place for my daughter.”

With that, the other nurses came around to where we were, and they
led me to an armchair. “Honey, what happened?” She asked. And I told them,
tears aplenty, about Nicole. And then the nurse said something that no other
nurse, or doctor, had said to me before. She said, “This is absolutely horrible;
it’s unthinkable!” And she was right. Of course, there was truth in what the
other doctors and nurses had said too:
This is the reality… You need to
accept this… She’s not going to wake up… You’re being selfish…,
but none
mentioned the bare-bones truth, that a mother burying her child is
horrible and unthinkable no matter what else.

As I sat surrounded by these women, who were all touching me in
some way, I knew this is where Nicole would come. I left without brochures and
without a tour of the facility, but indeed feeling like so much of my burden
had been stripped away.

When I made it back to the hospital that night, I told the nurse
who was caring for Nicole that I had made a decision. By the next morning,
January 7, I had been contacted by the social worker, the chaplain, and the
hospice liaison. On the following day, January 8 at 10 a.m., Nicole would move
to hospice. 

During that
first week of January, Georgia hiker
Meredith Emerson had gone missing while hiking
in the mountains with her dog Ella
.  I followed the case closely, and it seemed as
if I now had two situations to deal with.  But it also seemed obvious to me
that not both girls would die; that’s not how the math works.  And since I was
moving Nicole to hospice, it stood to reason that Meredith would be found
alive. When they found Meredith’s body the day before Nicole moved to hospice,
I knew that
reason
itself, like every other thing in my life, was no
longer reasonable. 

Nicole
lasted three days in hospice.  Seconds before she stepped out of the cocoon of
her body, she opened her eyes; then she closed them and was gone.  On the 14
^th,
at 2 p.m., she was laid to rest, and for the first time since I was 14, I’d
continue my journey without her.

2008—2010

What
the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly. 

~
Richard
Bach

Two months
after Nicole died, Dr. Anedi Akwari called to see what my plans were for the
Easter holiday.

“Go to the
cemetery, I guess; put down some flowers.”

“Why not come
to church with me and my family?”  She asked  

I didn’t
immediately answer.  I had gone to church a few weeks after Nicole died and was
so overcome with emotion that I left within 10 minutes.  “You know,” she
continued, “what better way to celebrate Nicole’s resurrection than in a place
for the living, instead of a place for the dead.”

I had to say
yes because I couldn’t keep saying no.  She’d encouraged me to get together for
coffee.  I couldn’t do it.  She’d invited me to her house for a Super Bowl party. 
“There’ll be lots of people here you don’t know, but you’ll still have fun.
Please come.”  I declined.  She’d kept in constant contact through calls and
email, even phoning to say that she’d signed Nicole’s death certificate and I
could go downtown and pick up a copy for my records.  That was in February; I
waited until May to pick it up.

Picking up a
death certificate seemed like an occasion I should dress for, a pair of heels
at least.  I took the day off work and drove a couple counties north to the
courthouse.  “I’d like to pick up a death certificate,” I said to the woman
behind the security window.

“Fill this
out and sign it.  It’ll be $25.”

She slid a
form under the glass.  I filled in my personal information along with my
relationship to Nicole, whom the form referred to as the
Decedent
. 

I slid her
the money; she slid me the certificate.  This sacred occasion of picking up the
death certificate was nothing more than a transaction, like paying the light
bill.  It was definitely not worthy of heels.

I waited
until I reached the car to look at the certificate.  I read it top to bottom. 
I examined every word for errors, for any reason I could stand up and shout,
“Stop everything!  There’s been a mistake.”  But there was nothing.  The cause
of death was listed under
Part I, Section 23 a. Immediate Cause: Anoxic
Encephalopathy, b. Due to, or as a consequence of: Renal Failure.  There were
five signatures.

I told Anedi
to email me the church’s address, and I’d go online for directions.  The next
morning, I struck out for the church.  What should’ve been a 45 minute drive
turned into a two-hour fiasco.  After winding my way through narrow hills that
bordered a robust river, I ended at an old, weathered shed, in front of which
was a rusted motor boat.  Just as well, I thought.  I found my way back to the
main road and returned home.  I decided I could use the day to do some more
packing for the move.

Not making
any headway in packing up Nicole’s room, I turned my attention to the attic. 
It’s where I’d find the box that would change me in ways I couldn’t have
imagined.

When I
unsealed the box, I found two shoe boxes inside.  I removed them.  Underneath
were several notebooks; I removed them also.  Loose in the very bottom of the
box were Nicole’s ROTC insignia, name tag and uniform neck tab, a name badge
from one of her jobs, a napkin and pencil from her 8
^th
grade dance,
and a baggie with bits of cake crumbs and 16 birthday candles.  I gathered it
all and set it aside. 

I opened one
of the shoe boxes and inside was a thick stack of cards and letters.  I
wondered with whom she might’ve been so enamored, but as I removed the stack
from the box and began thumbing through the cards, I saw that all of them were from
me: birthday cards, Valentine’s Day, Easter, Christmas, letters, I Love You
notes, every card and letter I’d ever given her over the years she must’ve
saved. 

In
disbelief, I read every single one, many of which I barely remember writing. 
In a card dated August 1996, I’d written, “This card is so pretty, I wanted to
get it for you.  Every time you look at it you will think of how much I love
you.  You’re my angel, much more beautiful than the one on the front of this
card.” 

In a 1997
Mother’s Day card, I’d written, “You probably think it’s strange for me to give
you
a Mother’s Day card, but if it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be able to
celebrate this day.  I’m glad to be your mother and wouldn’t trade you for
anything.  Being your mother has taught me faith and courage.  I really do
believe you are worth your weight in gold.” 

And in her
18
^th
birthday card, I’d written, “For your 18
^th
birthday,
I chose emerald earrings.  In Revelations 4, the rainbow that surrounded the
throne of God John said was like unto an emerald.  That’s why I chose them for
this special birthday.”

During our
separation when Nicole had been diagnosed with diabetes, I wrote to her
frequently.  Those letters were stacked together separately.  In one of the
letters, I had taken a blank sheet of paper and plastered it with eight lipstick
kisses.  I forgot I’d even made the kiss page, but there it was in the box.  A
kiss from the upper right corner of the page had been torn away, and I knew that
Nicole had removed it to keep with her at all times, a portable kiss stashed in
the hip pocket of her jeans.

After
spending hours reading all the notes and cards I’d written over the years, I
placed everything back in the box and reached for the second box.  Inside were
more letters, but these were from others.  A stack of about 40 letters from her
boyfriend were together in an envelope box.  I reached in the stack and pulled
out a random letter: “Baby, What’s up?  First thing, where do you get off
calling me a Chipmunk Punk?”  I folded the letter, placed it back in the
envelope, and returned it to the stack.  I lacked the energy to read 40 letters
from two on-again, off-again lovesick teenagers.

Another
stack was from her younger sister.  In a letter dated October 1998, her sister
wrote, “If I tell you a secret promise not to tell, so here it goes I got my
first kiss two months ago and that was very special to me.  I have kissed him
twice now.  Some of my friends tell me I am sprung on him, but that’s ok
because there is another boy I like.”

There was a
letter from her friend Sheena dated November 2005.  Friends since they were
girls, they’d grown closer with age.  The letter is addressed, “Hello my
beautiful friend,” and continues with some general catching up.  But then her
heart opens up the way a flower opens to the sun:

“I get
the feeling you’re tired, Nicole, like things are wearing on you.  But let me
just say that I am continuously encouraged by you; by His strength in you; by
your willingness to endure.  You are beautiful and amazing.  I wanted to let
you know that I’m thinking of you and loving you and I’m so encouraged by you
simply being you—not having to do anything… just you being Nicole, beautiful
Nicole.  I love you, girl. Please know that.”

Sheena put
it perfectly when she once said, “When Nicole loved you, she loved you with all
she had.”

I folded the
letter, placed it back in the envelope, and reached for another that was
addressed to Sally.  “Sally” was a nickname I’d given Nicole when she was a
baby, and it had stuck.  Inside the envelope were two folded sheets of
notepaper.  The first was dated 11-27-91 and was addressed “Dear Gummy Bear
Eater.”  Immediately, I thought back to the gummy-bear incident.