The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir (25 page)

It took a
long time for you to surface, but when you did, I called out to you.  Still,
you didn’t respond. For some reason, I couldn’t go to you, but I continued calling
out.  Again, without opening your eyes, you headed back for another dive.  This
time, you climbed even higher.  I knew that the higher you climbed, the deeper
you’d dive, and the longer it would take you to surface.  You jumped, and I
waited. 

Finally,
you broke through the surface and for the first time, you were distressed. 
Gasping to catch your breath, you stumbled out of the pool with your eyes still
closed and once again made your way to the rock.  I screamed for you to stop. 
You climbed to the highest point on the crag.  I knew that if you jumped from
that height you would go so deep that you’d never resurface.  I also knew that
if you could only see what you were jumping into, you would stop.  Out of
desperation I yelled out, “Why won’t you open her eyes?”  And a voice from
behind me said, “Because she doesn’t know that her eyes are closed.”  Without
turning around, I asked the Person behind me, “Why won’t she answer me?”

“Because
she can’t hear you.”

Completely
helpless, I watched as you prepared to jump, and the voice behind me said, “But
she can hear Me.”

“I awoke,
and immediately I prayed, ‘Father, open her eyes.’  And those four words became
my constant supplication.  Those close to us would ask if I’d heard from you,
and I’d say, ‘No.’  They couldn’t understand how I could be so calm, and I
would say, ‘I just pray that God will open her eyes.’  And I know it probably
sounded to them like a canned response, but indeed it was the most confident
prayer I’d ever prayed in my life.”

After I told
this to Nicole, I asked her, “Do you remember what you said to me when you came
back home, and I asked you where your friends were?”  She shook her head,
no
. 
“You said, ‘Those people aren’t my friends.  They’re into some stuff, and
they’re in way too deep for me.’  And when you said that, I knew that my prayer
had been answered, that God had opened your eyes.”

Nicole
wept.  “I love you so much, Mommy.  You have no idea how horrible that time in
my life really was.”  But I had gathered that much from the dream as well. 
While I was in my own world, sipping water from a pristine pool, there was a rancid
cesspool just adjacent to me that I was completely oblivious to.  Only when
there was a disturbance in its water did I look up and take notice.  Because of
this, I apologized to Nicole if there had ever been a time when she needed me
that I was oblivious to her situation.  This is the only time I fully disclosed
one of my dreams to Nicole. 

In her
notebook, there are a total of 11 documented dreams over an eight-year period. 
Two of the dreams stood out from the rest, one because of its striking
similarity to one of my own dreams, and the significance of the other is
self-explanatory.  In the first one, she dreamt that she was in a one-room
shack:

The shack
was on a beach and had a front door and back door.  I was in the shack with my
mother.  Both doors were open, and we were watching the waves come in.  At
first the waves were small and far away, but then they grew bigger and closer. 
I was terrified just watching them.  I went to the other door, and the same
thing was happening on the other side of the shack. 

By now
the waves were huge and seemed to linger in the air.  There was a small closet,
and I ran into it to avoid getting hit by the next wave.  They seemed so close,
and I knew they would crash down on the shack.  But when they finally came
down, the water only reached the edge of the door.  I went back out into the
room, and again giant waves were at both doors.  Water was crawling onto the
floor and along the walls like it was being spilled out.  I ran back to the
closet, but the water never reached me.

After a
while, I came back out and stood in the middle of the floor. Another wave rose
up, and I stood looking at the inside of it.  It was so blue.  I was in awe,
but I was also terrified.  The wave came down on me.  It was cold like an
awakening splash.  It happened so quickly, and I was surprised because I didn’t
have to hold my breath that long. 

Five years
prior to Nicole’s dream, I dreamt that I was in a cabin:

Nicole
was with me.  There was massive flooding all around us.  In the dream, Nicole
was around eight years old.  She lay in the middle of the floor on her back
staring up at the ceiling.  “Why does God destroy everything we put our hands
to?”  She asked.  I was surprised that such a thought would come from the mind
of a child.  Seeing my exasperation, and as if to prove her point, she asked,
“Where’s our car?”  She already knew the answer to that question.  Everything
was under water.  As I stood looking out the window, all I could see was brown,
muddy water.

The water
had risen all the way to the cabin window, which was open.  Soon the water
began flowing in through the window.  It ran down the wall but never pooled on
the floor.  Nicole and I never got wet.  As I stood looking out across this
muddy lake, I could see on the horizon a massive waterfall.  Even at its
distance, I could see the cascading blue waters.  I wondered how long it would
take for the fresh waters to reach us.  Nicole couldn’t see the waterfall.  I
couldn’t convince her that the muddy water was temporary, that beautiful blue
water was on its way.

The second
dream was revelatory.  Her illness, her withdrawal, and her death… all of it I
saw in a new light, perhaps a light meant to bring peace and closure.  But
initially peace was marginal at best.  I wondered how different things would’ve
been if I’d only known about the dream.  I wondered if Nicole herself thought
about the dream as she suffered, or if she simply wrote it down and never
thought about it again.  I wondered if the dream had been given to Nicole for
my benefit all along, seven full years before her death.  August 2000:

I dreamed
that I was a warrior fighting the enemy in a battle.  The battle wasn’t modern
with modern weapons. Instead, we used handmade weapons and all kinds of sharp
objects. I was a warrior, and I looked forward to a good battle.  I was on the
front line and was very capable with my weapons.  My army was victorious in
defeating the enemy, and there was rejoicing in the camp.  But we quickly had
to prepare for another battle.  We could see the new enemy in the not-so-far
distance.

Instantly,
I found myself clothed in a bright red dress that fell past my ankles.  It came
to me that I was the General’s daughter.  Being that the enemy was close, I led
my army into prayer. We thanked God for victory in the past battle, and we
thanked Him for victory in this now present battle. 

As I
stood up from praying, something happened. I became discouraged and consumed by
an unshakable fear. I couldn’t understand it.  I looked around me, and everyone
was filled with such confidence. I tried to gather my weapons, but every weapon
I chose seemed inadequate for the battle. Everyone expected me to lead the fight
because I was the General’s daughter, and when they saw that I was scared, they
were angry and said, “With or without you, we fight!”

I decided
to run into the woods and hide.  So I took off running into the woods, but I
couldn’t hide because everywhere I ran, the red dress gave me away. My father
was coming behind me, and I was tired of running, so I stopped. My father
asked, “Why aren’t you fighting?”

“Because
I’m afraid.  My weapons are no good, and I’m too afraid to fight.”

“Why are
you afraid?  God has already given you the victory. This enemy is already
defeated.”

I read this
dream over and over until my eyes would no longer focus.  Then, in the predawn
hours of March 24, 2008, I placed all of the letters, cards, and journals back
in the box and sealed it. 

Over the
next nine months, I found myself shackled in a dark place from which, it
seemed, there was no liberation.  Nicole had insisted from the beginning that
she couldn’t fight this battle; I insisted that she could, that
we
could… together.  But I lied, and I was angry with myself.  What kind of mother
allows her child to suffer the way she suffered?  I resented the doctors
because when they saw that Nicole’s raft was sinking and that they couldn’t
save her, they turned their ships around and just left us in the middle of the
ocean.  And then there was God, Who, after years of guidance, suddenly had
nothing to say.  When the nightmares and sleepless nights consumed me, not once
did He answer me when I cried out.

A
well-meaning friend told me that I needed to pull myself together and stop
acting like I’d never see Nicole again, and I wondered if that’s what those close
to me believed, that I was heartbroken because I thought Nicole’s death was the
end.  I’d never even considered that I wouldn’t see Nicole again.

When she was
just five or six years old, Nicole told me that she knew a secret about
butterflies.

“Tell me,” I
said, “so I can know the secret, too.”

“Well, the
secret is… butterflies are really caterpillars, and caterpillars are really
butterflies.” 

And I
listened in pretend amazement as she recounted what she’d no doubt learned at
school, that butterflies are caterpillars, only prettier and with the ability
to fly.  Such is life and death.  This flesh in which we live is nothing more
than a cocoon, and only when we step out of it do we truly begin to live. 

I know that
Nicole is alive, that she’s profoundly happy, that her memory is intact, and
that she can’t wait to see me again.  This is not what I think or what I hope;
this is what I know.  To live is good; to die is even better. 

With winter approaching, Cynthia had decided to make a final trip
to the lake house before the cold set in, so she, my friend Eunice, two others,
and I packed our overnight bags and made the two-hour drive to the lake. Eunice
was dealing with her sister Vivian’s death, and I was close to dying under the
weight of Nicole’s death.  Cynthia took measures to keep us all afloat.  This
trip was one of those measures. It would be a weekend away from husbands and
lovers to provide the kind of nourishment that only sisterhood can offer.

The next
morning, I walked down to the lake and stood looking out over the gray, frigid
water at boats resting in boat houses, listening to the gentle lapping of
waves.  Across the lake, a lone black dog stood pacing in the shallows,
stopping briefly to stare into the water, perhaps thinking he’d found a new
playmate but quickly realizing it was his own reflection. 

I thought
what
a wonderful place to reflect and to bring all nature together—clouds and sky
and trees and water and wind. 
This is the kind of place that lends itself
to answers.  I was sure if I stayed there long enough, staring into the water
at my own reflection, that all of the pieces of my fragmented life would begin
to float together. 

As the gray
ceiling of clouds settled low in the sky, I knew I had much to be thankful
for.  I was able to be with Nicole through the end of her earthly journey.  I
didn’t have to conjure up images of what her last moments might’ve been like. 
She had not disappeared while vacationing in Aruba, nor had she been attacked
while hiking with her dog.  Instead, with the last beat of Nicole’s heart, I
was kissing her lips.  Filled with gratitude, I turned my face to the bitterly
cold wind and climbed the long, winding stairs back to the house. 

Before
leaving the following day, I slipped from the bedroom out onto the veranda that
overlooked the lake.  I breathed in the cold air and listened to the haunting
call of the loon.  I imagined my other self still standing down on the pier
from the previous day gazing into the water hoping for answers.  I wondered if
I should call down that it was time to go, or if I should leave myself there to
contemplate.  If anyone could brave the cold, dark solitude of winter, it was
the woman standing on the pier. 

I went back
inside and closed the doors.  I would return in the spring when the woods were
alive with wildflowers and everything was dewy and new.  I’d rejoin myself down
on the pier to find out what I’d learned, what mysteries had been unraveled,
and if the pieces of the puzzle had at long last come together.  I already held
the answers to these questions, but I knew that I must leave her to come to
these conclusions on her own.

On December 28, a few days shy of a year of Nicole’s death
, I was still struggling
to sleep at night.
Grief had rounded up two partners - Guilt & Anger - and the
three of them together were formidable foes. No amount of praying, no
amount of counseling, and no amount of sleeping could loose me of their grip. I
had fallen into a state of complete and utter blackness that had persisted
through the year.

 Back in
June, as my lack of sleep had begun to weigh heavily on me, I’d asked my doctor
for something to help me sleep.  I was in the process of moving, and my
emotional exhaustion had coupled with my physical exhaustion making for a very
bad combination.  She’d written me a prescription, and that night I swallowed
the tiny white pill and buried myself under the covers.