The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir by Nancy Stephan Read Free Book Online Page A

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.”

Chapter 6
     
    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