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

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,