Flight of the Monarch

I was asleep on a bench outside my mom’s hospice room when someone startled me awake by lightly tapping me on the shoulder. It was Easter morning five years ago. I opened my eyes and saw my dad’s best friend hovering over me. He said nothing, but the sadness in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.

My mom died.

My knees knocked together and stomach acid raced up the back of my parched throat. As I put my feet on the floor, the ground swayed, so I half-stumbled, half-ran down the hall to my mom’s room. I pushed my way past twenty somber faces, stopping between my sister and my aunt.

I stood over my mom’s body and waited impatiently for her next breath to come. Waited for her chest to rise and fall. Waited for movement of any kind, but nothing happened. Her body was still, too still. Minutes passed and I knew that there wouldn’t be another exhale from her cancer-stricken body.

The vice around my throat and the fist against my gut forbade me from breathing. And I couldn’t hear anything except for my heart thudding against my ribcage. Then there was the sudden ringing in my ears. Or was that my imagination? I couldn’t tell. My mind was scattered. Nothing was real and everything was wrong. 

The walls of the hospice room spun around me and the ringing in my ears intensified. It was too much too handle, so I screamed. I grabbed my sister and together we tumbled onto the icy tile. I gripped the back of her head, holding a handful of her silky hair. “It’s just not fair!” I shouted. I buried my head in the crook of her neck, rocking us back and forth. “Not fair,” I repeated in a whisper.

My entire world was crumbling around me like rubble after an earthquake. I would never again hear my mom’s voice, see her dance, or smell her perfume. She was gone. Gone forever and I couldn’t make any sense of why. Why her? Why would God take such a beautiful soul? Why would He cut her life short? My mind was grasping for the answers to questions that I’ll never understand. 

After four long years of chemotherapy and weeks of knowing the end was near, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I don’t know if anything could’ve prepared me enough for her death.

Later, when the tears finally stopped falling I mopped myself off of the floor and went outside to collect what was left of my sanity. I looked up to dry my cheeks under the April sun.
It was the kind of spring day that was warm enough for a light jacket and open windows. My mom loved days like those: where the breeze would gently blow her hair around, where we could work in her garden without breaking a sweat, or swing on her porch drinking lukewarm coffee and talking about whatever crossed our minds.

It was the kind of day my mom would have hand-picked as her last.

I looked at my sister, the only person in the entire world who understood exactly how I felt in that moment, standing beside me. Her face was tightly drawn and her vacant eyes stared at some point in the distance, but she said nothing. I wanted to be strong for her because that’s what big sisters are supposed to do and that’s what my mom would have wanted, but I couldn’t be strong. I was much more unraveled than she looked.

I took a deep breath in through my nose and closed my eyes. It smelled of fresh-cut grass and pond water. I exhaled and opened my eyes to see three Monarch butterflies fluttering in the distance. My mouth tugged at half a smile, because they reminded me of a lesson my mom had once taught me.

In second grade, my teacher brought in small caterpillars for the class to have as pets. We raised them, fed them, and cared for them. The caterpillars eventually wrapped themselves in a chrysalis, went through metamorphosis, and turned into colorful winged creatures.

On the last day of school, we released them back to nature and I was heartbroken that I would never again see them. After school, I ran off the bus, down the street, and into my mom’s arms. She held me tight. Then she wiped my tears and said, “oh, sweetie, setting them free was a good thing. Butterflies have to spread their wings and fly. They will never be truly happy while trapped in a cage.”

My mom wasn’t much different than those butterflies. Sickness caged her, preventing her from a career she loved. It kept her on a regimented twice-monthly chemotherapy schedule that she despised. The constant debilitating pain drained her energy and made it hard for her to remain hopeful for recovery.

It may sound crazy, but I believe those Monarchs were a message from her. Cancer and pain and chemotherapy couldn’t hold onto my mom anymore. Yes, I would grieve. I would scream and punch and curse because she wasn’t there on solid earth with me anymore. But somewhere she was smiling.

My mom was free.

Photo courtesy of Mathias Reed/Unsplash

Categories nonfiction, UncategorizedTags , , , , , , , , , , , ,

12 thoughts on “Flight of the Monarch

  1. I lost my mom three years ago and we released Monarch butterflies at her celebration of life. My brother and I have both had experiences with butterflies randomly showing up and we feel my mom’s presence every time we see them. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Same here. Every time I see a butterfly, I feel she’s close by.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Danielle, this is absolutely beautiful. I almost lost my mother a year ago. During her illness, I experienced many of the thoughts and feelings you have expressed here. We were blessed with more time together. But every moment, we know, is sacred. Monarchs have special meaning for us as well. Your story has inspired me to bring home some caterpillars to watch blossom into butterflies with my precious grandbaby girl. Thank you for sharing this truly magnificent story.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you for your lovely comments 🙂 Butterflies are special, aren’t they?


  3. This was such a comfort to read. My mother is in hospice now and although reading this brought tears; it also brought my attention to the beauty that is indeed all around us and why wouldn’t our loved ones use those gifts as special messages. Thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Lovely and sad, but also hopeful work here, Danielle. It just occurred to me how universal death is–something we all experience at some point. Yet, talking about it – saying “I am having a wave of grief right now, could someone please listen as I talk myself through this” – is almost never done. In fact, it feels downright inconvenient to ask people to do it. Death could draw us together and yet… it doesn’t most of the time. Anyway, I think it must have been hard to write this. I remember when you showed it to me before. I don’t know about you but putting myself back in these scenes to tease out a narrative arc always takes a bigger toll than I think it will. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

    1. It does, and did, for sure. I’m not sure this essay will ever be exactly what I want it to be. It’s more less something I couldn’t hold inside anymore. I know it’s not perfect. I know it’s missing something. But it’s there, now. It’s out. And maybe I can move on.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I feel that way sometimes too. Like write it, get it out, move to next story.

        Liked by 1 person

  5. I loved the image of the butterfly as hope. I could definitely relate to this piece, both the bedside waiting and the too-early loss. It feels a little raw, but I think that works for it, because it was about raw grief. So sorry for your loss, even years later.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you. This essay has been one I’ve sat on, worked on, fretted over for a long time. Though it’s pretty raw, I’m happy to finally have it out of my drafts.

      Liked by 1 person

  6. This was so beautiful and heartbreaking. I find it incredible that you can write so eloquently about such a painful subject, even though it is a story of hope and love, ugh. Your mom. I’m so sorry. You’re a wonderful writer, Danielle, it has been a pleasure to find you here on the interwebs. Thanks, Yeah Write! 😉

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, Cheney! I appreciate your kind words. You’re a great writer too – glad you found YW 😊

      Liked by 1 person

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