Butterfly

Sometimes life just kicks you in the butt, and usually when you least expect it.

I started this blog at the urging of my best friend, Heidi.  She said I had a story to tell, and I should tell it. Grief just isn't talked about in any depth, she correctly noted, until a person is slammed with the loss of someone or something and then the emotions are too strong to absorb any words of wisdom about how to handle it.  She said I had a way of telling the story of living despite grieving that might help others who have lost someone, or know someone who is grieving.

After months (or was it years???) of her nudging and encouragement, I finally listened to her and started the blog.  I wrote a long time on the first entry and realized I was completely absorbed by the process.  I lost track of time.  I wrote, and edited, and polished, and finally finished.  I read it over and knew that writing about grief was what I needed to do.

I began it on September 30, my son's birthday.  I finished in the wee hours of October 1.  I felt good, and accomplished.  But the maiden voyage into blogging was not complete until I sent it to my BFF for her blessing (or at least her feedback).

She wrote back and was effusive in her praise -- yes, yes, this is it, this is what you need to be writing, so that others can know, and can deal with grief.  We had a wonderful exchange about it, and I felt at ease, with the validation that only a most-of-your-life friend can bring you.

We were friends for 45 years.  Most of my lifetime.

Then, 10 days after my first post, she died.  Died.  I still can't quite fathom it.  She was fatigued, she fainted twice, she went to the doctor, the blood test said leukemia, and 48 hours later, she died.

I thought the death of my husband was awful.

I knew the death of my son caused part of me to die.

Her death has ripped away a big part of me, because she was with me for so much of my life.

This new cosmic kick in the butt has kept me from writing the blog.  This new grief shoved aside other grief and left me staggering, like an old, beaten boxer, carrying the scars of all the fights before, covered by the fresh blood of the current fight.  Yes, I am a fighter, and I remain, but I wish I had endured less pummeling.  Fact is, life does what it wants to do.  Some of us get more than our share of kicks in the butt.  So it goes.

"In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade,
And he carries the reminder, of every glove that laid him down,
Or cut him, 'til he cried out, in his anger and his shame,
I am leaving, I am leaving,
But the fighter still remains."

-Simon & Garfunkel, "The Boxer"

Just now am I able to write the words, "she died."  45 years of friendship is gone.  No more giggles.  No more funny emails.  No more serious emails.  No more long phone calls.  No more being able to give advice, and take advice.  No more plans for trips and visits and sharing stories.  No more "Heidi Cookies" at Christmas.  No more.

She has been gone for two months.  It is a blur, and I try to not think about the lack of emails, the lack of phone calls, the birthday cards and presents that will never be sent.

Death is endemic to life on this planet.  Although I can still say without hesitation that the death of a child is a loss like no other, I see that the loss of a best friend -- who was more like my sister -- comes pretty damn close.

One thing I will miss, among many trillions of things, is sharing with her the symbols that would come my way, that became my belief that my loved ones were communicating with me.  (See previous blog on "Feathers.")  She absolutely believed in angels, and knew there were communications from those who have "translated" [as she called it] to a different existence (she never thought death was the end, but the beginning of a new type of life).

And so, a couple of days after I heard the news, I found myself thinking about our many conversations about the spirit world, and communications from those that have left, and wondered whether there would be a something from her.  I said out loud, "Heidi, I know you will find a way to communicate with me, and I will be looking for it."  

Not too long after that, perhaps the next morning, I was walking to my car and enjoying the warmth of the late fall sun.   My car was parked under the large Chinese elm tree in front of my house.  As I opened the car door, I looked up into the now mostly leafless branches, and suddenly a butterfly appeared.  It hovered and fluttered over the car for quite some time, and as I looked at it, a smile broke out.  "Aha!  It's you, Heidi!   I knew you would find a way to come to me.  Thank you."  And yes, the tears welled up, but truly they were happy tears.

I get many butterflies in my yard, mostly the deeply colored orange and black Monarch type.  But this butterfly was a completely different color -- grey with yellow -- that I had never, in my entire life, seen before.  And, never, in the 15 years of parking my car under the Chinese elm tree, did I ever see ANY butterfly in that tree.

I have not seen that butterfly since.  I have not seen any other butterfly in the Chinese elm.

I know it was Heidi.

Her voice and her encouragement continues both in my head and my spirit.  I started this blog to share the grief journey of my son.  Yet there are many grief journeys and her loss has added a new dimension to my understanding.  It's not a loss I would have wanted or chosen, but like the other "involuntary" losses I have been hit with, it is a loss with lessons.

I will keep writing.  For me, for others, and for her.

To Heidi, may your spirit journey be even better than you envisioned.   I miss you, my friend, but hope your spirit is as light and as free as the butterfly you sent to me.


Copyright 2014