A Golden Butterfly Fluttered By

A memoir

By Alva Smith, Jr.

© 2017

 Laura’s second round of chemotherapy had failed. Oh, it may have killed any cancer that remained, if any did remain, but it had also damaged her inner organs beyond repair. Her heart was weakened. Her liver could no longer clean the wastes from her blood. Her skin was turning yellow. Her lungs were unable to remove water. A catheter, which ended in a plastic bag, no longer dripped.  Her body was bloated from water retention. She was drowning in her own body fluids. Her mind was as sharp as ever.

She asked the doctors how long she might live. They answered, “Three days to three weeks with the treatments, hours without them.”

She wanted to have a family discussion that evening after school. It was very cold in Tulsa that February day. I was in Laura’s hospital room when Marty and Rob arrived bundled in their heavy coats.

Laura shared the doctor’s prognosis and told us she wanted to discontinue the treatments which were prolonging her life, “if it’s alright with y’all.”

The boys and I knew there was no hope. We knew how much she was suffering to stay alive and we knew she was doing it for us. We agreed that the decision was hers but we would support her. Laura called in the nurse, told her of the decision and asked that the I.V.s be removed. The nurse went away and returned with papers which required our signatures. After the papers were duly signed, the nurse removed everything that was keeping Laura alive.

We talked about other things. She asked the boys to work smart in life, particularly to continue to be honor students. Rob was a junior at Jenks High School; Marty was a freshman at Tulsa University. The family savings had been spent on Laura’s treatment, including the college savings accounts that we had scrimped together for both boys. Marty was on a music and academic scholarship. After finishing high school, Rob went to Oklahoma University on academic scholarships. Both had student loans to make up the difference.

Laura was adamant that she did not want her family to see her dead body. “I want y’all to have memories of me when I was alive. I don’t want you to remember me dead. I don’t want you to be here for ‘the event’,” as she put it.

“When you see a golden butterfly,” she said, “smile, for she will be me, sending my love.” My wife was often poetic. It was one of her endearing features. She had a lot of them.

After a fairly-happy visit, Marty and Rob left, citing homework to be done. I think they knew their parents needed to be alone. Laura asked me to climb into the hospital bed and hold her in my arms. I did, and we had a conversation which I will always remember as one of the closest times we ever shared.

She apologized that she wouldn’t be here for our twenty-seventh anniversary which was three days away. She wanted me to remarry after her death and start a new life, even suggesting some of her single friends who would, in her opinion, be acceptable candidates and would “jump at the chance.” None did. I’m no longer in touch with any of them and have not had the desire to consider marriage to anyone. She also asked me to do whatever needed to be done for the boys to finish college. I’ve kept that promise, but I must credit Marty and Rob, not myself, with getting it done.

Laura and I laughed, joked and shared favorite memories that evening. Not a tear was shed. We reveled in the happiness our thirty years together and the joy Marty and Rob had given us. Eventually she asked me to go home to be with the boys. “They need you, Darling, and I have to prepare myself.”

“Please don’t try to grab more moments, Darling, we have to let go of each other. Death is something everyone must face alone, no matter how many people may be around.” She assured me she was not afraid.

We said, “I love you,” but not “Goodbye.” I kissed her, left the room without looking back, went into the frigid night and coaxed Laura’s old mini-van to life. The trip home on icy streets required all my attention. When I arrived, Marty was asleep. Rob was in his room with the door open, not sleeping.

I couldn’t say anything when I went in. I looked in Rob’s red eyes and broke into uncontrollable tears. He held me like a father might console a child, while I sobbed.

Eventually, exhausted, I went to bed. At six o’clock in the morning the hospital called to tell me Laura had died.

Marty and Rob were preparing themselves for school when I broke the news. I asked if they wanted to stay home that day. They said they didn’t because they had homework to turn in and they had promised their Mom they would do well in school. Late homework might threaten their grade point averages.

After the boys left, I drank coffee, then walked out into Laura’s beloved back garden. I’m not sure why I went out into the cold air. I can’t remember being on a mission of some kind. I confess I considered fetching my old German Lugar and joining her. But I had important promises to keep. The thought didn’t last long.

I was wandering aimlessly around the back yard when a yellow butterfly glided from the sky and made a couple of circles. “Hi, Sweetheart!” I smiled. I reached out my hand, hoping she would touch me once more, but she didn’t. She fluttered away as if she were on her way to heaven. I’ve said, “Hi, Sweetheart,” to every yellow butterfly I’ve seen since.

Whether the butterfly was Laura in another form, a figment of my mourning imagination, or an insect who had lost her way in the frozen air, I have no way of knowing. I like to think it was Laura, saying “Adios” with a promise that we would meet again. Complying gratefully with her request, I didn’t view the body, but ordered it to be delivered to the crematorium. A few days later, I sprinkled some of her ashes in the fish pond I’d built for her and at the base of the still-young Tulip tree she had planted.

I bought two “niches” at a near-by cemetery. One, marked “Laura Lee Smith, 1955 to 2009,” holds the remainder of her ashes and the first piece of jewelry I bought for her while we were on vacation in Spain, a few months after we met. The niche beside hers, empty of course, remains labeled “Alva Smith, Jr.”

During our thirty years together, Laura only went to church one time, for my mother’s funeral. When asked, she claimed to be an Atheist. I’ll leave that assessment to her, but I have never met a more spiritual person, nor anyone who was closer to The Great Mystery in all that she did.

A.J., what a wonderful love you have for Laura, she is apprarently still with you.  What a lucky guy!

Rex

Laura will always be with me, Rex. She made my life.

She and I made plans to meet at Crazy Horse's lodge in the Happy Hunting Grounds.

Thanks for your kind comments.

A.J.

Oh AJ!  How beautiful!  I am so happy that I got to know Laura, she was one of the sweetest people I have known.  You could always tell you too were so crazy about each other.  I am crying hard at your beautiful story.  You and your boys are so blessed to have her.  I know those butterflies will keep coming around you.  Next time tell her I said hi too!  Gordona 

Thanks, Gordona. Your opinion means a lot to me. Laura admired you as well.

You can tell her yourself. Next time you see a golden butterfly, say: "Hi, Laura!" A lot of people (besides me) who loved her do.