Butterflies

I work as a physical therapist in a skilled nursing facility with the elderly. The past year was hard on healthcare workers, but it’s been just as difficult for our patients. They are dealing with failing health, emotional pain and isolation. Many are laid at our doorstep by their own family. Frequently patients tell me relatives no longer answer their phone calls. They are viewed as being slow and an inconvenience; a nuisance to a culture that is afraid of facing their own mortality. It’s not an easy work environment. Often I journal my thoughts in my little black notebook or grow things in my garden to escape.

On this particular day I received my schedule of patients and made my usual rounds of their rooms to encourage them to exercise. This is not always welcomed, especially not in the morning. I looked at my sheet and tentatively knocked on Ms. Dixon’s door, peeking inside to see if she was awake. The room was dark, but a voice broke through the silence. “You can come in now.”

Gently opening the door I saw a solitary figure in a wheelchair looking out the window. Her back to me, she was seated in the early morning light as it filtered through the room. I felt like an intruder to a personal moment and struggled to introduce myself.

“Hello, Ms. Dixon, I am Ms. Pearson.” I explained as I moved awkwardly to the adjacent chair. “I’m your physical therapist. Do you remember the fall you had last week? I’m here to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Well now, I don’t remember falling, but I don’t mind the company,” she replied with a grin and patted my leg. “Just don’t make me play those silly games,” she stated.

“Ok then, how about I show you the exercises and we’ll forget the activities. Do we have a deal?”

“You got yourself a deal, honey. I like a good bargain,” she said with a laugh.

I made a mental note to eliminate the “games” from today’s repertoire and began to show her exercises she could do in her chair. After a pause, I looked around the room and I noted the photographs on her night stand, “Are those your grandchildren?”

“Why yes, I have two grandsons. I haven’t been allowed to see them for a while because of the virus. The oldest was married a few years ago and the youngest just finished college. In fact I haven’t seen most of my family for quite some time. My daughter is good about calling but I don’t hear much from my son. I don’t know why he doesn’t call,” she shrugged, looking at the ground.

Sensing her discomfort, I tried to change the subject, “Is that a picture of your husband?” I pointed to the black and white portrait of a man dressed in a military uniform.

“Oh, he was the first of my two husbands and I loved him very much.” she replied. “We went to the same grade school but he made fun of me and pulled my hair. I was not fond of him.”

“Maybe, he liked you?” I said with a laugh.

“He must have. Years later a friend of mine had a get together at her house and who should walk in, but Tommy the hair puller. When he saw me from across the room, he came over and sat down. I always thought he was a little funny looking, but he won me over with his charm and wit. He actually asked me out on a date.”

“So, even though he was funny looking you said yes, right?” I laughed.

“Sure did, we went to a local dance hall and met up with some friends. I don’t move around much now, but back then I loved to dance. I’d dance to anything; the jitterbug, boogie-woogie, bop, you name it. Tommy insisted that he didn’t know how to dance, but I told him not to worry, I would teach him. Our fella’s had to get some liquid courage before getting out on the dance floor, but they did real well. We had a wonderful time. After that evening Tommy and I were inseparable.”

“So, when did you get married?” I asked.

“It wasn’t long after. I was only 16 at the time, so when he proposed he had to ask my parent’s permission. We were married and had 2 beautiful children, a boy and a girl. I don’t hear from my son much but my daughter calls when she can. Did I tell you about my grandkids?”

“Oh yes; you must love them very much. What about your second husband?” I replied.

“I met my second husband 10 years after Tommy passed away. Though I loved him dearly, he was not my Tommy. We were married all of 5 years before he died of a heart attack. I swore I would never marry again.”

I glanced at my watch. “Sorry, I think we ran a little long, I love your stories.” Though, in truth, I think she enjoyed the reminiscing just as much as I liked hearing about her life. I gathered my papers and stood to leave.

“No worries sweetie, will I see you tomorrow?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it” I said.

“Just as long as you don’t make me play those silly games” she replied, “By the way, you can call me Wanda.”

The next morning I found her in the same spot; facing the window with the morning light shining through. I tapped hesitantly at the open door. She turned her head to see who was there.

“Good morning,” she said with a small smile. “I’m just sitting in my sunbeam. I like getting a little morning light since I can’t leave my room.”

“You ready to get started?” I asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she chuckled. “I think I remember everything we did yesterday, though I have a hard time keeping track of what number I’m on.”

“I’ll count while you do the exercises.” I said with a smile.

As she began, I glanced around and noticed the wall by her bed. It was full of butterflies, lots of them, in all sorts of colors. Some were pictures clipped from magazines, some were made of pipe cleaners and tissue paper. There was even a butterfly drawn in crayon with, “To grandma,” written at the bottom. Somehow, I missed this spectacle yesterday due to the darkness of the room.

As she took a rest break, I remarked, “I just noticed all of your beautiful butterflies.”

“Oh yes, I collect them.” she replied. “Some of them I made myself, some are gifts, but I’ve collected them for years. They remind me of Tommy.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, you see, the day that Tommy passed was the hardest day of my life. After the funeral, I was home alone, looking out my bay window at how beautiful the day was. I thought, how could I possibly enjoy sunny days ever again without him? I just didn’t know how I could go on. Suddenly, at that moment, a yellow butterfly lighted on my window sill. Looking at me the entire time, it waited there, opening and closing its yellow and black wings like it was trying to tell me something. I just knew it was as sign from Tommy letting me know that everything would be ok. After a long while it flew off, and I’ve collected butterflies ever since.”

I sat for a moment, looking over her wall of treasures, at how beautiful and colorful they were. I noticed that despite the variety, she did not have a single yellow butterfly.

One sunny day, I was sitting outside in the garden scribbling my thoughts in my journal when I looked up to see a bright yellow spot. Struggling to my feet I made my way over to my vegetable garden. Tangled up in the grass and the fence was a yellow butterfly. The poor insect had died. It got caught and was unable to release itself. I picked it up gingerly with two fingers and untangled the creature from its bonds, finally freeing it. It was exactly as Wanda had described, yellow and black. Deciding to make it a gift, I pressed the butterfly between the pages of my journal. Back home, I put the treasure in a little black box with a window then stood back for a moment to view my work. Though beautiful, safely preserved behind glass, I thought there something vaguely sad about this once wild creature.

The next day I brought the gift to her room. As usual she was by the window looking out. “Hi Wanda.” I said. She looked briefly over her shoulder and waved me in.

“You know my friend Ms. Ward passed last night. We used to play cards together, she cheated sometimes, but I never said anything,” she said with a weak smile. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

“I’m so sorry, do you know what happened?” I asked.

“I didn’t realize there was anything wrong until there was a commotion in the hallway. Nurses with equipment ran into her room. It wasn’t till later I was told she had passed. That’s all I know,” she said quietly.

As the tears came to her eyes, I reached for her hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Though I’ve said these words many times, each time they feel empty and lacking in weight, as if words could mend the loss of a loved one.

“Oh my dear, you don’t understand. These are happy tears. Ms. Ward was bound to a chair with a bad heart, arthritis and constant pain. Now, she no longer has to endure such things. She is with her loved ones, not kept alone in her room. Though I will miss her, she is free now.”

With that I remembered my gift. I pulled out the small black box and handed it to her. A bit apprehensive; I searched her face for a reaction. At first she just looked at it. Then a smile crept to her lips.

“Why, it’s beautiful. It looks just like the one that landed on my window sill all those years ago.”

“You gave me so many beautiful stories; it’s my way of saying thank you,” I replied.

Over the next month or two I continued to visit Wanda. Sometimes for exercise, sometimes just to say hello. Then one morning as I got to work one of my coworkers stopped me.

“Did they tell you Wanda passed yesterday evening?” she said, “They are in the process of notifying the family.”

My paperwork forgotten, “No,” I replied, “I hadn’t heard anything from anyone.”

Needing a moment, I made my way down to Wanda’s room, half afraid of what I’d find. But she was gone. Her name was still on the door but her room was dark, the empty wheelchair facing the window. Even in the dark I could still make out her colorful collection of paper butterflies. I didn’t get to say goodbye.

Three weeks later I got a strange phone call.

“Hello, may I speak to Ms. Pearson? I’m the executioner of Ms. Wanda Dixon’s estate.”

“This is she,” I replied with curiosity. “What’s this about?”

“Ms. Pearson, were you aware that Wanda left you a significant amount of money in her will?”

“I don’t know what to say, I had no idea.”

“She left you twenty thousand dollars to be used at your discretion, and that’s not all,” he stated, “She also lists here… a yellow butterfly.”

In the end, I decided to donate the money to the Alzheimer’s Association. Maybe she knew that’s what I’d do all along. I was never comfortable with the idea of financially gaining from someone’s death. The butterfly I decided to keep, to remind me not only of her, but of how delicate, beautiful and temporary life could be. Wanda was free.