From caterpillar to cocoon to butterfly...

The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy.
What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly.

--Richard Bach

I've been thinking alot about butterflies lately.

This is one of the last things John said to me (but not THE last) the morning before he died:

"Tamara, will you put the butterfly away?"

At the time, I just chalked the comment up to the amount of morphine he was on toward the end. Now? I say "maybe...and then again...."

I'd heard things from various sources about butterflies being important. I even heard about it during the warmer weather, where butterflies and moths were in abundance--particularly around the gardens of Stoneleigh. John even noticed them outside his window flitting interchangeably with the rainbow of birds that were outside and near John's windows.

But I didn't think about it much after he died. Not initially, anyway.

A couple weeks ago, I attended my first Widowed Persons Support Group--a group of women that meet on the third Sunday afternoon of each month. I'm normally reticent about joining in with the "support group" thing; the reason I went to (and will probably return to at some point) the cancer support group was because I already knew the people who are a part of that group.

This new group came with high recommendations from my doctor and several other people--including a couple of my coworkers. So I thought there would be no harm checking it out.

The meeting took place in the suite next door to my doctor's office. There were about eight of us in attendance, including the leader. Our leader is a grief counselor who has walked a similar road to the rest of us. I immediately felt at ease as I listened to the various women who are at different stages of the process. But even those that have new grief--like me--it's  a different stage and process...it is for everyone. That's a given for me and has been for about 14 years.

At first, we were asked to take turns and share our name and--if we felt comfortable--one thing good that had happened in the last day. I don't remember what I shared; I think it had to do with family member and accomplishments or something that day. The specifics do not matter; the fact that I had a good thing to say was the important thing, I think.

And I'm just getting past (well, most of the time) feeling guilty for having good moments when John has died. Of course, I still have meltdowns and sad times. Lots of them. But nothing really that unusual where I am currently "at" in the process. And of course, there's no set timeline.

We talked about the television coming on and many of the other women have had similar experiences. Mostly, I learned that what I've experienced about "strange occurrences" isn't that unusual.

And then the thought about John's butterfly comment came to mind. And I said this:

"Something John said toward the end has been bugging me." I told them what he had said. And several of the women either nodded their heads or gasped.

I was told that the butterfly is a sign of transition to the next life. And in the context of when he said it, it makes complete sense. The subject of butterflies comes up often in experiences--mostly with women, the support group people told me. Yeah, but...

I just recently finished reading the book Proof of Heaven: A Neurosurgeon's Journey into the Afterlife, written by Eben Alexander, MD. It was the third book I'd read in the last few weeks about near-death experiences (NDEs, they call them). In this book, not only does the subject of butterflies come up--it's on the cover of the book! Now, I've owned the book for two or three months. And I never noticed it until the time I was actually reading it and thinking about John's butterfly. I won't go into Dr. Alexander's story any more than that other than to say I think his experience was similar to what happened to John when he nearly died from the meningitis. The only main difference? John never talked about what happened while he was away from us. But there definitely was a change after that happened. I mean...there were changes after the initial cancer diagnosis, but the changes in April 2012 were much more profound, in my opinion. It's difficult to explain why I know this, but I really believe something happened because he seemed much more peaceful and yes, spiritual after that third visit to the hospital.

So here's what I'm thinking about right now.

The three stages of a butterfly's life--from caterpillar, to cocoon, to butterfly--seem to go along with the three stages of John's life. John and I were wondering around, two caterpillars, trying to figure things out. And not always happily but I will say we were more in sync probably by the time John's parents died in 2010. And when we were hit with the cancer, perhaps it was about that time we started to wrap ourselves up in the protection of our cocoons. But unlike the cocoon stage, I don't think John was unattractive. Ever. Maybe the butterfly was peering through the veil?

And in seeing that final butterfly...John was being escorted into a life of no more pain or negativity...and the butterfly that had already been within him started to shine as he flew free of his early cocoon.

And now, every time I see a picture of a butterfly, I think of those things. And it makes me smile for awhile. And for that brief moment, I forget about the injustice and tragedy of this cancer.

Oh...and in case you are wondering what the last thing he said was before he drifted into the coma-like last stage of his life with me on earth...he told me that he loved me.

And I believe he still does. Because death cannot separate us from Love. Not the love of God. And certainly not the love we share with others while they're here. That never ever ends. So the cancer was a horrible thing. But the real tragedy would have been if I hadn't figured this stuff out.  And that, too, comforts me a great deal.