The Butterfly

I’ve been staring at the screen on my laptop for a while.

I’m not often at a loss for words, but in the past few months my life has been turned upside down and I’m not sure even what to share, what to say.

So I’m just going to trust the writer in me.

Since October, I’ve seen my PCP, had a CT scan (lungs/abdomen, with contrast), seen an oncology NP in the diagnostic unit, had a biopsy (more on that later-conscious sedation is WILD), a PET scan, been diagnosed with adrenal cancer (a SIX INCH tumor). in the latter part of January I had a major surgery, ditched the tumor—surgeon said it was the size of a cantelope!—and also my left kidney.

This was daunting enough….I re-did my will and living will before the surgery. It took six hours. I got discharged from the hospital after 6 days and was recovering well until almost 2 weeks later, when I went to the ER and was re-admitted for dangerously low sodium.

And the pathology results came back—not great. Cancer had already spread. Metastatic. Stage Four. When the surgeon told me that, I heard a ringing in my ears, and my mouth got dry. My body seemed to take it in, my brain is taking much longer.

I went back home and continued to recover from the surgery. Each day I get a little better, get a little more of my strength back. I’m just starting—starting—to feel like me again.

But it’s a different me. It’s a me with metastatic cancer.

There were posts about this on my old site, and I’ll post more about here-I lost my best, closest, dearest friend (my insides), Amy, in 1999. She was 31, and it was sudden. My grief felt like someone had thrown a heavy, wet wool blanket over me; no matter where I went or what I did, that heaviness was with me. It was in my bones, in every breath. For a long time. I didn’t fight it, which was unusual for me at the time. Undetected, unprocessed early childhood trauma created a sort of air-tight system to (try to) keep me safe: fight all my feelings.
With the grief of losing Amy, maybe for the first time, I didn’t do that.

I recall the exact moment that I started to peek out from under that blanket. I can recall how it felt. It felt like I was myself again, but a COMPLETELY different self. Still me, but somehow not the ‘me’ I was before I got the phone call that she had died.

my first therapist used the butterfly metaphor with me to try to get me to trust the process-the process of life, my own process. She told me this:
A well-known story involves a man who sees a butterfly struggling to emerge from its cocoon. Feeling sorry for it, he snips the cocoon to help the butterfly. While the butterfly emerges easily, it is weak and unable to fly because it needed the struggle to force fluid from its body into its wings.

her message: TRUST THE PROCESS.
Easier said than done. but that metaphor stayed with me.

That night, the night I felt the tiniest stirrings of myself returning, I ran into my room and wrote from the perspective of a butterfly who is just coming out of the cocoon.
A week later I read the piece to someone, and realized: this is a metaphor for transformation.
(DUH. I’m not the first to realize that….but I had never thought of it that way prior.)

And I also realized: it could be a metaphor for death. Metamorphasis. Changing form.
If that were the case, I felt closer to Amy, in a way. Perhaps we were in similar processes?

for the last 25+ years, the butterfly has held deep meaning for me. I have shared it with others going through changes, I have become known for my love of butterflies, and given gifts of all kinds: butterfly earings and bracelets and journals, and art.

Today, I met with the oncologist who is going to oversee my treatment. Although I’ve known about the cancer for a few months, I’ve only known about the spread/metastasis for a few weeks. It was an intense appointment, and things just got VERY real.

And as I sat down to write this, the image of the butterfly came up for me. no, scratch that-the same feeling that I had that night, all those years ago, when I started to peek out from under what felt like unbearable grief—that is what came up. In my body.

This is as much of a life-altering experience, maybe more, than losing Amy.
And I don’t know what’s going to happen, but tonight I’m feeling the metamorphasis. I’m still me, but not the same me I was before the original CT scan that showed the 6-inch tumor.

I’m still going to be writing about trauma here, but I’m also going to share about my cancer journey. The fears, the tears, the razor-sharp presence, the joy, all of it.
(If you’d like to come along, make sure you sign up for my newsletter)

Let the metamorphasis begin…