Post by TheStoryTeller on Oct 24, 2006 5:50:29 GMT -5
The Butterfly Reminder
by John Morella
Lafayette, Louisiana
Out on the patio I poured another cup of coffee and picked up the newspaper. “Would you pkmtyolp me the home section, honey?” my wife, Charlene, asked me.
“Sure thing,” I answered. I liked nothing better than these quiet mornings with Charlene. I’d learned to treasure them over the 35 years of our marriage, years mostly spent struggling while I earned a Ph.D. in psychology, Charlene worked as a librarian and we raised our kids. At the age of 55 we both retired. From now on we’d work for each other, we decided, spend time with each other, travel to visit our kids and grandkids.
“How about catching a matinee later?” Charlene asked.
“Good idea.”
The telephone rang and Charlene got up to answer it.
“That was Mom,” she said, back on the patio. “She can’t remember how to use the washing machine. She wants me to go out there and show her.”
“What about our movie?”
“I guess we’ll have to do it another day,” Charlene said. “She needs help.”
I put my paper down on the table. “I guess I’ll come with you then.”
A year earlier Charlene’s mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. At first Charlene’s 89-year-old father tried to take care of her, but it wasn’t long before the phone calls started coming. Where did she keep her checkbook? How long does chicken need to bake? How did the television work? Pretty soon we were making weekly trips up Interstate 49 to their old house in Shreveport, three and a half hours away. Here we go again.
As soon as we stepped in the door of her parents’ house, Charlene wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell, Mom?”
“What smell?” her mother asked, staring at her blankly. We went into the kitchen and found the trash can overflowing. I changed the bag, and Charlene inspected the refrigerator.
“Dad, the milk’s sour and the lunch meat is moldy,” she scolded.
We stayed the whole day. Charlene washed and folded clothes, I did the dishes and mowed the lawn. By the time we got in the car we were almost too tired to talk. I stared at the road resentfully as I drove. We retired to spend time together, not to become nurses, I thought.
“It’s time we convinced them to move somewhere closer to us,” Charlene said.
“Why?” I snapped, “So we can spend every day with them?”
Charlene looked at me with a pained expression.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sighing. I took Charlene’s hand. “I just wanted this time to be for us, that’s all.”
“Me too, John,” she said. “But they can’t take care of themselves anymore. What can I do?”
A few weeks after that Charlene’s father fell and broke his ribs. Charlene went to stay with them while he was laid up, and every night when she called me she had disturbing news. “I found a burner going unattended,” she’d say, or, “Today Mom forgot my name.”
It was clear they needed to move. We found an assisted-living facility near us in Lafayette. Charlene and I spent weeks cleaning out their house, sorting through 60 years’ worth of books and papers. We held a yard sale and donated bags of clothes to charity.
Even once we got her parents settled in their new apartment, the work didn’t seem to stop. “I’ve got to go help Mom with something,” Charlene said each morning as I sat on the patio. “It won’t take long.” But somehow it always seemed to take the whole day. This isn’t how it was supposed to be, I thought one evening as I ate dinner in front of the TV. Lord, you know how hard we worked to get to this point. Why won’t you let us enjoy it?
One morning Charlene came down to the patio with her shoes and jacket on, car keys in hand.
“You’re not going to your parents’ today, are you?” I asked, not even bothering to hide the irritation in my voice.
“It still doesn’t feel like their home.”
“But you were there all yesterday.”
“Mom’s disoriented. The move’s been extra hard on her.”
“For crying out loud, Charlene, you can’t do everything!”
“I know, but just give them a few more weeks to get settled.”
“Why don’t you just take an apartment next door to them?” I exclaimed. “Was this why we retired?”
Charlene took a deep breath. “You know our marriage is the most important thing to me, John, but these are things I have to do, no, I want to do for my parents. Please give me time.” I heard her car roll out of the garage, then the phone rang. It was her father. “She’s on her way,” I snapped. “She’s only got two hands, you know.”
I slammed the receiver down and wandered back to the patio feeling like a jerk. This wasn’t her father’s fault—or her mother’s. It wasn’t Charlene’s either. As a psychologist, I was ashamed of the pressures I was putting on her. As a husband, I understood them only too well. I wanted my wife back. Was that so wrong? It seemed unfair for anyone, even her parents, to take her away.
I felt restless, so I began to clean the pool. Skimming leaves off the surface, I noticed a scrap of color floating in the middle. What could that be? I thought, hooking it with my net. A monarch butterfly. I bent over the pool’s edge and cupped the butterfly in my hands. Its wings were soaked, making the orange, black and white markings seem especially vivid. What a shame, I thought. Its wings twitched. It’s alive! Blowing carefully on the delicate wings, I laid it in a patch of sunlight. It was still, then spread its wings and moved them slowly up and down. What could I do to help? I carried the monarch back into the house and laid it on a windowsill along with some blades of gpkmtyolr and leaves for food. This is ridiculous, John, I thought. It’s only a butterfly. But it needed me.
Once its wings were dry I took it outside to release it. It flew over the neighbor’s fence, then back to me. “Forget something?” I joked. It fluttered up against my face. I brushed it away. When I returned to the house it stuck to my shirt. What was it trying to tell me?
The butterfly stayed with me all afternoon, and as I watched it I wondered why I hadn’t hesitated to help it. I’d responded to my sense of what was right without stopping to weigh whether I had time or if I could even make a difference. Wasn’t that what Charlene was doing? Did she really have any other choice but to care for her parents? And I should be caring for Charlene, I thought.
That evening when Charlene came home I had dinner waiting for her. I told her all about the butterfly and then I apologized for not being more understanding. “I’ve been looking forward to this for so long,” I explained. “It’s hard to compromise. But I’ll have to try.”
Charlene hugged me. “All I need to know is that you’re there for me.”
After dinner we took the butterfly into the backyard and released it. It flitted from my hand, spinning up into the deep-blue evening sky until we could no longer see it. I imagined it returned to heaven, its message delivered.
Since that day dealing with Charlene’s parents hasn’t gotten any easier. We still have to cancel plans and I still eat dinner alone more often than I’d like, but I try to remember that the best thing I can do for Charlene—and her parents—is to be patient. And whenever I start to forget that, there always seems to be a butterfly nearby to remind me.
The above article originally appeared in the March/April 2003 issue of Angels on Earth.
Submitted by Richard
by John Morella
Lafayette, Louisiana
Out on the patio I poured another cup of coffee and picked up the newspaper. “Would you pkmtyolp me the home section, honey?” my wife, Charlene, asked me.
“Sure thing,” I answered. I liked nothing better than these quiet mornings with Charlene. I’d learned to treasure them over the 35 years of our marriage, years mostly spent struggling while I earned a Ph.D. in psychology, Charlene worked as a librarian and we raised our kids. At the age of 55 we both retired. From now on we’d work for each other, we decided, spend time with each other, travel to visit our kids and grandkids.
“How about catching a matinee later?” Charlene asked.
“Good idea.”
The telephone rang and Charlene got up to answer it.
“That was Mom,” she said, back on the patio. “She can’t remember how to use the washing machine. She wants me to go out there and show her.”
“What about our movie?”
“I guess we’ll have to do it another day,” Charlene said. “She needs help.”
I put my paper down on the table. “I guess I’ll come with you then.”
A year earlier Charlene’s mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. At first Charlene’s 89-year-old father tried to take care of her, but it wasn’t long before the phone calls started coming. Where did she keep her checkbook? How long does chicken need to bake? How did the television work? Pretty soon we were making weekly trips up Interstate 49 to their old house in Shreveport, three and a half hours away. Here we go again.
As soon as we stepped in the door of her parents’ house, Charlene wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell, Mom?”
“What smell?” her mother asked, staring at her blankly. We went into the kitchen and found the trash can overflowing. I changed the bag, and Charlene inspected the refrigerator.
“Dad, the milk’s sour and the lunch meat is moldy,” she scolded.
We stayed the whole day. Charlene washed and folded clothes, I did the dishes and mowed the lawn. By the time we got in the car we were almost too tired to talk. I stared at the road resentfully as I drove. We retired to spend time together, not to become nurses, I thought.
“It’s time we convinced them to move somewhere closer to us,” Charlene said.
“Why?” I snapped, “So we can spend every day with them?”
Charlene looked at me with a pained expression.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sighing. I took Charlene’s hand. “I just wanted this time to be for us, that’s all.”
“Me too, John,” she said. “But they can’t take care of themselves anymore. What can I do?”
A few weeks after that Charlene’s father fell and broke his ribs. Charlene went to stay with them while he was laid up, and every night when she called me she had disturbing news. “I found a burner going unattended,” she’d say, or, “Today Mom forgot my name.”
It was clear they needed to move. We found an assisted-living facility near us in Lafayette. Charlene and I spent weeks cleaning out their house, sorting through 60 years’ worth of books and papers. We held a yard sale and donated bags of clothes to charity.
Even once we got her parents settled in their new apartment, the work didn’t seem to stop. “I’ve got to go help Mom with something,” Charlene said each morning as I sat on the patio. “It won’t take long.” But somehow it always seemed to take the whole day. This isn’t how it was supposed to be, I thought one evening as I ate dinner in front of the TV. Lord, you know how hard we worked to get to this point. Why won’t you let us enjoy it?
One morning Charlene came down to the patio with her shoes and jacket on, car keys in hand.
“You’re not going to your parents’ today, are you?” I asked, not even bothering to hide the irritation in my voice.
“It still doesn’t feel like their home.”
“But you were there all yesterday.”
“Mom’s disoriented. The move’s been extra hard on her.”
“For crying out loud, Charlene, you can’t do everything!”
“I know, but just give them a few more weeks to get settled.”
“Why don’t you just take an apartment next door to them?” I exclaimed. “Was this why we retired?”
Charlene took a deep breath. “You know our marriage is the most important thing to me, John, but these are things I have to do, no, I want to do for my parents. Please give me time.” I heard her car roll out of the garage, then the phone rang. It was her father. “She’s on her way,” I snapped. “She’s only got two hands, you know.”
I slammed the receiver down and wandered back to the patio feeling like a jerk. This wasn’t her father’s fault—or her mother’s. It wasn’t Charlene’s either. As a psychologist, I was ashamed of the pressures I was putting on her. As a husband, I understood them only too well. I wanted my wife back. Was that so wrong? It seemed unfair for anyone, even her parents, to take her away.
I felt restless, so I began to clean the pool. Skimming leaves off the surface, I noticed a scrap of color floating in the middle. What could that be? I thought, hooking it with my net. A monarch butterfly. I bent over the pool’s edge and cupped the butterfly in my hands. Its wings were soaked, making the orange, black and white markings seem especially vivid. What a shame, I thought. Its wings twitched. It’s alive! Blowing carefully on the delicate wings, I laid it in a patch of sunlight. It was still, then spread its wings and moved them slowly up and down. What could I do to help? I carried the monarch back into the house and laid it on a windowsill along with some blades of gpkmtyolr and leaves for food. This is ridiculous, John, I thought. It’s only a butterfly. But it needed me.
Once its wings were dry I took it outside to release it. It flew over the neighbor’s fence, then back to me. “Forget something?” I joked. It fluttered up against my face. I brushed it away. When I returned to the house it stuck to my shirt. What was it trying to tell me?
The butterfly stayed with me all afternoon, and as I watched it I wondered why I hadn’t hesitated to help it. I’d responded to my sense of what was right without stopping to weigh whether I had time or if I could even make a difference. Wasn’t that what Charlene was doing? Did she really have any other choice but to care for her parents? And I should be caring for Charlene, I thought.
That evening when Charlene came home I had dinner waiting for her. I told her all about the butterfly and then I apologized for not being more understanding. “I’ve been looking forward to this for so long,” I explained. “It’s hard to compromise. But I’ll have to try.”
Charlene hugged me. “All I need to know is that you’re there for me.”
After dinner we took the butterfly into the backyard and released it. It flitted from my hand, spinning up into the deep-blue evening sky until we could no longer see it. I imagined it returned to heaven, its message delivered.
Since that day dealing with Charlene’s parents hasn’t gotten any easier. We still have to cancel plans and I still eat dinner alone more often than I’d like, but I try to remember that the best thing I can do for Charlene—and her parents—is to be patient. And whenever I start to forget that, there always seems to be a butterfly nearby to remind me.
The above article originally appeared in the March/April 2003 issue of Angels on Earth.
Submitted by Richard