The Butterfly Years: A Journey Through Grief Toward Hope

By Katty Douraghy

In this raw, vulnerable memoir, Katty Douraghy chronicles her personal experience through grief after the death of six family members, including her parents and her stepparents, within a very short time frame.

The journey through grief is unique and does not follow a set timeline or a clearly defined path. The Butterfly Years infuses hope

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katty Douraghy
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736065310

Book preview

If you have chosen this book, it means you have probably suffered a loss at some point in your life. I know your pain, and you are not alone in it, even though you may feel very lonely right now.

Whether your wound is new and raw in the early weeks of loss, or it has compounded over months or years of grief, or has transitioned over time to settle deep in your heart, remaining as a scar that is visible only to you, know that you are not alone.

The journey through grief toward hope does not have a set timeline, nor does it follow a clear, defined path. It’s a continuum. Each person experiences this journey on their own timetable, and only you will know when it’s time to reappear from the darkness of your grief.

Society may expect you to rise quickly, stop grieving, get on with your life, and get back to normal. You’ll want to go back to normal, too. I did. You will become tired of the pain. I did.

It’s not that easy though, and there’s no turning back the clock, as much as you may wish to do so. You can’t go back to normal. I tried and couldn’t. The reality of normal is that life, after death, is different. Living with grief and loss becomes part of a new reality.

You will create your mourning rituals and ways to express your loss, and you will discover ways to live alongside the loss. You will go through your chrysalis of pain and eventually emerge as a butterfly.

I know you will. I have met many others like you and me. I, too, felt I was alone in my grief. I was mistaken, and only now have realized that there is a kaleidoscope of butterflies surrounding me. I encounter people all the time who are each in their dark chrysalis and know that one day soon, they too will soar.

I wrote this book for my mom, Mahshid Firouzi-Fouladi Domenico. I hadn’t intended for it to be the book it has become, so I can only surmise that she spoke through me to tell you her story.

This book starts with the deepest pain I have ever felt and moves toward hope. As you read the painful sections, I encourage you to write or journal your own story of loss. Write to your loved one and about your loved one. Share your love and your pain. Remember that it only hurts this much because you loved them so much.

Brené Brown says, Connection is the energy that exists between people when they feel seen, heard, and valued; when they can give and receive without judgment; and when they derive sustenance and strength from the relationship.

As I’ve shared my story with others, I’ve met many who have had similar experiences. I’ve found a united voice, a community, camaraderie, and connection. I am not alone, and other butterflies are everywhere to help me emerge.

In the Persian language, my mom’s name, Mahshid, means moonlight (mah, being the moon, and shid, the light shining through). The full moon reminds me of her, and I love that she shines brightly every month in her full glory when she comes to visit us. This book is for her, because of her, and dedicated to her.

On my mom’s birthday on March 21, 2019, we had an unusual natural phenomenon here in my hometown of Los Angeles because of the massive rainstorms we had earlier in the year. Thousands of Painted Lady butterflies flew north through the city, creating the most spectacular sight. To see beautiful butterflies clustering everywhere like tiny traveling clouds of amber and black was awe-inspiring. I felt my mom had sent them to keep me company.

May we all find the connections, strength, and hope we need.

These are our butterfly years.

I ached all over as if lightning had struck me. My feet were tingling and had a sharp, jabbing sensation throughout. I was hot, yet at the same time couldn’t stop shivering. My hands were trembling, my fingers turning a pale purple, even though the bright afternoon sun was shining through the windows and warming the room. My heart was beating so fast and loud I was sure others could hear it too. The veins in my head were throbbing. My heart was breaking, and part of me was dying.

Time stood still, although the big clock to the left of me hanging over the door showed otherwise as the seconds ticked away, one by one.

We were in my mom’s room at Sunrise Hospital in Las Vegas, where she had been intubated and breathing with the aid of a ventilator for the past week. She had battled the lung cancer beast for seven years. This time, it was winning.

As I stood beside her bed, I was having an out-of-body experience, floating and watching the room from above. I could see myself reach out and hold her hand and stroke her hair one final time. I looked across the bed at my stepfather, Bob, as tears streamed down my cheek and gently dripped onto my mom’s bed. I could see everything hovering over her bed.

Her 90-pound frame looked so tiny hooked up to monitors that measured the oxygen in her lungs and observed her heartbeat. The IV drip was beeping every few seconds as it released more morphine. Bob and I had moved to the foot of the bed so that the nurses could tend to her. They gently removed the tape around her mouth that was holding the intubation tube in place. They extracted it slowly and cleaned the sides of her mouth with loving care. They unhooked the ventilation machine and the eight IVs that were attached to her. As soon as the nurses finished their preparation, it became eerily quiet, except for the sound of her low, labored breathing and gentle sounds of my silent whimper.

Bob was quietly sobbing too. He’d never cried before now, at least never in front of me. He was always the pillar of strength and love, and now I could see him immersed in the same sorrow as I was. I tried to be strong for him and reached over to hold his hand. It was impossible to pretend we had an ounce of strength left between us. We looked at one another and then to my mom in disbelief that the time had finally come.

• • •

I had just returned to my home in LA from an event organized by the Entrepreneurs’ Organization (EO) in Houston when Bob called to tell me that my mom had been admitted to the hospital again.

This time I could hear the fear in his voice. He was solemn, and his voice was quivering. I could barely understand him as he uttered, You better come now. I had heard this tone only once before, and that was seven years ago when my mom had her first heart attack.

I flew to Las Vegas on the first flight out the next morning, Monday, April 11. I don’t remember the flight or how I got to the airport or to the hospital—I assume Southwest Airlines had something to do with it. Did my brother, Amir, come to pick me up from the airport? I have no memory of that day before I arrived at Sunrise Hospital.

When I entered her room, the doctors had already intubated her the previous night. She was coherent but couldn’t talk because of the tubes in her mouth. I could see in her eyes that she was relieved to see me. I headed toward her bed, maneuvering my way between the myriad of IV drips and tubes delivering food, liquids, and painkillers. I kissed her forehead, held her hand, and stroked her hair. I told her I loved her and that everything would be okay. Would it be?

This trip was not her first emergency visit to the hospital these last few years. She had heart issues, medication contraindications, prescription withdrawals, and surgeries. But this visit felt different. It had a finality to it.

She was