The Flight of Our Butterfly: A Mother's Celebration of Her Daughter's Life

By Deborah A. Wallace

The Flight of our Butterfly is a mothers heartfelt celebration of her daughters short life on earth. Our hero, Bianca Jovan, was diagnosed at the age of 19 with an aggressive form of Lupus while in her first year of college. This book brings you into the trials and tribulations of Biancas life through a series of inspirational short stories from her mothers personal handwritten journal. Each chapter tells the story of their relationship, their struggles and their triumphs through small notes and anecdotal observations of love and affection only a mother can have. Their journey takes you back into time as if you were right there enjoying these moments with them. Some funny, some enlightening, and some serious, its a firsthand view into raising a young lady in todays world. Bianca passed away 9 years after the last entry in her mothers journal. The notes following are raw emotional peeks into a mothers resolve after the loss of her child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781490773278

Deborah A. Wallace

Deborah Wallace is a first time author sharing the personal story of a mother’s relationship with her daughter Bianca, who passed away in 2010 at the age of 28. A graduate of the infamous Fashion Institute of Technology she has had a successful career as a Technical Designer for women’s intimate apparel since college. Deborah has been married for over 35 years to her high school sweetheart Frank, and they’re currently living in Stone Mountain, Georgia with their son, Justin. A community volunteer and mentor of young people since the age of 17, when she first supervised a youth bowling league in the South Bronx, NY. Deborah is an active advocate for Lupus Awareness and continues to mentor young ladies in the community.

Book preview

THE FLIGHT

OF OUR

Butterfly

A Mother's Celebration of

Her Daughter's Life

DEBORAH A. WALLACE

©

Copyright 2016 Deborah A. Wallace.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-7329-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-7328-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-7327-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016907313

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Trafford rev. 05/23/2016

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CONTENTS

About The Book

Prologue

Chapter 1 The Worst Day Ever

Chapter 2 Many Things Come Out of Grief

Chapter 3 March Madness

Chapter 4 The Other Side of Motherhood!

Chapter 5 The Dream of a Daddi Daughter Dance

Chapter 6 Dealing with Lupus

Chapter 7 Bianca’s First XMAS

Chapter 8 Happy Birthday Miss B

Chapter 9 First Day of School

Chapter 10 A Precious Moment in Time (Part 1)

Chapter 11 Just Something I Have to Admit … If I Could

Chapter 12 September

Chapter 13 When I Realized You Were Growing Up Too Fast!

Chapter 14 It Just Came into My Head

Chapter 15 Where Did I Come From You Ask? (Age 4–6)

Chapter 16 Where Do Babies Come From? Teaching Others (Ages 7–9)

Chapter 17 Sexuality and the Very First Time (Ages 11–15)

Chapter 18 Gladys and Carmen—Adulthood

Chapter 19 Three Years Ago an Angel Was Born: Learning to Forgive

Chapter 20 10-10-10: The Reunion

Chapter 21 Flaws and All

Chapter 22 Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Chapter 23 Another Birthday Baby Girl Without You

Chapter 24 Pride in Being Puerto Rican: Our Trip to the Parade

Chapter 25 Luther Were You Singing to Me (Can Heaven Wait)

Chapter 26 So Amazing (Luther Vandross singing to me Part 2)

Chapter 27 Was I Too Cautious or Just Careful Enough?

Chapter 28 So Many Memories

Chapter 29 A Precious Moment in Time (Part 2) Graduation

Chapter 30 Laughing Out loud or Is It Living Out Loud?

Chapter 31 I’m Still Standing, Thoughts on a New Start

Chapter 32 Christmas and Accepting How Life Is

Chapter 33 Paying It Forward: Life Does Goes On

About The Author

ABOUT THE BOOK

The Flight of our Butterfly is a mother’s heartfelt celebration of her daughter’s short life on earth. Our hero, Bianca Jovan, was diagnosed at the age of 19 with an aggressive form of Lupus while in her first year of college. This book brings you into the trials and tribulations of Bianca’s life through a series of inspirational short stories from her mother’s personal handwritten journal. Each chapter tells the story of their relationship, their struggles and their triumphs through small notes and anecdotal observations of love and affection only a mother can have. Their journey takes you back into time as if you were right there enjoying these moments with them. Some funny, some enlightening, and some serious, it’s a firsthand view into raising a young lady in today’s world. Bianca passed away 9 ½ years after the last entry in her mother’s journal. The notes following are raw emotional peeks into a mother’s resolve after the loss of her child.

In memory of

Bianca Jovan Wallace

A beautiful lady both inside and out, who gave us overwhelming joy every day she was with us. A daughter to be proud of, a friend you can count on always, and a phenomenal woman in every aspect imaginable; my Wonder Woman, my angel.

Love you always and forever.

This book is

dedicated to my loving husband, Frank, my wonderful son, Justin; our angel nurses, and to every warrior woman we know who suffers from lupus and multiple sclerosis, know you have an advocate always.

You are all my heroes.

PROLOGUE

No one on this earth wants to be a member of the lost child club. That horrible membership filled with parents who must endure the death of their offspring. It’s empty, it’s full of guilt, it’s woulda, coulda, shoulda’s in the worst way. It’s a nightmare on earth while riding a roller-coaster that moves in slow motion.

There are no words of comfort you can truly give a person who is crying for a lost infant, so please don’t try to say anything. It’s okay to rub my shoulder, it’s okay to make me laugh, and it is sometimes okay to hug me. Just don’t compare my loss to any other type of death in your memory banks. That’s like putting a knife through an already broken heart. Shredding it beyond repair.

What I would ask of you is to please listen to us when we tell a story about our child; don’t fade away when we begin to reminisce about our baby. We, the parents left behind, need you to enjoy the memories with us. We yearn for you to see our love, as we try to get a small bit of our child back, hopefully breathing a small speck of life back into our shattered faith. When those moments happen, when we open up about our child, we pray you listen and enjoy. Maybe you can offer to tell us a story about our child we didn’t know. Any part of their life is precious for us, even if it is someone else’s memory.

We pray there are lots of videos and pictures, another form in this digital world to hear their voice, their laughter, and see their smile just one more time. (You guys are lucky with the technology as it is now. Videos are common place today. When my girl was little, video cameras was huge, bulky, and too expensive.) We mostly have still photographs in vibrant colors freezing the time period. There are very few videos we can watch now.

Whatever you do, don’t say the words you understand how we feel. Because no one other than another parent in this awful club does, and to be honest we don’t want you to. Just know we will forever be different. We have lost a chunk of our soul, and there will never be any words to get it back. To be fair, we prefer not to spread our sorrow off to another. That would be cruel and inhuman.

For those who never knew the gift I was blessed with, it will be an honor if you take the time to read our story. See the joy we had in our firstborn, who grew up to be all we wished from a daughter and more. Feel the highs and lows experienced from the view of a new mother, a loving friend, and confidant. Laugh and cry with the caretaker, the counselor, and the disciplinarian as each story navigates through life discovering how we raised a female in today’s world.

May this exquisite journey of motherhood put to paper express pure love as it should always feel! I pray there are lessons of life within these pages worth sharing.

From me to all of you, enjoy the wonderful life stories of my butterfly angel.

CHAPTER 1

The Worst Day Ever

It was 5:00 p.m. that Wednesday afternoon, when Bianca called me to say, The doctors are going to admit me so they can do a test. I could hear the fear in her voice. My immediate reaction was to come home, back to Georgia right now. Do you want me to come home? I said. I had been working in New York City for over two years due to the bottom falling out of the economy in 2008. Someone had to find a way to: (1) keep our house, (2) feed our family and most all (3) pay for my daughter’s health care. The only opportunity available for me was back up north.

Bianca had been unemployed for over a year. She had filed for social security insurance for disability and was about to lose her COBRA health care status. As a mother, I knew I had to find a job to help pay for my family’s needs. In 2008 both of us parents were out of work. Being a woman of strong independence, I felt I had to provide for my own self, regardless of what my husband could offer. Since we were both unemployed I made the sacrifice to live away. The only place hiring in the career I had been working in for over thirty years, was good ole New York City. So I took the job offer (the pay was very good), got an apartment in the Bronx, and was given the opportunity to fly back to Atlanta every chance I could get to be with my family. Luckily my husband was able to find a job in New Jersey about eight months after I relocated and he joined me in the small apartment we now called home. It was a temporary situation at least that is what I kept telling Bianca.

I felt it was my obligation to ensure that Bianca was going to keep getting her medicine. She had been suffering from SLE¹ lupus for the past seven years. It’s extremely painful if you have ever seen someone suffering from it. Lupus flares (as they are called) are highly debilitating; it attacks the body’s skin, muscles, and joints, and can be a very aggressive disease. Lupus has the ability to destroy major organs, such as the kidneys or lungs. Bianca’s lupus was beginning to attack her lungs, which was causing serious damage to her heart.

My kids were twenty-six and twenty-three at the time, so it wasn’t as if we needed to be home with them. They understood the reasons for us transferring up north. As a family we agreed this move was the best course of action. We had been living in our Georgia home for about twenty years and unlike everyone around us, we were not going to lose it. We sensed that our adult offspring would enjoy having the house to themselves; especially after their father found a job in New Jersey allowing him to move up with me. For the two of them it was like being back in a college, instead of a dorm room they had a whole house. All that was required from them was care for it. (Stop laughing!)

In the summer of 2010 my son switched places with my husband and came to live with me in New York City. Justin had graduated from college the year before and was struggling to find a job. He began working for Macy’s on Thirty-fourth Street that September. Meanwhile my husband had found a way within his company to transfer back to Atlanta and stay at home with our daughter. We agreed it wasn’t fair for our son to keep up with the responsibility of our daughter’s care after his graduation. He had been a tremendous help, but it was time for him to get on with his life. Bianca rode with Justin to the airport that warm August afternoon; they hugged a long tearful good-bye and said see ya later as we tended to do. Slowly the tall handsome brother she was so proud of walked silently away. She was going to miss him more than either one could imagine.

This particular Wednesday afternoon when Bianca called, I felt very uncomfortable about her symptoms. We had just spent the Thanksgiving holiday together and she did not look like herself the whole time I was home. She hardly came out of her room due to her difficulty to breathe. She was on oxygen continuously and was too tired to go up and down the stairs so she had Thanksgiving dinner in her bedroom. I stayed with her every night until she fell asleep, rubbing her head as I always did. I could feel her heart beating so hard and fast against her chest. It was like she was running a marathon. While I was getting ready to go back to New York, I advised her to see the doctor on Monday. When I arrived, she called to say that her appointment would be on Wednesday. Like any mother, I wanted to be with my baby when she saw the doctors; and I offered to get on a plane. Grown and sassy that she was, she answered, No, Mommi, it’s just a test. I will be all right. So I agreed to wait in New York City, yet my heart was still fluttering with anxiety.

Later that evening when she was in her assigned hospital room, I called again to see how she was feeling. When she answered, you could hear her laughing, her girlfriends in the background and Daddi’s voice, all saying HEY MA! I greeted everyone with the same Hey! and again asked Bianca, Are you sure you’re okay? I can fly home right now if you want! knowing the last flight out of New York City was at 8:30 p.m. I thought I could make it, there was still time.

Her big attitude voice showed up, and she proceeded to yell at her friends loud enough for me to hear I TOLD YOU SHE WAS GONNA WANT TO COME HOME! I knew she meant Stop babying me! Laughter exploded through the telephone. Bianca gave me back a snobby little retort: You don’t need to come home. I’m just taking a test. We will see you on your birthday. That was to be my next trip home in fifteen days. I felt so embarrassed for being the overprotective mother. Bianca played the guilt card like a trump joker in a game of spades. So I backed off softly from my request and went along with the bit. We talked a while longer, laughed a lot and said our usual see ya later, ending with I love you. I hung up the phone still feeling uneasy that she was in the hospital without me again. I had promised her to always be there; was I breaking my Mommi promise?

The thoughts going on in my head were: Yeah she is twenty-eight years old, grown, and capable, but she is sick. She needs me. I hate lupus. I hate that she is on oxygen. I hate that she is always in pain. Why God why? My baby girl is the sweetest person I know! How could you do this? Anger, rage and fear entered my body all at once, consuming me like a plague. It took about an hour to relax as I waited for my son to come home from work, and then I fell asleep. I let my child be grown for that moment—I took my guilt and swallowed it humbly. Later that evening she would text me I can’t sleep. I did not see the text until morning.

I awoke the next day at 5:00 a.m. in a cold sweat! My body began shivering with that pins and needle feeling all over my body. I immediately called my husband, FRANK, SOMETHING IS NOT RIGHT! I’M SCARED SOMETHING IS NOT RIGHT! The feeling was paralyzing. I was in a full blown panic attack. The anxiety became overwhelming. He quickly reassured me all was okay, repeating the same words, Baby, baby, she is just taking a test. I will check on her later.

I sat there shaking listening to him soothe my soul back to normal. I finally calmed down enough to say Okay, I will call her later. After I hung up I saw her text on my phone. It came in at about 1:30 a.m. I was just about to call her when I thought, Okay, Deb. Wait. Call her around eight o’clock after breakfast. She is probably asleep now. It took a while for the anxiety panic to subside. My instincts were still on high alert, but I had to get ready and go to work.

My usual morning commute was a ride on the D train from Bedford Park into Manhattan. As of late, my new friend who I met just months before on the same morning train, accompanied me on the ride downtown. Before we met I would see her pass by me every morning, at the same stop, standing at the same place in the station, at the same time. We look like sisters, I used to say to myself. One morning, while sitting opposite of each other, I mustered enough courage to tell her how much I loved her style and haircut. She came back with the same compliment for my hair, admitting to the same thought. We laughed at our intro lines and fast became friends.

It was the usual 7:05 a.m. D train from 205th Street station in Da’ Bronx. We could always get a seat, and sat down in the same corner spot, riding the express train with hardly anyone else in our same car. I began to tell her how I was feeling about Bianca being in the hospital. My friend tried to reassure me to the best of her ability that my daughter was old enough to take care of herself. Try not to worry, she’d say.

We both knew her words weren’t working all that well. She tried one more time before getting off at Midtown. As she walked out the train, I promised to keep her updated. My stop was Thirty-fourth Street, Herald Square, and I always got out at the Sixth Avenue side of the subway. It was Christmas season, and I took the long way to the coffee shop—two blocks more than normal—so I could see the Macy’s Christmas windows. The Broadway side windows at Macy’s were beautiful as usual, and the hustle and bustle of the city was in full effect.

My brisk walk ended at Andrew’s Coffee shop on the Seventh Avenue. There I met up with my breakfast buddies before going into the office at 8:30 a.m. I tried to hide my nervousness but to no avail; my diner-mates saw I was not my normal happy-go-lucky self. The counter ladies as we were known, (regular customers to the staff) tried real hard to make me feel relaxed as we went over the articles in the daily newspapers, discussing life in general. It was 8:25 a.m. I had to go so I paid my bill and walked out along Thirty-fifth Street, dashing between the crowded sidewalk on my way to the job when I would last hear my daughter’s voice …

Hey, Pupa, how are you? Did I wake you? She said no, not really. Admitting to feeling overly tired. When did you fall asleep? I asked. Oh about five or so in the morning, she sweetly said. I could hear she was a bit groggy and decided, okay, I will not talk long and let her rest. I gingerly walked along the street grates embedded in the sidewalk below, as I held the phone tightly to my ear so to not miss hearing anything she said.

My next words were preordained. Some folks say it was a mother’s instinct. I always finished our conversations by saying the words I love you before hanging up with either of my kids along with the Talk to you later sign off. This time I slowed my words, making it very clear for anyone to hear. Okay, Pupa. You rest for your test. Remember I love you. I love you very much! Don’t you ever forget that, ever. I love you with all my heart! I will talk to you later, you go back to sleep. She softly said, I love you too, Mommi, and hung up the phone. I proceeded to walk toward my work place down Thirty-fifth Street. I could not get her out of my head for the entire morning.

The morning was turning out to be frantic. Between the many fittings² was one of the few instances I had at my desk, at which point a friend from Georgia called very worried saying he heard Bianca took a turn for the worse. Is she okay? I was confused as to why he asked such a question, thinking he was at the hospital with her. I don’t know. I haven’t heard a thing! I replied, and cut him off to call the nurse’s station myself.

It was then when the panic came back. No one was answering the phone, not the nurses, not my husband, not even Bianca’s friends. I could not reach anybody … it was nerve racking. I called Bianca too, but