The shape of a butterfly

Content warning: Themes of terminal illness, loss, and emotional distress.

The slick, white walls smelled of bleach, and the seats were patterned to disguise patchy stains. I couldn’t tell if it was coffee spilled from the hands of weary friends or bits of drool escaped from tired relatives’ lips.

I sat down beside Mum and Dad. Dad wore his grey suit and tie. Important situations called for formal attire, and this certainly fell into that category. He shifted his tie nervously as if McMarkus Electric Co had finally called on him to deliver the keynote address to the ‘esteemed’ stakeholders. Mum was dressed more haphazardly in a floral print. She was all pastel colors strewn together with a brown satchel, papers poking out the top of her unzipped bag. She’d left in a rush to be here. Now she panted softly as she calmed herself and steadied her breath. Mum and Dad avoided eye contact. Lately, their tones were sharper, and their words clashed like nails on a chalkboard. I wondered how the new revelation would affect their dynamic.

That’s when I noticed the butterfly on the wall. A painting. It was beautiful and acutely out of place. Vibrant reds and oranges popped out of the sterile wall. Its wings were half-stretched, as if preparing for flight. Its antennae tilted like a head cocked to the side, getting a feel for the world it was about to enter. Why didn’t humans have antennae? Something to warn them when it was unsafe. Ms. Antonia taught us about animals who use bright colors to protect themselves from predators. To warn them to stay away. Aposematism. That’s what she called it. A word that would have never come to me in an exam, but of course when it mattered least it was there like a bad friend.

“Louisa Jefferson,” a bald man called my name. Dr. Kulin. His smile was empathetic and genuine even though his eyes lacked shine.

We all stood up. Mum pushed forward like a child in line trying to get to the front. Dad lagged, and I was left in the middle. The man told me to stay outside for a moment while he spoke to my parents first. I sat down again, right on top of a particularly large dark stain. Did someone slit their wrists and bleed out here? I wouldn’t have been surprised.

The urge to go to the bathroom came all at once. When the lady at the reception told me the bathrooms were being renovated, I said I didn’t care. I really needed to go, and I couldn’t walk all the way to B Wing now to use the other toilets. Dr. Kulin might call me in any minute. She reluctantly led me past the “Construction in Progress” sign and to the door. There was no one there. The whole place was wooden frames and plasterboard. There was no mirror, but a lone, white toilet in the center, still functional. I wiped bits of sawdust away from the seat and sat down. As I reached behind me to flush, I heard a voice.

“That’s what the scan shows, I’m afraid.” 

“Are you sure?” Was that Dad’s voice?

“The butterfly-shaped one, the one right there? Is that right? Am I looking at the right one?” That’s Mum. She babbled when she was nervous.

The moment of truth. Dr. Kulin had told them my diagnosis. The diagnosis I had come to learn about through Dr. Google. I knew people, especially doctors, told their patients not to Google their symptoms, but when my neck had started swelling and I was certain that I was developing an Adam’s apple, what teenage girl in her right mind wouldn’t Google it? I had used words that produced search results about women who embraced their Adam’s apples. It was normal. Genetics. I had even begun to feel a sense of security and fellowship with these women. It was a single commenter, Jer3124, that had flung me out of my safe, little cocoon.

“Talking about this in this manner is misleading. There might be girls out there who have cancer. An enlarged neck could be cancer! Pls get yourself checked instead of relying on advice from these ignoramuses.”

The comment was crass, and I was sure it was a hypochondriac or internet troll. I’d even laughed out loud, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not right about my rapidly enlarging Adam’s apple that no other females in the family had had.

That’s when I swapped ‘Adam’s apple’ and ‘woman’ for words like “cancer” and “enlarged throat” into the search engine. The ever-reliable Dr. Google had spewed out a bunch of diagnoses as if to say “Obviously, you just had to ask.”

Sophia was in disbelief when I had told her.

“No way! Thyroid cancer? Is that even a thing?”

“It’s pretty common in teenage girls apparently,” I’d told her, quoting Dr. Google.

Her eyes had wettened like she was about to cry, so I’d told her how it’s treatable and I’d just need to get my thyroid taken out, have some chemo and radiation, and then I’d be good to go. No biggie. I’d started following the survivor influencers by that point and they looked just fine. They were busy making viral memes and their diagnoses were condensed into dot point 24 in ‘things you didn’t know about me’.  Sophia was my best friend, and of course I wouldn’t abandon her like that. But she hadn’t seen it that way. She’d seen a future of lonely lunches while I was in hospital. A hot summer spent indoors, sitting at my bedside. Filling me in on missed homework. No watching boys at the beach or eating Paddle Pop sticks by the pool like last summer.

The voices behind the plasterboard were getting louder. 

“But she’s only fourteen. You’re saying it’s terminal? But research shows it’s much more prevalent in older populations. You said so yourself. It could be a misinterpretation.”

Dad again. He’s all about the stats.

Wait a second. Terminal? Older populations?

My head started to spin. Were they still talking about me?

I stood up shakily and pressed up against the thin wall, bits of flaky plaster clung to my cheek.

“Two months? No, that can’t be. I guess we won’t have to tell her about the divorce then.” Dad sputtered. Timelines. Logistics.

I strained to hear more, but my heart was now a deep bass that pounded fast and loud. I staggered out of the bathroom and made a beeline for Dr. Kulin’s door. The butterfly on the wall moved its wings ever so slightly, encouraging me. The receptionist scurried after me in her tight, black pencil skirt, but I reached the door before she was even halfway across the waiting room.

“What do you mean two months?” I demanded. “I have thyroid cancer, don’t I? I’ve read up on it. I follow Eliza and Trinity on socials – you treated them! They’re fine now. The treatment bit is tough, but they’re okay now. I don’t mind getting my thyroid taken out too. Is this what it’s about? I’m all up for surgery.”

Mum grabbed me and pulled me towards her, suffocating me in her arms. The weight of her bore down on me like a war-torn village with no hope. I gasped for air under her crushing embrace and saw Dad. He gawped at me like I was an endangered animal he’d just found in the wild, and he wasn’t sure whether to capture me or let me run free.

Dr. Kulin looked down. He must face this kind of thing every day, but he looked like the kind of man for who it doesn’t get any easier.

“Dr. Kulin?” I asked.

“I’m so sorry, Louise. Most young girls I treat have papillary thyroid cancer. Most, but not all. You have the anaplastic variant. I must admit, this is the first case I’ve seen in someone so young.” 

His voice was soft. Drawn-out. Careful. 

Two months. I had two months. I had this Summer. That was it. My last Summer would be spent in hospital. I could see it now. What Sophia had seen. Mum and Dad would stay together this Summer. But not the Summer after that. They’d have new families. Sophia would have new friends.  

I slumped down onto the floor and thought of the butterfly. With it’s red and orange wings. On the precipice of flight. Orange like the hollowed pineapple Sophia and I drank out of last Summer. Red like the color of our matching family pajamas at Christmas.  My cheeks were slippery. It was clear now, the patches on the seats were tears. Tears of lost hope and shattered dreams. 

The next few months went by quickly. Sophia practiced her eulogy with me and spent most of the Summer with her new friends. At first I felt angry. We’d grown up together and I couldn’t believe she’d condensed me to a memory on a piece of paper and was moving on already. The doctors started me on aggressive treatment right away. Just in case I had a tiny chance. A thyroidectomy. The wings of my little butterfly shaped gland were cut off. They hoped for a miracle. But I couldn’t fly without my wings. 

One night towards the end, I woke up to soft sobs and saw Sophia by my bedside. Her hair messy and eyes wild, brimming with regret. I reached out to her and touched her hand. I knew she wasn’t the friend I needed her to be but soon I would be gone, and she would be the broken one. The one whose childhood friend passed away. She would be haunted by the missed opportunities and her own coldness. In fact, it seemed she already was. 

I played matchmaker to Mum and Dad who by the end of the two months sat by my bedside, hands together and eyes shining. I watched their wedding videos and made them redo their first dance. Awkward at first, like young high school kids being forced to partner up for a school prom. By my last week, they graced my bleak hospital room every day with a dance with a silly new twist. We laughed like families do. I saw the stolen glances and silent touches pass between them. The rebuilding of a crumbling ruin that was the story of them. I was a passerby. An important passerby but a passerby, nonetheless. They bought out photo albums and pointed me out. My first trip to the snow. Me perched on top of the bonnet of an old, maroon Holden Commodore. They told me stories that made them smile. And as they did, they remembered each other too. 

My time here was up but I’d forever be a butterfly on their wall. Reminding them of the fragility of life, and how a butterfly shaped gland had bought them back together.