The story I’m about to tell you, the bare face of it, is embarassing. It’s something you’d find in the weak plot of a Hallmark film or read about in the “real ghost stories” section of a 1990s glossy magazine, but I’m going to tell you anyway.

The day I finished chemo I chose to leave via the exit within the cancer centre rather than walk through the hospital’s main thoroughfare. I felt an urge for fresh air, to arrive there sooner and bask in it.

I leaned my body into the glass and burst upon the outdoors, at which time, with a flourish, an absurdly large Monarch butterfly beat its path across my face and came to hover in front of my eyes in what seemed to be slow motion.

The world hesitated on its axis.

Hello, the butterfly said. Notice me. Notice me here. 

I was overcome with the image of my father, who died of a brain haemorrhage when I was nine years old. I felt the substance of him, and I heard him say good job, sensed the notion of a hand on my back, patting me in congratulations but simultaneously pushing me onward.

I kept walking, head down as a sudden and massive outpouring of fear, grief and relief came at me. The tears were a cocktail of spitting anger, bitter desperation and illuminated hope. 

It was clear he wasn’t there to coddle me. This was a high five for an interim victory, not the end, and he reminded me of that fact. You’ve done well, but you’re not done. Keep walking, don’t get complacent, celebrate but keep your wits about you.

I want it known that at no time did I believe this butterfly to be my father, but it was something conjured by our connection. I don’t think of my Dad, I don’t talk to him regularly, visit where his ashes are buried or mark the anniversaries of his birth and death. I don’t often wish for him or wallow in my fatherless misfortune. But on this day, he was there, clear as a bell.

Was it a manifestation of his enduring love or just my own mind consoling itself? Whatever it was, I couldn’t pull myself together for a long time. I sat with my forehead on the steering wheel in my car thinking about how much pain can be condensed into one neat memory the moment it’s over.

Today, on the eve of losing B’s favourite breast pillow (she frowns at it and says sadly, “Not this one go away please Mama, other one go away.”) I understand the message better than before;  

It’s not over. You’re doing great but you’re barely halfway so pull your big girl boots on and get on with it.

Just get on with it.

 Taya. x

Taya Reid is a writer and photographer working and living in Walyup on Whadjuk Noongar Boodja

Email Taya: taya@tayareid.com

Instagram: @tayareidstories

www.tayareid.com