THE BROWN BUTTERFLY

Ode To A Dearly Departed Mom,
From Her Beloved Daughter

(10 minute read)

MOM!

My mom. My fucking mom. My mom was a warrior. She was the strongest person I ever knew. She made me strong, too. Without my mom I would be nothing. A puddle on the ground for people to step through. It’s not hyperbole. My mom was my everything. My guiding star. Her love surrounded me and protected me my entire life. I knew we were close. I knew she was my only true family. The one I could count on in the middle of the night when there was no one left to call but mom. Mom would make it all right. She always knew what to do. Even when she didn’t, she was a brilliant problem solver and she could make it all better with a simple caress on my back or across my forehead. “You’ll always be my baby,” she used to say. Even as a grown woman about to have my own baby, I loved being her baby.

I knew all these things, how much I loved my mom, but it wasn’t until she transitioned from this world that I realized how much I depended on her for my sense of safety and security in the world. It’s a terrifying thing to realize your sense of safety is entirely wrapped up in another individual. A person whom you thought invincible even while seeing their humanness. Ask anyone who knew my mom and they’ll agree: she gave off that invincible vibe. Rarely ever sick in her life until a few years before her death, she was the picture of health and vitality. I thought we would have many more years together. Granny, my mom’s mom, lived to be nearly 98. For some reason, I used that as my barometer for how long my mom would live. Now I realize that was a logical fallacy. Granny was the exception not the rule. Many members of our family died before their 80th birthday. Many were in their sixties or seventies. My mom died three weeks before her 73rd birthday. And with her went everything about myself that I thought I knew.

I thought I was fearless. I thought I was wild. A rebel, a renegade, a wanderer. And I am all those things. I have been all those things. Because my mom gave me the strength and courage to be them. She did it effortlessly. Did she know she was doing it? I think now that she must’ve. She was wise beyond my limited understanding of how wise a mother is when it comes to her child. She always gave me the freedom to be me. To fuck up. To fall down. And she was always there to offer a helping hand so I could get back up. Ever the patient gardener, she tended the soil of my environment, allowing me the freedom to bloom in my own time.

My mom. My fucking mom. There’s not a word in the history of language to describe the feeling of how much I miss you. And yet, I still feel so close to you. Feel you with me all the time. It’s your humanness I miss. Your beautiful smiling face, the knowing winks, the way you always called me “Coquina” and said, “Who loves ya, baby?” You did. You do.

“Who loves ya, baby?”

Not all mothers are created equal. I know that. But in general, mothers are known for their unconditional love. Not all moms are skilled at giving it. But my mom was. She was exceptional in every way. She excelled in her chosen career. The people of Detroit threw a whole party after she passed to celebrate the public life she’d led. The judge. The friend. The mentor. But I didn’t know her that way. For me, she was just my mom. The best mom I could have ever asked for.

As a highly sensitive child, I was considered “delicate” in our family. In a family of exceptionally strong, not altogether emotional people, this was viewed as a potential weakness. Knowing the harshness of the world, my mom sought to shield me from it as much as possible. Later, I wondered if she’d shielded me too much. But now I know differently. My childhood was not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, my childhood was stolen from me at the age of nine when I was drugged and raped by my step-father’s friend. Before that, it was marked by paternal abandonment and suicide.

Through all that, there was my mom. She knew nothing of the rape, you best believe heads would’ve rolled if she had! But she was there. She loved me and shielded me and did everything in her power to raise me to be strong, independent, service-oriented, and kind. Not to mention bilingual! She led by example.

As a highly sensitive, highly emotional child, I could have floundered in a sea of woe and self-pity, particularly after the trauma and what came later. And though I did eventually have to learn how to heal, it was my mother’s example that saw me through those tough years. No, my childhood was not perfect, but it provided the perfect conditions I needed to become the woman I am today. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

My mom was the most positive person I knew. She always had a smile and a kind word for someone. As she always used to say, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going!” That was her in a nutshell. My mom had her own traumas and issues to deal with galore. But did she ever stop? More important, did she ever allow THOSE things to stop HER? NO. Not a chance. She kept going, in style with a smile.

Thanks to my mom, I learned how to problem solve. How to think critically. To think for myself. To find solutions when the shit hits the fan, instead of wallowing in the mire. And if all else fails, enjoy a good meal with a fine glass of wine! That was my mom. She loved to shop, she loved textiles: sheets, towels, luxury, anything soft and comforting. Comfort food and comfort pillows. She loved beauty: art, culture, architecture. Paris was mecca. The food, the wine, the art, the language, the buildings! It was everything to her and she made it everything to me. She ensured I grew up well-rounded, cultured, sophisticated. A woman who could move easily in any circle. I got the behind-the-scenes lessons from her political prowess: “Always give a firm handshake and look the person in the eyes.” “Be kind to the people who serve you, they are the ones who really matter, not the people in the front with the checkbooks.”

My mom taught me how to drive when I was fourteen. Really she had no choice, I’d been itching to get behind the wheel since I knew what a wheel was. I’ll never forget driving up to the countryside in Québec from Detroit. Once we’d get on those lone, winding back roads with the forest on either side, she’d let me have a turn in the driver’s seat. What a mom! She was fun. She was witty. She had a laugh you could recognize a mile away. She was a friend through and through. She was dependable. You could always count on her. And not just me. I watched her be there for others, time and time again. She was fucking fierce. When she was mad, get the hell out of the way! And I was just like her, with a temperament to match. I was the only one who knew how to soften her edges. How to butter her up and persuade her in another direction. I learned from the best. I learned young and I learned quick. When no one else could sway my mom, I had the magical powers to do so. Sometimes. The trick was you had to get her to adopt the idea as her own. As something she wanted for you. And you had to learn to let go of something you wanted if you knew she wouldn’t budge. Usually, it was something you didn’t need anyway.

SO WHERE AM I GOING WITH ALL THIS? WHERE AM I NOW?

I’m a mother now. My mom died three weeks before I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. In fact, he was born the day after her birthday. Coincidence? I don’t believe in them.

I was in Mexico when she passed in Florida. After a harrowing journey of getting my mom into the US from Mexico when she was sick so that she could be treated in a hospital that accepted her medical insurance, after talking to her everyday while in the hospital, watching her get better, getting released, taking another flight from L.A. to Florida and getting her settled at home (all while 7 1/2 months pregnant!), I thought it was safe to return to my adoring husband in Mexico where I knew I must be to have my baby. I thought she was getting better. The doctor said she was on the mend. She bought a car!

Then, one week after I’d returned, she took a turn for the worse and was taken back to the hospital in an ambulance. It was her lungs. They weren’t recovering. And she didn’t recover. Two weeks after being admitted, she suddenly changed her mind about being intubated. She was in the ICU by lunch. She knew she would die. I think she just wanted to buy more time so she could negotiate. She wanted to meet her grand baby. I wanted them to meet, too. Alas, Fate had other plans.

In the evening of September 17, 2021, my beloved mom, The Honorable Judge Helen E. Brown, loved by many, passed from this world. My husband and I were in Ajijic in a house my mom had rented for the three of us before she got sick. We were in the pool overlooking Lake Chapala, Mexico’s biggest freshwater lake. I was allowing myself a rare moment of hope that a miracle would occur and she might make it after all. Then the hospital called. She was dying and going fast. Did I have anything I wanted to say to her? Yes, I did. I talked to her the whole time she was passing. Her heart rate was dropping. I told her it was okay. I told her she could go. I thanked her. Mostly, I told her I loved her. Over and over. “I love you, mom. I love you.”

Inside, I was screaming, “Don’t go! Don’t leave me here alone.” But I couldn’t say that to her. Not then. It’s important for a soul to leave its body intact so it can rejoin the rest of itself completely whole. I prayed to Mother Mary and Archangel Michael (two big faves of my mom) to be with her, to guide her journey, to make sure every ounce of her arrived at its destination. And boy did she ever.

As my mom was passing, dark storm clouds brewed over the mountain directly behind the house, threatening heavy rain. And then once she was gone, as if by magic, the ominous clouds disappeared, and on the opposing side, the sun appeared across the lake, above another set of mountains. Its rays shined forth in every direction, beaming love and light and peace. It was my husband who drew my attention to this miraculous event for I was lost in grief.

Later that night, a small brown butterfly appeared in the house and flew all around me, despite all the windows and doors being closed. A miracle. We then guided it outside to freedom. I knew it was her telling me all was well. I knew she was safe. Freed from her suffering. From the pain of those final weeks when her lungs were failing. Knowing all this and more, I sobbed.

Two days later, a BIG brown butterfly flew into the open house, found a wall to rest on, and stayed put for hours. It wasn’t until we returned home two weeks later that an artist, who was painting a mural for our baby’s room, told us about a Mexican legend which states that when you are visited by a huge brown butterfly it means your loved one has transitioned and crossed safely to the other side. That was just like my mom: commanding in life and in death.

AFTER.

The week following my mom’s passing is a blur. I’ve never cried so hard in my life. The pain enshrouded me like a weighted blanket. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but calls had to be made. Thank god for my husband, Mark. He was my go-between. He read the texts that came pouring in. He responded when I couldn’t. The support he provided during those weeks leading up to and following her death was akin to what my mom, herself, would have given. She left this world knowing I was in great hands. Fate is a cruel mistress. All those years of finding myself, struggling with depression, anxiety, substance abuse, my mom was there. Then the moment I get myself together, release the demons that haunted me, find true love, make a baby, BAM, it’s time to go. Goodnight. Sleep tight. Who loves ya, baby?

HOW CAN I BECOME A MOM WHEN I NO LONGER HAVE A MOM?

That was the question that broke through in a burst of tears when I went into active labor on October 11, 2021 around 6pm CST. The answer? You just do. Labor overpowers everything. I had a beautiful natural childbirth at home, in a remote seaside-jungle village. One day I will tell that story. For now, I’ll share that my mom was there. She guided me up the mountain, hiking with her trusty walking poles. Up the mountain we went to retrieve the soul of my baby and bring him through the birth canal.

My mom loved to hike. She hiked over 100 kilometers of the Camino de Santiago (The Way of Saint James) in 2019 and planned to do the whole thing in 2022. That was her goal: to heal her lungs so she could get back on the tennis court (her first love) and hike the whole Camino from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port at the foothills of the French Pyrénées to Santiago de Compostela in north-western Spain. It was never my dream, but it is now. One day, I hope very much to walk the Camino with my family in honor of my mom. My beloved mom.

There’s so much I could say and so much more for which there are no words. I’ve never felt grief like the grief I felt after my mom passed. It was nearly unbearable. If I hadn’t been pregnant and married to an incredible man, I don’t know how I could have borne the loss. Even with how connected I am to the Spirit realm, how I view death as a transition not an ending. Even then. It’s the loss of the physical form we mourn. The ability to reach out and touch someone. To hug them, speak to them, hear them laugh. I still talk to her. She is me and I am her. I carry her in my bones, in my very DNA. I carry all my ancestors from time immemorial, and now she is one of them.

LESSONS LEARNED.

I learned a lot in those final weeks when my mom was sick. I learned a lot about love. Real love. I learned who you can count on and who you can’t. It was always just my mom and me. I don’t mean any disrespect to other members of our family. But when it comes to soul family. The family you’re born into and the family you choose. My mom was my end all be all. And I was hers. Twin souls she and I. And like all twin souls we had our challenges. I spent many years in anger. Too many years. I was angry for what happened. The shattered mind of a 9-year-old takes years to glue back together. Sometimes it can never go back. Without the love of my mom, I might not have been as lucky. Love is the cure for all wounds. And that’s what I learned when my mom got sick. All that time I spent angry, no matter how justified, was a WASTE. A complete waste of precious time. This life is a GIFT and we squander it with anger, resentment, hatred, self-pity: VICTIMHOOD. In the end, the only thing that mattered, and I do mean only, was the love we shared. All the times I was right about this or that, all the times I could have been with her and chose to be alone or go my own way, necessary, sure, but now I look back and think, “You could have had more time with her, you fool!”

Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. I can see both sides of the coin and both are valid. On the other hand, my mom and I had very real issues we had to work through. There were lies and trauma and oh so much drama. I’m grateful that those last few years we’d arrived at a place of peace. Mostly, I made peace with her. It was always on me to make the peace. The child must make peace with its parents. The greatest heartbreak of growing up is realizing your parents are human. That they’re fallible and make mistakes. And the greatest challenge is to forgive them for it. To honor their shortcomings as you honor their strengths. To view our parents as whole individuals and love them for it: that is growing up.

I did this with my mom and our relationship bloomed. We became friends. We chatted. We laughed. I could tell her anything. She’s the reason I’m in Mexico. We came in October 2020 and here I am still. In truth, she is the reason for everything. Everything I have is thanks to her. Everything I am is because she provided the ideal conditions.

My mom. My fucking mom. The greatest mom who ever lived. The greatest mom I could have ever asked for. A beautiful woman. An incredible human. Une grande dame. She was a great woman. A woman of substance. Quality. Honor. They don’t make ‘em like her very often. She lived a full life. A wild life. She did everything she wanted to do. She was the kind of woman to go to law school, pass the Bar, and promptly leave the state to open a health food store in Palm Springs. She never let fear or money stop her from pursuing a goal. She was a conqueror. And a fucking badass. I only wish I’d gotten to know her more fully.

Children are selfish. It’s innate. We want to keep our parents to ourselves. We want to see them in one particular way. I wish I could have heard the stories shared about my mom at her memorial in Detroit from friends who knew her when she was young. Who knew the other sides to her. The sides I never saw. My mom was 35 when she had me. She lived a whole life before me. But I only ever saw her as my mom. And now, a mother myself at 38, I feel closer to her than ever before. I understand so much more about the love she had for me. The love of a mother for her child is immense. Incalculable. She always said this, and it’s true, “I love you bigger than the whole wide world.” Yes you did mom. You still do. And I love you too. Bigger than the whole wide world.

And yes, she still visits in the form of a brown butterfly.

Ode To A Dearly Departed Mom, From Her Beloved Daughter