The Yellow Butterfly

It has been almost 15 years since my sister and I lost our mother to glioblastoma multiforme (GBM), and this is the first time I have written her story.

Chris was so vibrant and full of life, her smile could light up a room. If there was one thing she loved more than anything in life, it was her family. She admired her husband, Mike, and adored her two children, Kendyl, who was 14, and Tara, who was 11. Chris had an amazing life – healthy in body and mind. Life felt blissfully complete.

In 2008, Chris began experiencing persistent headaches. Days turned into weeks, and the headaches didn’t relent. Eventually, she went to the hospital for a scan, and little did we know, our lives were about to change forever. She was diagnosed with glioblastoma. At the time, Tara and I were naïve and didn’t understand the severity of the situation, but we had hope.

The days of chemotherapy seemed endless. Chris lost all of her hair, marking a huge transition in her life. When chemo proved ineffective, she simultaneously underwent her first brain surgery to remove the tumor on the left side of her brain. The joy our family felt when we were told the tumor was removed and she was in recovery was indescribable. Our main wish was for her to be in remission.

Chris always hid her emotions from Tara and me. She never let us see her cry or show when she was upset. She was incredibly strong and wore many different hats. She was the amazing mother, the dependable employee, the caring wife, etc. The amount of strength she had to move forward every day with a positive mindset is unmatched.

Every Wednesday, she would have her checkups, and every Wednesday, she would come home with good news. But a few months later, Chris began complaining about tingling and numbness throughout the right side of her body. Knowing the left side of the brain controls the right side of the body, we knew this wasn’t good. She was losing her motor skills. Another scan revealed the mass had returned. Despite the long, hard journey, we never lost hope. Chris saw a renowned neurologist for her second brain surgery, but unfortunately, they were not able to remove all the cancer.

Though the numbness and tingling temporarily subsided, the reality of the aggressive cancer loomed over us. Radiation was the next option, bringing continuous hours in the hospital, filled with what-ifs and unknowns. Months passed with ongoing radiation and weekly Wednesday visits. We adapted to our new life. Chris remained optimistic about the future even in her darkest days.

Eventually, radiation ceased to be effective, and the right side of Chris’ body went numb again. Her cancer had not only returned but had spread across her brain. The scan lit up like Christmas lights. She had three months to live. That was the hardest conversation we had as a family. The trauma of that moment still lingers with me. Fortunately, we had her for almost a year after that conversation. She was a fighter but eventually retired from her job and stopped driving due to her lack of motor skills.

Toward the end of her life, nurses came in and out of our house. Chris didn’t want to spend her last days in a hospital; she wanted to be at home, surrounded by her family. Sadly, in the final weeks before she passed, she slipped into a coma. We spoke to her every day, even though she couldn’t respond. It was incredibly hard on all of us.

On Tuesday, August 25, 2009, at 10 p.m., Christine Marie Clark, age 43, passed away in her husband’s arms. Her immediate and extended family were by her side within an hour to say their goodbyes.

Chris left a remarkable impression on everyone she met. She always believed everything happens for a reason. Though it was hard to hold onto this belief during the darkest moments, it taught us to turn any negative into a positive. Life is going to happen regardless, and each of us are here for a purpose. It’s all about how to view life, and Chris had a beautiful life.

Before Chris passed, she told us she would be reincarnated as a yellow butterfly. So if we ever see one, to just know it is her. The years after Chris’s passing have been filled with moments that remind us she is still with us. Every spring and summer, without fail, a yellow butterfly visits us. It’s as if Chris is still watching over us, her spirit bringing comfort and reassurance. This yellow butterfly has become a symbol of hope and resilience for our family, reminding us that love transcends even the greatest of losses. Now I, Kendyl, age 30, get to tell the story of Chris’ life. Life of love, happiness, and fulfillment.

TAGGED WITH: glioblastoma

Opinions expressed within this story belong solely to the author and do not reflect the views or opinions of the National Brain Tumor Society.