45 days & nights of Black Butterflies

Posted by Shireen Sandoval  02/15/13, 2:41pm

I'm naked. Standing in the middle of a room. Nothing's there. Just me. My pale skin's aglow. My brunette hair, unruly, cascades below my waist. Suddenly, my body begins to heave. I clutch my stomach, fall forward, landing on my knees. My eyes flutter with fear and my mouth flies open with force. Violently, thousands of Black Butterflies pour out of me. Flapping from my lips, they freakishly flood the entire room. Alas, they've finally made their great escape, flittering about. Then, poof! In perfect unison, they disappear. I wipe my face, stand-up and start floating. Hovering, ever so slightly, above ground. A bright light starts shining behind me. I linger in mid-air. Weightless. Suspended. At peace. That's the reoccurring dream I've had for the last 45 nights (yes, I looked at my calendar and counted.) When I looked back, I noticed...

45 days ago my neurologist walked into my examination room. He sat down on a twisty stool, glanced at my chart and without looking up said: "How do you feel?" I gave him my typical response: "I'm not dead yet." Mind you, I've been asked this question numerous times over the past few years, after developing Guillian-Barre' Syndrome. He chuckled. I like it when he laughs. I love my doctor. He saved my life (diagnosing & treating me, after so many others had given up, including myself.) He reviewed what he had written down and we talked about my recovery from my sixth (and final) IVIG treatment (Intravenous Immunoglobulin.) A standard treatment for GBS. He checked my reflexes and said: "You're doing well." I ignored him and explained that "sometimes" my lower spine still hurt. He listened and said thoughtfully: "It's time, Shireen. Time to start healing yourself. Rebuilding your body and your life." I looked at him, with tears in my eyes and said softly: "I'm afraid."

Butterflies symbolize change, transformation and luck. It's because they're short-lived. They only have a few months to grow up - metamorphosize - to understand their ultimate purpose. Imagine, living your entire life in just 8 weeks? Time would be fleeting, it would fly by and you would feel lucky to have each and every second. Seeing a Butterfly, in full bloom, complete in its maturation, is said to bring good fortune. They only spread their wings for about two weeks. Then, they drift off and die. A sighting is magical, mysterious and has captivated mankind for centuries. Native American folklore says: if you want a wish to come true, capture a Butterfly and whisper it your desire. Then, you must set it free. Even though it can't talk, The Great Spirit can. It sees and hears all. Upon giving the Butterfly its freedom (letting it live,) it flaps its way into the spirit world, where your wish is granted.

I've kept my reccurring dream of Black Butterflies to myself, at least until now. It scared me. I thought it spoke of illness, death and despair. Interestingly enough, I found out (from a dream specialist,) the dark flurry of beauties represent strength. Strength one carries into a new self-chosen journey; developed after a long suffering transition.

It was dark outside when I laced up my Black running shoes. I hadn't exercised in two years. I was busy dying and now, well, I had to get busy living. Doctor's orders. Of course, I didn't follow them until 45 days and one dream intrepretation later. I guess you could call my recovery a stroke of good fortune. Like my Black Butterflies. I knew others with GBS did not share my same fate. The moon was glorious that night, illuminating my new path, shedding light on my second chance at life. I walked just a short distance (with a friend,) but it didn't matter, because I had already come so far. I was no longer afraid of "What Dreams May Come," (yes, just like the movie.)

The thing is, if you aren't ready to look, you won't see. Dream or not. After my fifth IVIG infusion, I received a beautiful Butterfly ring, from a jewelry designer with a sweet soul. After my sixth treatment, someone I love surprised me with a pretty, vintage-inspired Butterfly pendant. That's not all. When I took a good look around me, I realized over the course of the past few years (while I was wrapped in a cocoon of healing,) my family and friends had gifted me with many gilded wings. I just didn't notice, until my dreams (45 days and nights of Black Butterflies) woke me up.

One of my favorite things; is my Emmaline Butterfly Ring from www.jillzaleski.com When I decorate my finger with the fanciful flight, it keeps me soaring and moving in the right direction and that's what my new self chosen journey of healing is all about.

The Gallant Gladiator

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

The Gallant Gladiator a blog story...

I know it didn't happen in slow motion but it felt that way. My feet danced around me; forward and backward, up and down, side to side. My body lunged in different directions, twisting and turning, in what I thought was a dazzling display of agility. So, imagine my surprise when my enemy sunk her dagger straight into my heart. I gasped in pain and my body grew limp. After she stabbed me, she pulled me close and whispered: "Rest in peace Gallant Gladiator."

Rosebuds, Mr. Herrick, Clover Canyon & Floggs

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

When Springtime approaches, the poem "Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May" incessantly runs through my head. It affects me in two ways. At first, I feel a renewal of sorts. Spring brings such possibilities. Then I feel an overwhelming need to inflict pain on Robert Herrick. He's the 17th-century English writer that penned the poem. It's basically a warning to young people to heed love ASAP. He states: "That age is best which is the first." My translation - love is better when you're young (virgin-like) so get it while the gettin's good.

Paula, Kookie & Molly my hair chronicle ...

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

I didn't lose my hair all at once. It came out little by little, here and there. It trailed behind me like a brillant mystery novel, leaving little clues to my whereabouts. First, I noticed it on my pillow. Then my shower drain. I'd find strands on my shoulders and frantically pick them off. Eventually a clump would follow. Each piece was like a string of rope coming untethered. The once strong, tightly bound fibers unraveled around me. Over time, my magnificent mane became minuscule. The bottom shed so much it turned see-through. The top, typically full, thinned-out into a lackluster, lifeless thing that just laid there. It was a case of "hair today, gone tomorrow" literally.

A Fashion Felony

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

I was in a deep sleep when the raid happened. It was the middle of the night. The sound of the front door getting kicked in jolted me from my slumber. My heart raced. I knew it was over. I had the premonition a few days prior. I just didn't think it'd be so soon. I'd prepared myself - going over and over it - hundreds of times in my head. But now that it was actually happening, I wasn't ready. I looked through the darkness, toward the door of my bedroom and saw flashlights flooding my apartment. A cop yelled my name, demanding my surrender. I couldn't let them take me. Not now. Not like this. I was vunerable, disheveled and undressed.