Wonder in Flight

Wonder arrived on striped, yellow wings just when I needed it.

After weeks of tests, I finally underwent my first surgery for melanoma.

Then — more waiting — which seems to be current protocol for contemporary medicine.

My doctors issued a long list of temporary restrictions: exercise, sun, sweating, caffeine, alcohol, and vigorous chewing. All off-limits.

To amplify my isolation, I needed to stay in a hotel near the hospital for several days.

I had no desire to venture out in public. My cheek and black eye bore witness to the surgery. The part one could see. Half of my face was covered in thick, white gauze strapped on with tape.

I felt disfigured.

With one eye nearly closed, reading was difficult. I was in no mood to play cards or games. After the general anesthesia intubation, my voice croaked like Don Corleone’s.

And I had already finished “Succession.”

Sadness, or perhaps self-pity, lay on me as heavy as the worn hotel comforter.

My husband, Richard, always my best cheerleader, had an idea.

“Let’s go for a drive.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” I replied. “I look like Wolverine after battle.”

“Come on,” he urged. “You’ll be fine.”

After heavy sighs and an eye roll, I reluctantly donned my new medically approved sun-safe uniform: a wide umbrella-sized hat, a gallon of sunscreen, and SPF 50+ long-sleeved shirt.

We drove to a nearby county park and stopped by the Chattahoochee River, now swollen with April rains. We drifted towards its banks and paused to watch the turbulent water rush past. Gurgling and gushing, it rapidly carried its cargo of broken branches downstream.

I took a deep breath. A whiff of perfumed honeysuckle lingered in the light breeze. The day pressed cool against my skin.

I wrapped my jacket tighter.

As my sneakers sank into the wet sand, a yellow flash zipped past my face. Startled, I followed its path.

Gathered on the riverbank’s dense mud were dozens of Eastern tiger swallowtails. Antennae testing the wind with feet poised over the wet earth, they were fascinating. And beautiful. And wondrous.

We spent many minutes pondering their arrival. Did they wake up from their long sleep and emerge — why were there so many? I thought.

As we marveled at these miniature displays of winged freedom, I could feel the heaviness lift from my heart.

My skin prickled with goosebumps.

Walking back to the car, I realized I had shifted into survival mode. Enduring. Ignoring the ordinary moments surrounding me.

The softness of a fluffy pillow under my head. The whirligig pattern a leaf takes when falling from an outstretched twig. The sweet balminess of climbing jasmine.

The warm touch of a loved one’s hand atop mine.

And the realization that my husband tossed me a lifeline laced to butterfly wings.