Might as Well Laugh About It Now (29 page)

I’m certain you could line up many skeptics who would tell you that this, too, was only a coincidence. I choose to believe otherwise. I think it was a heavenly message from my mother, proof that she was still with us in spirit. A Native American friend of mine confirmed that this was a traditional belief in his culture. As he told me: the butterfly represents the presence of good spirits, peace, beauty, and metamorphosis.

Being the only girl in the family, I was the one who had made certain that everything at my mother’s funeral was exactly the way she would have wanted it. Between making all of the arrangements, from the flowers to the program, talking to the press, greeting more than five hundred people who attended the funeral, and at the same time checking in to see that my father, my brothers, and my own children were doing as well as could be expected, I had no time to mourn for my mom. I had to return to doing my five-hour-a-day radio show on the following Monday, and prepare for the next QVC show as well. The pace of life caught me up full-time, and I just pressed on without stopping to reflect and grieve.

The following year, on Mother’s Day, I found myself almost unable to function; I was missing my mom so deeply. I knew I needed to take a couple of hours alone, to give myself time to mourn losing her. After calling in a babysitter, I got into my car to drive up into the mountains.

The mountains are the one place I go to truly find peace and refuel my spirit. To sit in an aspen grove, or on a rock overhang, or near running water gives me an almost instant sense of emotional recovery. I guess if you want to truly feel grounded, go outside and put yourself down on the ground! Whenever my children are anxious or hyper, we go to a park and lie on the grass and take in the sky above us.

About five miles out of town, I had an image totally contrary to my initial thought of finding some peace at high altitudes. I saw myself at the mall in one of my favorite department stores.

I tried to shake the thought from my head, but it was persistent.

“Oh, please!” I said to myself out loud. “You only want to shop to anesthetize the pain. Not a good idea.” I tried to shrug it off. I pressed down on the gas pedal, but it took concentrated force to make my foot react. Every impulse in my body was to turn the car around and head to the mall.

Shopping was something that my mother and I did together if we needed to cheer up a bit. We’d sneak away for an hour or two and buy some inexpensive or fun thing that made us smile. Then we would find an ice-cream parlor and splurge on sundaes, promising not to tell anyone that we had.

The memory made my heart ache with loneliness for her.

“Marie, you are so dysfunctional,” I said out loud to myself. “Shopping is not the answer.” I put on my sunglasses and started to cry.

Again, I felt a strong urge to turn the car around and head to the mall. This time, before my logical reasoning got in the way, my body stopped the car, made a U-turn, and headed back down the mountain.

When I entered the department store, I stopped inside of the door. “Okay. Fine. Where to?” I thought.

I felt prompted to take the escalator up one floor to a section of the store I had never shopped in before. I started to giggle; I had no idea why I felt compelled to go to that particular area, as it seemed like the “grandma” section, not trendy or even what I would consider fun clothing.

When the clerk asked if she could help me, I wanted to say: “Do you have any idea why I’m here?” But I thought she might think I needed a different kind of help, so I casually said I was “just looking.”

I started to leave the area, feeling embarrassed, when a thought hit me strongly.

Turn around!

I searched only for a moment before one tiny bit of fabric protruding from a rack of skirts caught my eye. It was a colorful butterfly against a black background. I moved the other clothes aside to see the full skirt. It was covered with hundreds of multicolored butterflies, from the waistband to the hem. There was only one like it on the rack and it was exactly my size. It seems my mother had taken me shopping again, and, in the fastest way possible, had assured me that she was still there with me.

My mother always had a silent way to show her feelings to each of her children. She would take us by the hand and squeeze it three times to represent the words “I love you.” In the last months of my mother’s life, when she was unable to speak, she continued to squeeze my hand three times every day as I sat by her bedside. Both she and baby Jennifer, unable to use words, had sent me a message through a tiny squeeze. Though both are physically gone, they continue to gently squeeze my spirit, to open my eyes to the guidance and help that are available to me if I am open, and in turn, to ways that I can guide and help others.

I bought the butterfly skirt. I knew my mom would want me to have it. To assure my mother that I had heard her message very clearly, I took that skirt out for an ice-cream sundae on the way home.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Jimmy

Karl

Kim

Marcia

Tons of gratitude to all who generously offered their time, talents, and care to this book:

Those who put me on track:

John Ferriter, my William Morris agent . . . your enthusiasm has never wavered. I love you.

Mel Berger at William Morris Agency . . . thanks for believing in me.

Tracy Bernstein at New American Library.

Marleah Leslie and Ann Gurrola, my publicists.

And those who keep me on track
:

My fans . . . whose amazing loyalty keeps me moving forward.

For reading pages with insightful editing eyes, listening to stories, and sharing profound perspectives and helpful ideas: Teresa Fischer, Patricia Bechdolt, Patty Leoni, Michelle Osmond, Connie Ljunberg, Darla and Greg Sperry, Gail Ryan, Lorraine Wheeler, Cheryl Burke and her Tai Pan crew.

For assistance with the photographs and for being patient about looking at my mug over and over and over and over again: Peggy Vicioso, Tina Salmon, Debra MacFarlane, Kirsten Gallo, Debra Gehris, Toni Sorenson, Cashman Photography, Stacie Mullen of NutriSystem, and Megan Lozito and Leslie Holland of the American Heart Association.

And finally, those who keep me from derailing:

Kim Goodwin (my Kimmy, what a talent: makeup, hairstylist, photography, designer): For being the miracle who reappears in my life exactly when I need you most. Whether you like it or not, you are now part of my family.

To my brother, Jimmy Osmond. You are the life raft in every storm. I don’t know what I would do without you, and I would do anything for you.

My continued love and gratitude to my manager, Karl Engemann, aka the Godfather, the Grand Poobah, the Silver Fox, or often referred to as the Human Q-tip. In a sense you’ve raised me and, through your wisdom, guided me through decades of decisions, choices, and challenges with your incredibly gentle heart that has remained my one true constant through it all. I love you.

Special thanks to my coauthor, Marcia Wilkie. I’ll never forget when we met ten years ago as you burst into my dressing room in Filene’s Basement!!!! . . . okay . . . it was backstage . . . with your “head writer” steno pad and a mischievous grin. I knew we’d work (and play) together for years to come. How’s that for good intuition??? You are one of the most talented women I’ve ever known. We’re the perfect blend of third-grade humor, intellectual curiosity, and spiritual awe. Most important, I know we’re friends till the end. By the way . . . did you change your cell phone number?

My endless devotion to the eight people I love more than any words can express, my children: Stephen, Jessica, Rachael, Michael, Brandon, Brianna, Matthew, and Abigail. You are my source of daily love, joy, “aha” moments, tears, inspiration, and some pretty hefty laughter. You give me so many things to ponder on . . . and some to even write about. You are my world!

And always, eternal gratitude to my loving Father in Heaven, who gives purpose to everything.