Today is my birthday. It is one of those times when I especially miss my momma. When you think about it, the day you are born is the first and most unique moment you can share with your biological mother. I understand that there are different scenarios that might complicate this theory, such as surrogacy or adoption. For most people, the partnering of mother and child during the birthing process cannot be shared by anyone else in quite the same way. My life coach says that strong intimate relationships are based on “shared experiences” and “mutual vulnerability.” Childbirth surely counts. It might even be the definitive example. I know, for my mother and me, that intimate, shared, vulnerable experience ushered in a lifetime of strong relationship.
People talk about birth trauma. I think it can happen to babies and mothers. Childbirth is a physically grueling experience for both the birther and the birthee. The mom and baby both undergo fiercely jarring changes in their bodies and environments, even in the most ideal circumstances. Both parties labor. However, it has always seemed clear to me that the mother has the more difficult job. I used to tell people that I didn’t know why I had a birthday celebration on September 30th. It was my mother who did the lion’s share of the work. In fact, while my mother was alive, I always gave her a present on MY birthday.
One of those “thank you for birthing me” gifts was a Vermont teddy bear, custom-made especially for my mother. The bear was wearing a pink sweater, engraved with “Dorothea 09-30-59.” I gave it to her with an “It’s a girl” baby congratulations card. I thought it was super clever and adorable. I’m not sure Momma quite saw the appeal but, being who she was, she made a big fuss over it. In fact, that bear became a symbol of our relationship and an inside joke. The bear traveled with her through at least six moves, including her move to Florida. One morning, I came over to her Florida home to find that there was a problem with her heater. She had Dorothea Bear wrapped in a blanket- “to make sure she didn’t catch a chill.” Point made, Mom. I’m calling the home warranty company.
Of course, Dorothea Bear went with Momma to the skilled nursing facility where she spent the last ten months of her life. Even as my mother gradually edged away from engagement with her surroundings, she would smile when I mentioned Dorothea Bear and pointed to my fuzzy little doppelganger. I don’t know if she was responding to the bear or just to the love in my voice, but I like to believe the bear continued to have some small part in our connection.
After my mother died, I went to collect her things from the facility. It took me a couple of weeks to make it over to the residence, since that location was the last place I wanted to be. After looking around the storage area, I found a couple of cardboard boxes of completely unimportant items. I found some old photos I had placed on the wall next to Momma’s bed. I did not find Dorothea Bear amongst Momma’s belongings. It saddened me, as I sifted through the detritus in the storage room, but my loss was so much bigger than the bear. I felt an overwhelming, suffocating need to get away from the skilled nursing facility and never come back.
Over the next few weeks, my level of depression and grief increased in size and volume. I was experiencing that aspect of grief in which you realize that you have not only lost your loved one, but you have also lost so many other things tangential to your loved one. I would have no more adventures with my mother riding shotgun. I would no longer be able to call my mom to share a funny observation. I would not get Christmas surprises anymore. As my birthday drew near, a little over three weeks after my mom died, I realized that we would never again celebrate the anniversary of our uniquely intimate shared vulnerable experience. All of a sudden, the loss of Dorothea Bear took on more weight than I could hold. At the same time, I did not have the emotional energy to call the nursing facility and advocate for the return of Momma’s bear.
My brother, Ernie, happened to call and ask if there was anything he could do from California to help. He had no idea that the bear was an issue. I am pretty sure he did not remember there ever was a bear. Still, when he asked the question, I started sobbing. I bewildered him, I am sure, as I had spent the last year of my mom’s life holding things together pretty well when I spoke to him. I tried not to swallow my own tongue as I choked on my tears. I explained the Great Dorothea Bear Mystery. I forlornly related my saga and my resignation that I would never see her again. “Never see her again” was, I am sure, a deliberately ambiguous statement. I told him that I could not face returning to the facility. He said he would call and get them to find the bear and mail it to me.
Ernie, who has also since passed away, had a wonderful heart and just the fact that he offered to help in this way lightened my desolation. However, I can’t say I expected anything to come of it. He wasn’t always great at following through with good intentions. Also, I doubted the nursing home would be able to locate the bear six weeks later.
Much to my surprise, Ernie called me a few days later. He did contact the nursing home and insisted that the Director of Nursing locate the bear. I can only imagine how that conversation must have gone. Ernie did have a kind, wonderful, absolutely loyal heart. He could also be quite forceful… some would say even a little scary. Amazingly, the Director of Nursing did find Momma’s Dorothea Bear. That was the good news. The bad news was that she would not mail it and I would have to go pick it up. He assured me that the Director of Nursing would have the bear readily available, sitting at the reception desk so that all I had to do was walk in the door, take the bear, and leave.
Ernie’s action prompted some courage and initiative in me. I decided I could do that much… as long as I did not have to talk to anyone. I went to the facility and marched bravely through the door. My hope was that I could be stealthful and secretive. I, ninja-like, wanted to get in and out without being noticed. Of course, that did not happen. It was like an alarm went off when I entered the building. Although no noise went off, the reaction was as palpable as if I had tried to leave a department store with the security tag still attached to an article of clothing. A shoplifter could not have compelled so much attention. I was swamped by every employee who had so much as said good morning to me or my mother in the past year. It was exactly what I feared- an effusive outpouring of sympathy, affection, and concern.
Yes, it was exactly what I feared. But, in a strange way… it didn’t hurt at all. The kind words did not shatter my carefully cultured courage. The hugs did not hurl me into a pit of despair. It turned out that there really was nothing to fear. Instead, the care of those sweet people who walked my mother’s end of life journey with me began to lift me out of the valley of sorrow.
Terri/Dorry 🙂
And hugging my Dorothea Bear did not hurt, either.
