A Most Loyal Bear: Goodbye to Mom (Pt I)

Saturday morning. I trotted downstairs to put a load of sheets in the wash, no thoughts but the mental organization of things I needed to get done. Neglected housework, grocery shopping, maybe looking for shoes, going through some papers, and other mundane errands on what promises to be a hot, muggy day. I pulled the knob, watched the water begin to fill the tub, added detergent, and closed the lid. I turned to go upstairs… and there was Bear. He smiled happily at me from his perch on the blankets I brought home after Mom died, as if he’s been waiting for me to notice him. An odd sort of guilt surged through me as I realized he’s been alone in the basement for nearly three weeks, as if this oversized stuffed bear would even care. But, in truth, he had never been out of Mom’s arms for more than a short period of time since I first introduced them in 2020. The pandemic was just getting serious, and although Mom’s retirement home hadn’t yet locked everyone out, masks were required, and human touch was becoming scarcer. I remember seeing him in a corner at Walmart and impulsively adding him to my cart. I attached buttons on either side of his snout, so that he, too, could wear a mask. Mom was delighted when I presented him to her, hugging him tightly, patting his head and arms, adjusting his mask, and talking gently to him. “What will you name him?” I asked, and she laughed and replied, “Oh, I think I’ll call him Bear.” It was a good name, I agreed. Very appropriate. And a week later, the doors were locked against visitors.

Bear was Mom’s constant companion, the staff told me. She slept with him, tucked him next to her in her wheelchair, and he kept her company when I couldn’t visit. When she had a medical emergency and had to go to the hospital, the ambulance personnel left Bear behind in her apartment, and I frantically ran back to grab him, racing to the hospital, only to be told I couldn’t go in. “My mom needs this bear!” I sobbed, and the overworked emergency room attendant wearily told me to put her name on him, and they would deliver him to her once she was in a room. I left him on a table by the front desk, along with piles of other personal belongings for other off-limit patients, convinced he would never be in Mom’s arms again, but somehow, he was.

Years passed, Mom made her move to the nursing home, her mental and physical condition slowly deteriorating, and yet Bear remained the one constant in her life. He got caught in the wheels of her chair once, black grease marring one of his paws. He became worn, his once-smooth fur a bit matted, and yes, he had begun to smell. Whenever I suggested a bath, Mom would tighten her grip on him, and so I eventually stopped pestering. One day he was wearing a toddler’s T-shirt, and when I asked about it, the staff told me one of the nurses had brought it in because Mom had worried that Bear was naked. After that, he was never without a shirt, sometimes pants, and for her 100th birthday, he wore a red sequined bow tie that my sister-in-law provided. I would visit and always greet Bear, asking Mom how he was doing and if he was behaving himself. Sometimes she would tell me stories of his late-night wanderings, his growling at strangers, his appetite for sweets, and his dislike of having his head patted (much like Mom). “How are you doing today, Bear?” I would ask, shaking his paw. “Grrr grrr grrr!” Mom would reply for him, and we would laugh. “He’s a good Bear,” she would always add, adjusting his shirt or stroking his cheek, and I would agree. A most loyal Bear.

The morning Mom died, I went to the nursing home to see her one last time and to attend to the business side of death. The nurses greeted me with sympathy and hugs and invited me to stay as long as I needed. I opened the door to her room, and stepped inside, closing the door behind me. Mom lay in bed, looking much as she had the day before she died, but the nurses had carefully arranged the blankets, her hair was smoothed back, and there was Bear, nestled in the crook of her left arm. His serene, smiling face was what broke me, and as the tears flowed, I said my goodbyes. Two days later I went back to collect her things, and as I left for the last time, the nurses made sure I hadn’t forgotten Bear. At home, I put him in the basement with the blankets and other items I wanted to keep but didn’t have the energy to sort through, and he was forgotten. Until this morning.

I should wash him, I thought. I should work on that grease spot with some cleaner. I could wash him in a pillowcase and make him all spiffy for Mom’s memorial service (which he would most certainly be attending). I picked him up and instinctively held him to my face, closed my eyes, and inhaled. They say smell is the strongest memory trigger, and I believe it. In an instant, I was taken back to the nursing home, and Mom, and all the emotions that I’d been trying to manage for the last few days. Helpless, I sat on the basement steps, crushing Bear in my arms, letting the waves of fresh grief wash over me. It was then that I knew: Bear won’t be getting a bath anytime soon.

Remnants of a Life: Goodbye to Mom (Pt II)

Yesterday I drove out to my storage unit to fetch a couple of wooden rocking chairs that I decided I didn’t want to keep. They had belonged to Mom and had been outside for a couple of years at her apartment, and then in storage after she moved to the nursing home, and they were not pretty. Still sturdy, though, and I fantasized about having a back yard or porch to put them on, or maybe (even more of a fantasy) a lake or cabin where their ugliness would blend right into the rustic surroundings. Lately, though, I’ve been letting go of such fantasies, and have been culling the things that I’ve hung on to for Someday, which included the rocking chairs in storage. They were even worse than I remembered and now covered with spider webs, dead insects (and a few live ones), and dried leaves. I pulled them out, sneezing in the process, and wiped off the worst of the detritus. Looking into the very back of the unit, I saw three boxes that I couldn’t identify, so I wedged myself between Mom’s dresser, cedar chest, credenza, and kitchen table, carefully squeezing my way until I could pull them out. I opened them and immediately realized I was looking at all the loose items I had kept when I packed up Mom’s apartment, five years ago. At the time, I was emotionally unable to deal with it all, and had just shoved everything into boxes, stashing them away for later. And now here I was, even more emotionally fragile after her recent death, forced to confront the consequences of my inaction. Hot, dirty, but determined to finish this task, I loaded them into the car with the chairs, and then I saw the black lawn bag. It was in a far corner, on the kitchen table, and I assumed it, too, held papers and cards from Mom’s apartment. But it didn’t.

It was her quilt. The one I had taken to the nursing home when she moved, along with the small quilt rack I’d found at a flea market in Missouri. Although her room was tiny, I had tried to make it as homey as I possibly could, decorating it with familiar photos, some lace doilies, a small side table, framed wall art, and a few knick knacks. Nothing would alter the fact that this was not home, but I could try. Week after week I’d visit, and the quilt would either be folded neatly on the rack by the wall, or (my favorite) tucked around the corners of her bed. “See this quilt?” she’d say to me, and I would dutifully look. “It’s beautiful,” I’d tell her. “It looks like the one Mother made when I was little,” she would say. I would smile and tell her, “It IS the one your mother made,” and I’d watch her face to invariably switch to surprise. “How can that be?” she’d ask in wonder and I would tell her I brought it for her to have. “It came from the farm?” Yes, I’d say (no point in trying to bring her to the present), and she would lapse into reminiscing about how she would go with her mother to the Methodist Church on Wednesdays, where the Ladies’ Aid women would meet to quilt. “They thought I was something special,” she’d grin with a sly look in her eye. “Oh, but you were!” I’d agree and she’d laugh. “Yes, yes I was.” Another day I would lay the quilt across my lap and Mom would tell me about the design. “It’s called, ‘Flower Garden,’” she’d say. “All those squares were from our old clothes. Mother never wasted any material.” I told her I loved the lavender and mint green rings the best, and I would find a square and ask her if she remembered wearing that piece of clothing. “Not really,” she said, “But I must have. Maybe this one was one of Dad’s old shirts. I don’t know.” She’d grow silent, stroking the design, then she’d hold up the edging. “See what small stitches Mother made,” she pointed out. “You can barely see them- she was very talented at quilting.” I agreed, it was a beautiful quilt, and I patted myself on the back for bringing it to her, happy that it brought her so much joy.

One day, the quilt wasn’t in her room. Frantic, I ran to the nurses’ station, asking about it. “It’s probably in the laundry,” I was told, and I blurted out, “But it’s an old quilt! It can’t be put in the laundry!” The nurse gave me a look of confusion and maybe sympathy, and assured me her name was on it, and it would be put back in her room. Feeling sick, I told myself that it would be fine. Maybe some stitches would get pulled out, but it would be fine. It wasn’t. The next time I visited, I was horrified to find the quilt on her bed, the beautiful lavender and mint green rings now faded to a dull, dingy yellow. They had used bleach and this was what had happened. My grandmother’s quilt. Ruined. Fighting tears and anger at myself for being so stupid, I gathered it up, folded it, and set it aside to take home. I remember putting it in the black lawn bag and shoving it into a dark corner of the storage unit, where I wouldn’t have to see the results of my actions. Of course I couldn’t have known this would happen, but I should’ve known better than to leave something valuable in a nursing home. My guilt and sadness were enormous, and I wrestled with the “if only” for a long time afterwards. Mom didn’t miss the quilt, of course- out of sight, out of mind- and, eventually, I also forgot about it. I bought a cheap butterfly comforter from Walmart for her, and life went on. Until yesterday, when the ruined quilt resurfaced.

As I packed it away with some other blankets, I asked myself: Was it worth it? If I had never taken the quilt to her, if it had stayed pristine, safely stowed away in a chest or bag, I would have the object, but I wouldn’t have the memory of the joy it brought Mom and the stories she told me. When I look at it now, I don’t see a ruined family heirloom so much as I recall the happiness on Mom’s face when I told her this was the same quilt her mother had made. “I miss her,” she’d say, her voice shaking and tears welling up in her eyes. Much like the tears I have right now. I know, Mom. I know.