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.