Calls Me Home
written for therealljidol 8.8 "Traveling Travesty"
It was the last bit of normalcy, of beauty and of sweetness that Tara and I experienced. We stood in a local Target store together, staring at the Anne Geddes teddy bears. They were a novelty item in the late '90's, similar to Tickle Me Elmo, in that they had no real use, but people of all ages seemed drawn to them for an inexplicable reason. Tara and I were sixteen.
"Do you want these for Christmas this year?" Mom asked, seeing the two bear babies we had selected. Both were African-American - mine with a somber face and curly tan fur on the bear costume. Tara's had a sneaky smile, and bear fur that was reddish and straight.
"Yeah. I mean, we don't need them..." I hedged.
"But they're so cute!" Tara insisted.
Mom paid for them and brought them home. They were kept out of our sight.
It was Sunday, December 14th, 1997.
None of us knew that four days later, our lives would change forever.
--
That Friday, Tara lay in a hospital bed in the ICU. She was pale and didn't speak much. When she did, thank God, it was clear, and intelligible. Her left side was completely paralyzed. She had a drain coming out of her head to take care of excess fluid. On December 18th, during school, Tara suffered a massive brain hemorrhage and needed emergency surgery.
The six hours I spent waiting to hear if she was going to be okay were the most terrifying of my life. I was numb, and anxiety poured through my body. At the time, I didn't know what I was feeling, only that it was something big and that it kept rising inside me, threatening to overwhelm me. Friends stopped by. They brought snacks and good cheer to my aunt and uncle's house where I waited.
That night, when Tara was in recovery, my aunt drove me to see her. The night was dark and Christmas lights were strewn in the bare trees. As we drove through an antiquated city on the way to the hospital, I asked the question I had been dreading.
"What does she look like?"
"She has a tube in her nose to help her breathe, and they had to shave off part of her hair. She hasn't come out of the anesthesia yet, but we're hoping that she will soon."
As it happened, Tara woke up just as I entered the room. The first thing she asked was "You okay?" It sounded stilted, like, "You. Okay," but that was Tara. She was always looking out for everyone else.
I'm not sure if Tara asked for it, or if Mom had it in the car, but all of a sudden, Tara's Anne Geddes teddy bear was in the hospital room with her. Mom thought it would bring comfort to her, just as the audio tape of our school choir singing Christmas carols did, but we were wrong.
"Why is there a squirrel in my bed?" Tara asked, confused at the texture of the bear.
I slept with mine each night at home, and in later months, as Tara returned and got stronger we resumed writing letters to each other, just as we had before December 18th. Sometimes, we stowed them in the backs of each others' teddy bear dolls, as if they were a secret postal service. Through those bears, Tara learned that I was trying hard to help her keep up in school, as well as keeping up myself. I told her how much it hurt when she lashed out at me. I told her all the private feelings we could not discuss outright. In return, she let me know how much she loved me "with all her heart and soul" but that she resented me, too.
Two years later, the bears were put away in storage. We didn't see them for a decade. Not until we cleaned out our facility last year. Though we got rid of many things, we kept the bears. Not for ourselves, but for someone else's children who were on their own journey.
--
It was December 10th, 2011.
This past Saturday, I awoke and immediately got busy. I washed laundry, dried it, and put it away. I managed to burn the French toast casserole. I wrapped Christmas gifts, on the off chance that I might see a friend and her newest foster children that day.
They did come. A 7-year-old boy, Adam, a 3-year-old girl, Hailey. With them, came my friend, Alisa, who had not been to visit since her niece, Malia, was still fighting cancer with resiliency and heart. Now, Alisa wore Malia's necklace. The loss, though a year old, is still fresh in her eyes. As she sits down at the table with a bag full of board games, I remember the last time I had seen her, when Alisa told me of the sleepover she and Malia had. Of how Malia stopped what they were doing, looked Alisa in the eye, and told her, "I remember the first time I smiled at you."
So much had changed.
Still, I watched as she put aside the sadness. We played board games and had popcorn and hot chocolate. Little Hailey got accustomed to my wheelchair. She even started pushing me at one point, and asked in a conspiratorial voice, "Do you wanna play Crash?" When I declined, she tried again. "Do you want to play a rolling game?" Adam spent time watching Happy Feet and drawing pictures with non-permanent markers. When he spotted a permanent one, he would cry out, "Sharpie!" in the way a surfing child might call out, "Shark!" He drew me a picture of himself, his sister, and Alisa. Hailey took to drawing quickly, and proceeded to draw a picture of Alisa, announcing: "Alisa! I'm drawing your hips!" Alisa graciously responded that she was so glad they made it into every picture. At three, Hailey is still learning body parts.
As the time came for them to leave, I passed along the Christmas gifts I had wrapped for Alisa and her sister's (Malia's) family. In that moment, I was struck by just how wrong it felt to be handing gifts to an adult, while the children left with nothing. It didn't matter that Tara and I had already sent Christmas presents to the house for them. They weren't complaining at all - only admiring Alisa's gifts and wondering what could be inside.
Then, I remembered the bears. I had meant to give them to Alisa, for her future foster kids. So, I brought them out, preparing to hand them off to Alisa. Since the dolls were black and these children were not, I wasn't sure if they would be interested. I definitely had my doubts about 7-year-old Adam taking to a doll.
But I was so wrong.
His eyes lit up, and he asked, "What are these?" On instinct, I handed Tara's bear to him. I explained that it was a baby, dressed in a bear costume. I handed Hailey my own doll, while Alisa urged them to say thank you for the invitation to come over and play.
Adam said thank you obediently, and then let out a mighty growl, holding the bear in front of him. "The baby says thank you," he translated.
I turned my attention to Hailey, who stared at me intently, and then saying, unprompted, "Thank you for the doll."
They love their new bear babies, according to Alisa. And though they might never know the story behind them, I hope they serve the same purpose in Adam and Hailey's lives as they did in ours. Just to be there through the trying times, so that even if everything around them changes, this one thing will be the same.
Me (left) and Tara (right) in her room at a local rehab facility. We are surrounded by new Christmas teddy bears. The Anne Geddes bears are no doubt somewhere, close by. December 28th, 1997.
*Names have been changed to protect the identities of Alisa's kids.
It was the last bit of normalcy, of beauty and of sweetness that Tara and I experienced. We stood in a local Target store together, staring at the Anne Geddes teddy bears. They were a novelty item in the late '90's, similar to Tickle Me Elmo, in that they had no real use, but people of all ages seemed drawn to them for an inexplicable reason. Tara and I were sixteen.
"Do you want these for Christmas this year?" Mom asked, seeing the two bear babies we had selected. Both were African-American - mine with a somber face and curly tan fur on the bear costume. Tara's had a sneaky smile, and bear fur that was reddish and straight.
"Yeah. I mean, we don't need them..." I hedged.
"But they're so cute!" Tara insisted.
Mom paid for them and brought them home. They were kept out of our sight.
It was Sunday, December 14th, 1997.
None of us knew that four days later, our lives would change forever.
--
That Friday, Tara lay in a hospital bed in the ICU. She was pale and didn't speak much. When she did, thank God, it was clear, and intelligible. Her left side was completely paralyzed. She had a drain coming out of her head to take care of excess fluid. On December 18th, during school, Tara suffered a massive brain hemorrhage and needed emergency surgery.
The six hours I spent waiting to hear if she was going to be okay were the most terrifying of my life. I was numb, and anxiety poured through my body. At the time, I didn't know what I was feeling, only that it was something big and that it kept rising inside me, threatening to overwhelm me. Friends stopped by. They brought snacks and good cheer to my aunt and uncle's house where I waited.
That night, when Tara was in recovery, my aunt drove me to see her. The night was dark and Christmas lights were strewn in the bare trees. As we drove through an antiquated city on the way to the hospital, I asked the question I had been dreading.
"What does she look like?"
"She has a tube in her nose to help her breathe, and they had to shave off part of her hair. She hasn't come out of the anesthesia yet, but we're hoping that she will soon."
As it happened, Tara woke up just as I entered the room. The first thing she asked was "You okay?" It sounded stilted, like, "You. Okay," but that was Tara. She was always looking out for everyone else.
I'm not sure if Tara asked for it, or if Mom had it in the car, but all of a sudden, Tara's Anne Geddes teddy bear was in the hospital room with her. Mom thought it would bring comfort to her, just as the audio tape of our school choir singing Christmas carols did, but we were wrong.
"Why is there a squirrel in my bed?" Tara asked, confused at the texture of the bear.
I slept with mine each night at home, and in later months, as Tara returned and got stronger we resumed writing letters to each other, just as we had before December 18th. Sometimes, we stowed them in the backs of each others' teddy bear dolls, as if they were a secret postal service. Through those bears, Tara learned that I was trying hard to help her keep up in school, as well as keeping up myself. I told her how much it hurt when she lashed out at me. I told her all the private feelings we could not discuss outright. In return, she let me know how much she loved me "with all her heart and soul" but that she resented me, too.
Two years later, the bears were put away in storage. We didn't see them for a decade. Not until we cleaned out our facility last year. Though we got rid of many things, we kept the bears. Not for ourselves, but for someone else's children who were on their own journey.
--
It was December 10th, 2011.
This past Saturday, I awoke and immediately got busy. I washed laundry, dried it, and put it away. I managed to burn the French toast casserole. I wrapped Christmas gifts, on the off chance that I might see a friend and her newest foster children that day.
They did come. A 7-year-old boy, Adam, a 3-year-old girl, Hailey. With them, came my friend, Alisa, who had not been to visit since her niece, Malia, was still fighting cancer with resiliency and heart. Now, Alisa wore Malia's necklace. The loss, though a year old, is still fresh in her eyes. As she sits down at the table with a bag full of board games, I remember the last time I had seen her, when Alisa told me of the sleepover she and Malia had. Of how Malia stopped what they were doing, looked Alisa in the eye, and told her, "I remember the first time I smiled at you."
So much had changed.
Still, I watched as she put aside the sadness. We played board games and had popcorn and hot chocolate. Little Hailey got accustomed to my wheelchair. She even started pushing me at one point, and asked in a conspiratorial voice, "Do you wanna play Crash?" When I declined, she tried again. "Do you want to play a rolling game?" Adam spent time watching Happy Feet and drawing pictures with non-permanent markers. When he spotted a permanent one, he would cry out, "Sharpie!" in the way a surfing child might call out, "Shark!" He drew me a picture of himself, his sister, and Alisa. Hailey took to drawing quickly, and proceeded to draw a picture of Alisa, announcing: "Alisa! I'm drawing your hips!" Alisa graciously responded that she was so glad they made it into every picture. At three, Hailey is still learning body parts.
As the time came for them to leave, I passed along the Christmas gifts I had wrapped for Alisa and her sister's (Malia's) family. In that moment, I was struck by just how wrong it felt to be handing gifts to an adult, while the children left with nothing. It didn't matter that Tara and I had already sent Christmas presents to the house for them. They weren't complaining at all - only admiring Alisa's gifts and wondering what could be inside.
Then, I remembered the bears. I had meant to give them to Alisa, for her future foster kids. So, I brought them out, preparing to hand them off to Alisa. Since the dolls were black and these children were not, I wasn't sure if they would be interested. I definitely had my doubts about 7-year-old Adam taking to a doll.
But I was so wrong.
His eyes lit up, and he asked, "What are these?" On instinct, I handed Tara's bear to him. I explained that it was a baby, dressed in a bear costume. I handed Hailey my own doll, while Alisa urged them to say thank you for the invitation to come over and play.
Adam said thank you obediently, and then let out a mighty growl, holding the bear in front of him. "The baby says thank you," he translated.
I turned my attention to Hailey, who stared at me intently, and then saying, unprompted, "Thank you for the doll."
They love their new bear babies, according to Alisa. And though they might never know the story behind them, I hope they serve the same purpose in Adam and Hailey's lives as they did in ours. Just to be there through the trying times, so that even if everything around them changes, this one thing will be the same.
Me (left) and Tara (right) in her room at a local rehab facility. We are surrounded by new Christmas teddy bears. The Anne Geddes bears are no doubt somewhere, close by. December 28th, 1997.
*Names have been changed to protect the identities of Alisa's kids.