Repairing Other People's Wounds

A part of my heart was ripped open today. I awoke to find one of my cats on top of a wardrobe chest, like Simba on Pride Rock. Not unusual, since cats love high places. 

However, lying next to him, with his feet in the air, helpless, was my Memory Bear. This beautify creature was created last winter, shortly after my father passed away; and now he has two gaping holes in him. 

I searched high and low for the correct color of thread, so I could suture his paws, and began the surgery. I could make this all better. 

Then I stopped, knowing I could not repair this. I made a call to the wonderful lady who created this treasure to ask for help. Please fix this!!!!

This is a metaphor of life. There are things that we cannot repair alone. Relationships, broken hearts, and other people's mistakes. Oh, I have tried. Searched high and low for the cure to help damaged people put their lives back together again. Became a surrogate mother when that was obviously inappropriate. It forced me to juggle too many balls in the air; until one day they all came crashing down and I admitted the wounds were too deep. 

My bear was created with fabrics left over from garments worn by each of my parents. His face was crafted from a pair fatigue-green sweatpants my mom wore as she battled Lymphoma three decades ago. I could never throw them out, nor could I wear them.

The legs and back were fabricated from a corduroy shirt, which was my dad’s. It can only be described as poopy brown, but when he passed, all his clothes were donated, before I could request a keepsake. The shirt was so ugly that I wore it to dye my hair; ironically, the stains always came out, so I continued to wear when it was time to cover the greys. While unattractive to others, I could never throw it away, so it remained in the same chest of drawers that the Memory Bear sat atop, until this morning, when I put him inside the chest for safe-keeping!

The bear’s feet have patches cut away from a flannel bathrobe gifted to my mom while she was sick and the bow around his neck (baseballs, symbolic of our shared love of the sport) is tacked to him with a button found in an old jewelry box of my mother's. Inside his chest is the black mourner's ribbon I wore while sitting Shiva for my dad. One foot has a heart, the other simply says “Mom and Dad.” 

Admitting I could not repair the bear, and restore him to his previous self was tough, as were the first few months of dealing with the loss of each parent. With the support of friends and family, I slowly acclimated to my new reality. (You never really recover from the death of a parent.)

Eventually just gazing over at the bear brought me a level of comfort. Now, he has two a small wounds. Which I must entrust to an expert to mend; because we cannot do this thing called life alone.

@nymomto3boys