I’ll admit it.
I confess.
I sleep with a teddy bear every night.
Or most nights.
Occasionally she just gets in the way and I choose to leave
her out of my arms. And other mornings I
awake to find I’ve chucked her four feet to the floor in my sleep. It’s nothing personal. Really. I would honestly rather have her with
me and I miss her when she’s gone.
“Sophie” is a great companion... Given to me my junior year in college just
after the beginning of cancer round 2 by my aunt and uncle, (“when you hug it,
take it as a hug from us and know we love you”), Sophie became just the thing I
needed...a perfect, huggable sized bear, to curl up and cuddle and cry with
when the days got to be too much or too long.
The fact I now sleep with a stuffed animal sounds innocent
when you realize I, at the age of 20 and 21, never went anywhere without
her. If I had to be in the car for more
than a half an hour by myself, she came too.
Which means she accompanied me to all of my cancer appointments in Ann Arbor and every one
of the many trips I made home. I buckled her into the front seat and we would
talk as I drove. I would debrief with
her as I got out of an appointment – getting out in the open what was good,
bad, frightening or frustrating about my latest check in with my doctors. And I would tell her about classes and
homework and professors. I would
complain about my ill-matched roommate and how much I missed having my sister
at school with me and how lonely my days had become. I once realized that spilling my day to
Sophie was the first time I had spoken aloud in close to three days...
Granted she never said much back (probably a good thing to
admit if I would like to maintain claims that I haven’t lost quite all of my
marbles...) but she listened. Or I
imagined she would. It made me feel as
if I weren’t quite so alone and not quite so crazy for talking to myself. And sometimes I got the impression she would
answer me. Okay, more likely what I
anticipated you she would say in response if she had more that stuffing for a
brain. And I would argue with her
perceived response. “Oh! So you just think I’m whining! Am I not allowed to whine sometimes? Even my
stuffed bear doesn’t want to listen!”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m sick of being nice to her! Why can’t she just act like a normal human?!” “You’re not saying much. I’m sorry I do all of the talking...You’re
right, sometimes I do just need to feel heard.” (I always said she said pretty
profound things for being a stuffed bear... “Sophie” after all does come from
the Greek “Sophia” meaning “wisdom”...)
Three years later and I’m growing up. I talk to real people occasionally and even invite real
people on long car rides I’d rather not have to make by myself. I rely on their wisdom and insight far more
than my teddy bear’s. (*Gasp!*) Sophie
still will get buckled into the backseat on trips where she is a worthwhile
accomplice...but she doesn’t have to come everywhere and I can leave her to
guard my bed for a night or two without me.
But after a long day or a hard day...I still will curl up in
bed in a fetal position and hold Sophie tight in my arms...wishing sleep to
come and the world to go away. And
somehow having my bear as a tear threatens to make its way down my face makes
everything okay or at least better...
There is something about holding and being held.
Because if I’m being honest, the nights where I am most
prone to grab my bear and curl tightly, are the nights I most want to be
held. The nights where I imagine what it
must feel like to be picked up while curled in that fetal position and be
cradled. Held tightly and close and
against the chest of someone who loves me most.
Realizing the only arms in the universe big enough to cradle me belong
to Christ...
There are other things to say. Connections I wanted to parallel at one
point. But they stop prematurely tonight. Because tonight is a “curl up tight and hold
onto Sophie for all she’s worth” sort of night.
And it makes one wonder if someone is holding me like that too...
