Goodbye, Theodore

I've done everything, you cannot be saved...

That Christmas she begged for a life-sized stuffed teddy bear. It was all she could talk about. It was 2017 and she was nine years old. And she wanted a huge snuggly teddy bear.

We looked everywhere and tried to figure out how we could make the bear come alive. To make her dream come true at Christmas, which is all about dreams coming true. The most wonderful kind of magic.

We could find nothing in any of the local stores. It was out of the question. Our only hope was to order an empty bear “skin” and stuff it ourselves on Christmas Eve. Stuff and stuff and stuff. Into the hours of the morning. 

She was delighted on Christmas day to receive the bear for her "Santa Gift" - as we always called it. Straight down from the chimney. Miraculously unmarked. She quickly named the teddy bear “Theodore” and fell in love...

And Theodore was packed full of joy and was delighted to be loved. To belong to somebody. To be part of the family. He was a plump fellow for wonderful nights in front of the television and reading and all manner of things. A beloved friend to her and her joy spending time with Theodore at least for me was something that lifted my spirits.

Theodore took up a lot of space downstairs, however, and eventually he had to find a new home in the girls' shared room. Perhaps in a corner. And there he sat. And sat. For seven years. 

Slowly the life and joy drained out of him, which can happen when you are left lonely for so long. When you were once loved but now invisible. Taking up space.

Yesterday she took Theodore down from her room. "What am I going to do with it," she asked me coldly.

I feigned indifference. "You can perhaps donate it to Goodwill so some other little child can enjoy it."

Inside I was dying, as she maneuvered “it” to the chair in my office where at that point Theodore just fell apart. (I think he heard the “it.”) His head back and his limbs and torso no longer able to hold any shape. Tongue out. No longer part of anything. Wide-eyed. Every time I wrote a word that night I looked back and Theodore was gasping for air, as was I. Staring up at the ceiling, disoriented yet with some kind of understanding that time teases at the beginning with its seeming vastness, but in the end it collects its due. All is due at the reckoning.

Theodore I passed you by as I went to bed and I held your hand and my hand passed over your alert brow. You were focused. I promised and swore I’d try to find a way to save you. That I might somehow remember how to harness the dreams of innocence and from them carve out a space for you to continue.

Tomorrow Theodore will be disposed of, perhaps to Goodwill. He can no longer remain in the living room where he currently temporarily resides. He has regained a bit of his composure and can at least stare straight ahead. But everything has now gone out of him. Drained out, like the joy when she first laid eyes on him.