The Adoption Bear

As my parents clean out their house in preparation for a move, many trinkets from my childhood are surfacing. This is the house that I grew up in. This is where I left some things behind when I left home. There are some things I never took with me because I knew they would always be safe right there in Richardson, Texas where I left them.

My mom recently came to visit and brought a couple of things from my old closet that she knew I wanted to have. One thing was a white teddy bear with blue plaid trim. This bear was not something I slept with every night when I was a little girl. It is not worn from being dragged around because I was a teenager when I got it. It is in the exact condition as when it was given to me 20.5 years ago. It is a bear that came along with some really intense feelings. It is the bear that was given to me by my social worker when she visited me in the hospital when my first was born. It was almost as if she gave me the bear in exchange for my signature on a line stating that the adoption agency had my permission to transport my baby from the hospital to the adoption agency where he would wait for me to permanently relinquish my rights to him and for his adoptive family to come get him.

I hated that teddy bear, but I loved it just as much as I hated it. I wanted that bear and never wanted anything to happen to it. I wanted my baby back even more. I'm sure the bear made his way into my bed and tried to comfort me during that time when I came home from the hospital empty-handed and full of raging emotions, but I really cannot remember anything more than crying and crying. What I do remember is one day putting the bear into a little cubby-like shelf in my closet and deciding that it was the perfect place for him. I saw him every time I opened my closet door. He was always there to remind me, but I did not need his reminding. The hole in me, the emptiness was my reminder. I hated that bear but not enough to toss him out. I just wanted him to live in that cubby, a innocent prisoner.

Now, the bear has found a new life in a new place, much like I did 19 years ago. Several days ago, when my mother pulled him out of her suitcase to show me what she brought, my heart skipped a beat. My bear is no longer a prisoner in the cubby hole in my old closet where I placed him 20 years ago. He is still a reminder of my pain, but he is now being snuggled and loved by an eight year old. Before handing my bear off to my daughter, I made it clear that he was to be kept safe and away from the dogs. She has no idea how much that bear that I loved and hated simultaneously means to me. I hope she keeps him safe. Just like the bear is no longer a prisoner in my childhood closet, I am no longer a prisoner to my pain.