Timothy Bear
By Terry Tomasello
For as long as I can remember, teddy bears have brought me comfort and delight. When I was a child, they made the shadowy darkness of my bedroom walls seem less scary. They seemed to whisper just the right words when I occasionally had to endure a reprimand from my parents—and certainly provided extra encouragement whenever it was time to visit the dentist. My fluffy group had a prominent spot on my bed, at the ready for picking up whenever I needed them.
I inherited my love of teddies from my mother, who always had several stuffed bears around the house. In fact, each of us kids not only received a personally selected bear to comfort us, but at times Mom also enlisted the help of some of her imaginary bear characters to teach us important life lessons. My four brothers and sisters and I can easily recount stories of Brunie and Coonie who visited our fenced-in backyard throughout the summer. They left us special treats as rewards for jobs well done—like when we carefully mixed a concoction of sugar water and went off to play in the neighborhood for a few hours. We quickly learned that these playful bears needed plenty of time to smell the sugar water and not be scared off by screaming children. A good lesson in patience.
Mom encouraged our creativity and imagination by pretending to look for the bears’ cave on family car rides. Lowering her voice, she’d signal for us to be quiet as we approached a likely spot and ask us if we saw any branches moving in the woods.
Mom loved receiving stuffed teddies as gifts, happily displaying them on antique chairs, tables and shelves throughout her home. Of course, she had her favorites, drawn particularly to those dressed in swanky outfits. One year, I found a teddy in a blue and white suit—and so Mr. Pin Stripe, as I called him, was perfect for Mom.
Life went on and teddies came and went, but not Mr. Pin Stripe Bear—who Mom later began calling Timothy. He was there through Mom’s highs and lows—births of grandchildren, homecomings after vacations and even anxious medical appointments that Mom or Dad had to endure. This little bear was there for holidays, birthdays, rainy days. He was faithful during Dad’s trips to the hospital, when Mom came home alone, and again when Dad didn’t come home at all.
Later in life, Mom clung to Timothy as she experienced dementia, which was diagnosed as Alzheimer’s Disease. This dreadful disease often progresses at such a slow pace that people are able to cover their symptoms for quite a while before becoming noticeable. Mom did her best to maintain her independence, but eventually we saw what was happening. What seemed strange, though, was the progressive exchange between this teddy bear and Mom.
In my career as a Geriatric Social Worker, I was well-versed in the clinical symptoms of Alzheimer’s. With my mother, I had a front row seat, but I couldn’t leave at intermission simply because I didn’t care for the show. As communication became more challenging and as Mom seemed to slip further away from reality, we noticed she clung more and more to Timothy.
As Mom’s ambulation declined, Timothy paraded around in her walker basket. Timothy sat beside Mom in her chair and was always the extra guest when anyone visited. His presence comforted her.
My brothers, sisters and I fiercely fought to keep Mom in her own home for as long as we could. Finally, it became apparent that Mom needed placement for safety purposes. It was one of the hardest decisions any of us had to make as Mom loved her home. Our once strong mother, who had always known how to make everything better with her consoling words, could no longer make her own needs known. It was our turn to do the consoling, and we could not even understand what our mother needed.
Each of us kids moved together and yet separately through the grieving process. Although Mom was still physically here with us, she was slipping away. The woman who had taken care of herself and her home with pride was now so dependent on everyone around her. It was strange, to say the least to see Mom sitting idly in her constant state of silence as if she was already gone. Yet, Mom and Timothy made the best of each day welcoming anyone who might like to join them in their shared silent world.
As the day for Mom’s move to the residential care facility drew closer, we all prayed we were making the best decision for our mother. In our new roles as her support team, we were each assigned a task to make this difficult day go as smoothly as possible. One of my sisters and I selected the items Mom would take along to her new living quarters, choosing her favorite things along with the functional and necessary items she would need.
Our eyes locked on Timothy, the star of Mom’s prized bear collection. He was well dressed, well versed in her history—and still intact. He was the one we could all trust to sit with Mom and comfort her when we could not be there. With Timothy as the go-to guy, he surprisingly made us feel less apprehensive of the future.
After a long day of settling in, Mom seemed more quiet than usual as she sat in her new living quarters surrounded by some of her familiar things amid the unfamiliar sights and sounds. Staffers came by to introduce themselves, and it felt strange to know that they would become Mom’s new support team. As one of the bleakest days of our lives came to an end, one by one each of us made our way toward the door. My sister, Cindy who had been Mom’s primary caregiver, did her best to fight back her own emotions while reassuring Mom she would be back the next day—though the next day means little to someone suffering from Alzheimer’s. It was the best reassurance we could provide.
As we left her room, we all looked to Timothy to comfort Mom through her first night in the residential care facility. How did this stuffed bear become the VIP of our family? With Mom now in the care facility, we witnessed the new role Timothy was taking in her life, as she could no longer separate pretense from reality.
It was then that I began to reflect on our mother. Yes, she made the best Rice Krispie treats in town. She had great faith and, long before any teddy bear came into our home, a well-read Bible sat on the coffee table. She saw to it that we kids attended church every week in our Sunday best. She trusted God above all else—when her first husband died early, when she had to raise three little girls on her own, and when a second happy marriage brought two sons. Mom always leaned on her faith.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that Mom used teddy bears to teach us that lesson. These cuddly, furry companions were always there with us—just like the presence of God in our lives. Perhaps that’s what Timothy was doing for Mom in her final state, as dementia took her into a childlike innocence.
Over the next few months, Mom clung to Timothy, never letting him out of her sight. She talked to and cared for him. We all witnessed Mom’s decline in her gaze and ability to find words that made sense, but always Timothy was within her grasp—just like her faith.
On her last day, we sat with Mom one last time to say our final goodbyes. During the evening hours, after our visit, Mom passed. But there was Timothy, at her side—God’s emissary in disguise.
Terry Tomasello is a former Social Worker with a concentration in working with elders. She writes about her experiences in the caregiving world, both professionally and personally with her parents and in-laws. In sharing the raw emotions of these experiences, she hopes to provide space for others to heal.