Thelebrating My Fifty-Firtht Chrithmath with Thilly

I remember catching a cold at that age, followed by the flu, and those memories are vivid for two reasons.

First, with the cold, my mom said I could go out and play, but not with any friends because I was contagious. I had no idea what that word meant but it sounded very interesting and made me feel very important. So, while Jimmy and Anne Mary were still at school, and Beth was taking a nap, I went outside and sat on the front lawn with some toys to entertain myself.

Our neighbors four houses away had a daughter my age, Amy, who was a convenient playmate but often rubbed me the wrong way with her whining, something my mom never allowed us to do, and I understood why. When I saw Amy coming down the sidewalk towards me, without even getting up, I stopped her dead in her tracks at our driveway by telling her she wasn’t allowed to come any closer. “I’m thorry, but I have to play by mythelf becauth... I’m...contagiouth,” I said proudly. Amy’s mouth dropped open and her eyes got real wide. Without a word, she just turned around and ran all the way home. I remember being pleasantly surprised by her reaction, and kept repeating the word like a mantra to make a mental note of it in case I ever needed it again.

I’ll never forget the flu that followed, for starters, because of the frightful psychedelic fever dreams. The bright swirling colors and terrifying abstract shapes coming and going were accompanied by prickly and hard physical sensations. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as miserable or have had nightmares like that since then. The sickness probably went on for two or three days but, at my young age, and never having felt that bad before, it seemed like an eternity. What may have scared me even more than the dreams was that I knew my dad was a doctor but he couldn’t fix it, and I could sense both my parents were worried.

All the while, my little body laid on the couch in the family room and my mom brought me meals of soda crackers and ginger ale with a bendy straw to set on the TV tray next to me. Whenever she felt my forehead, she wiped my sticky bangs back from my face. And, when my dad came home from work, he did the same as he sat next to me on the couch, squishing me into the cushions.  Meanwhile, I learned another new word, thermometer, which my mom put in my mouth whenever I woke up from a nap.

I must have just been waking up from a nap when my dad came in through the garage door into the dark corner of the family room. I couldn’t tell if it was day or night and, with one hand behind his back, it felt like another weird dream coming on. The closer he came to me, the more I thought I was coming to, but I wasn’t really sure. He swung his arm around from behind and presented me with a fuzzy brown stuffed animal with wide eyes and white ears, a get-well present he had picked up at the hospital gift store. The sight of it was a relief, although I didn’t have the energy to reach for it, so he tucked it in my arms and pulled up to my chin the brown and orange afghan my mom had crocheted. As sleepy as I got while he gently traced my ears with his finger and drew a line down my nose, I fought it off as long as I could for fear of the dreams returning, clutching the dog until I passed out again.

The next day the fever started to break. I was confused by the chills and the sweats, bundling up in the afghan, then, throwing it off again. Mom breathed a sigh of relief when I got off the couch to retrieve the dog that had flopped to the floor. Dad explained these were all good signs, and I heard him say I’d be “up-with-Adam” again soon. I thought it presumptuous of him to name my dog for me, and I wasn’t keen on ‘Adam,’ anyway. When Anne Mary told me I should name him Brownie, I got reprimanded for telling her I thought that was “Thtoopid,” and Jimmy announced I was officially better. The color was obvious, and I wanted something more creative, so I named him Silly because his “thilly fathe made me thmile.” As far as I was concerned, Silly got the credit for saving my life since I never had another fever dream after he was placed in my arms.

With help from my parents, and lots of practice with my siblings who had already overcome it, my lisping dissipated and I was finally able to say my s’s without any trouble. Once that success made me a big girl, I simultaneously fell in ranking as my baby sister took the title of most adorable. For the most part, I was okay with that because I really couldn’t disagree. But, whenever I felt blue, misunderstood, alone, or scared, Silly was always there for me. He was my constant companion and most reliable playmate.

Silly continued to sleep with me every night, except for short stints when I packed him with provisions of candy bars in my overnight suitcase. I kept it in my closet for whenever I was convinced I had to run away because my parents were being mean, or my siblings wouldn’t stop picking on me. After Fireman Freddie came to our school, Silly was first on the list I diligently drew up of all the stuffed animals I could hold while jumping out the window during the evacuation of any potential house fires.

By the time I was in my tweens, Silly’s nose and eyebrows were long gone and I hadn’t even noticed. My mom had already stitched up some holes that had been worn into him by my love. Having lost so many beans through the years, he was quite saggy. Now that she was older than I was when I got Silly, I enlisted Beth as my head nurse, and Dad brought home all the equipment we would need for a bean transplant: scrubs, masks, gloves, sutures, curved needles, surgical scissors, and he taught us how to use them properly and safely. With Silly under a blanket on my mom’s rolling coffee cart, and the bean bag chair unzipped, the sewing badge I earned for my Girl Scout uniform gave me the confidence to proceed. Beth handed me Dixie cups-full of beans to pour into the cut I made at his neck and, within minutes, Silly’s body was plump again, his neck fur reattached to his head, and Beth carefully moved him to the Recovery Room for observation.

Silly accompanied me on family vacations and to slumber parties and summer camp. He went to college with me, moved out to Seattle with me, and went on  road trips, train trips, and flights across the US and Canada with me. Silly was even a world traveler, making his way to England, Scotland, Wales, South Africa, Nepal, Tibet, and Mexico, up into my 40s. As I started adopting real dogs, though, Silly found it most comfortable and safest to be on a shelf rather than be tossed around like some toy they thought he was.

Eventually, I took him over to the guest house so little kids could play with him, but more often than not, it was the visiting volunteer college students who fell in love with him. One student even asked if I would be willing to let her take him home. Usually generous with my belongings, I made it very clear that she could have any other stuffed animal from the basket, or anything else in the house for that matter, but Silly really needed to stay here. When the group left at the end of that week, I felt it necessary to do roll call and, thankfully, all stuffies were accounted for including Silly. He was the only one she really wanted, and I breathed easier knowing she had respected my wishes.

As we get older, adulting gets harder with bills to pay, relationship struggles, aging parents, loss of friends, body changes, and trying to maintain a livelihood when the novelty has worn off and retirement is still a long way off. Woes of the wider world weigh on us, too, and sleep routines can get way out of whack. Such was the case about a year ago when my anxiety was at a peak and I found myself tossing and turning in bed, again. Call it a mid-life crisis, but this had been going on for some time, and for the first time ever, I was really worried about myself.

Suddenly, I got panicky when I couldn’t remember where or when I last saw Silly. Checking off in my head all the potential places he could be, I kept coming up with nothing. I thought, if some kid stole him from the guest house, I would not be content just convincing myself they must have needed Silly more than I did! I flopped over from my back to my stomach and stretched out trying to relax. When my hand hit the edge of the bed, the tip of my finger felt my old worn brown friend shoved between the mattress and the headboard, and I frantically pulled him out. “Silly! How did you get there!?” I  have never cried so hard in relief from desperation. My grown tears soaked his faux fur and released what felt like years of pent up stress. Once my sobs subsided, I recalled bringing him home from the guest house out of paranoia he’d be stolen, and tucking him there to keep him safe from the new puppy, Rupert. It was also then that I realized Silly was 50 years old.

Thith ith my fifty-firtht Chrithmath thelebrating with Thilly, and there ith not a being on the planet who hath been with me longer or knowth me better than thith dear, thweet, inanimate object. Like the Velveteen Rabbit or Andy from Toy Thtory, Thilly ith real and neither thienthe nor religion could convinth me otherwithe. If you don’t have a Thilly, I thuggetht you get one - Aythap. It’th not too late for your inner child or your adult fever dreamth. Their healing love ith… contagiouth.