I Found My First Stuffed Animal at 68

I was sixty-six the first time I bought myself a stuffed animal. Not for a grandchild. Not for a baby shower. For me. I was at the drugstore, picking up a prescription, and there was a bin of little animals near the checkout. A small bear with a red bow around its neck. I don't know what made me stop. I don't know what made me pick it up. But I did, and I held it, and something in my chest that had been clenched for months unclenched just a little.

Karl had been gone for about six months by then. The worst six months of my life. I'd been walking through the world like a person wrapped in gauze. Everything was muffled. Everything was far away. I went through the motions. I answered the phone when my children called. I ate food that didn't taste like anything. I kept the house clean because I didn't know what else to do with my hands. And then I bought a small bear at a drugstore and everything shifted, just slightly, just enough to notice.

The Bear Went Next to His Picture

I have a photograph of Karl on the kitchen counter. It's from about ten years ago. He's wearing the blue shirt I liked, the one that matched his eyes. He's smiling in that way he had, like he was about to tell you a joke. I talk to that photograph. I know how that sounds. I don't care how it sounds. When you've been married to someone for forty-four years, you don't just stop talking to them because they're not there to answer.

I put the bear next to the photograph. I don't know why. It just felt right. Like his memory deserved something soft to hold onto. Like the picture needed a companion. And then, a few weeks later, I bought another one. A bunny with long floppy ears. Spring was coming and the bear looked lonely up there by himself. So I added the bunny. And then a duck in a yellow raincoat for summer. And a fox with a little scarf for fall. And a tiny reindeer for Christmas.

Now I have a rotation. Every season, Karl's picture gets a new little friend. The old ones go into a box in the closet, waiting for their turn next year. It's the strangest thing I've ever done. It's also one of the sweetest. My daughter says I've created a seasonal display for a man who couldn't be bothered to hang Christmas lights. She's not wrong. Karl would have laughed at me. He always did laugh at the things I swore I would never do.

The Grandchildren Got Involved

I did not intend for this to become a family affair. But my grandchildren noticed the animals, and they had questions. Why does Grandpa's picture have a bunny? What happened to the bear from winter? Can I pick the next one, Mimi? And so it became a thing. The grandchildren have started trading plushies with me. They bring me ones they've outgrown and I give them ones I've rotated out. We have a whole exchange system now. My great-granddaughter, who is five and already has stronger opinions than most adults I know, recently taught me about clip-on plushies. Little animals that hook onto your purse strap. I have a purple octopus on my purse now. I love it more than I can explain.

People might think this is strange. A woman my age, with stuffed animals on her purse and a seasonal menagerie around her dead husband's photograph. Let them think it's strange. They haven't lost the person they loved for forty-four years. They don't know what it takes to find comfort in the wreckage. If a small bear from a drugstore bin can make the grief bearable for a few hours, that bear is worth more than anything in this house.

You Are Not Too Old for Comfort

Here is what I want to say to anyone reading this who is over sixty, or fifty, or forty, and who feels a little pull toward something soft. Buy the stuffed animal. Buy the fuzzy blanket. Buy the thing that makes you feel, for a moment, like someone is taking care of you instead of the other way around. You have spent decades being the strong one. The capable one. The person everyone else leaned on. You are allowed to lean now. You are allowed to need comfort. You are allowed to find it in whatever form it takes.

I found my first stuffed animal at sixty-six. I found my second one at sixty-six and a half. I found my clip-on octopus at sixty-eight. I will probably find more. I am not embarrassed. I am not defensive. I am just a woman who misses her husband and has discovered that small soft things make the missing slightly easier to carry. That's not weakness. That's wisdom. It took me sixty-six years to learn it. I hope it takes you less.

— Lydia

About the Author

Lydia is a retired LPN and military wife who became a widow at 66. She lives in California, where she maintains a rotating seasonal collection of stuffed animals around her husband Karl's photograph. Her great-granddaughter recently taught her about clip-on plushies, and she hasn't looked back.