Since we lost Elliott's cherished bunny (and its back-up version) about a year ago, she's been ultra-attached to a diminutive teddy bear she named Curly. He's small and white and wears a dress most of the time. We lost him for about a week last month and she was near tears that he'd be hungry and she wouldn't be there to nurse him.
In order to chronicle the short life of Curly Bear, I have to go back a bit. Weeks ago, we made a paper chain to help us count down the days until our reuniting with the girls' beloved Nanny and Papa. Elliott was so very excited. I had a special outfit I'd bought just for the day of travel to help honor her excitement. It was from the thrift store I now frequent, and I was quite proud of my findings there. She looked like I'd spent a lot more than the $8 that the outfit cost. We rolled her hair the day before so her curls would be the just-right amount of curliness. She was laughing with glee and she dressed at 6am that morning. She looked so lovely and grown up in her plaid skirt, red velvet hoodie, tights and mary janes. The skirt had a little layer of toole that hung just below the hem, and a black velvet bow just below the waist.
The first leg of our flight was relatively uneventful, save for the 4 blow-out diapers Fiona produced, and the time she peed directly onto Seth's leg. In Phoenix, we had lunch and then boarded our next flight. Elliott was complaining of her tummy hurting and didn't want to walk down the jetway. I coaxed her to our seat, and we settled in for the flight. As we took off, she was holding on to my arm and I could feel her drinking in my touch. I knew that she really wasn't well.
Then the vomit began spraying everywhere, dripping down the walls, soaking Elliott from her head to her toes. Elliott had her hand over her mouth, attempting to curtail the inevitable. The result was similar to putting one's finger over a garden hose to create a wide spray. By the time I could make sense of what was happening, I was only able to catch about the final 2 inches's worth in a barf bag. She was crying hysterically, saying things like, "I'm so yucky-up! Don't touch me, I'm so messy! My skirt! Look at my skirt!" My heart was breaking for the whole scene, my 3 year old thinking she was too gross for her own mother to hold.
After the throwing up ceased, I was temporarily frozen, at a loss for where to start. It was dripping on everything around us. The seatbelt was soaked, chunks sliding down the wall, it was in her hair, I was covered. A flight attendant dropped off some garbage bags and I started peeling the clothing off, wiping everything down with the baby wipes Seth doled out to me. Even her tights and underwear were soaked, so we grabbed some Southwest blankets and I fashioned a "sari" for her. I put all of her clothes and my sweater in one of the bags, and before she could see, I also tucked in her most favorite, cherished Curly Bear. Once white and curly, he was orange, chunky and matted now. I didn't want her to feel even more upset by the sight of her friend; I figured I could have him laundered and fresh by bedtime that night.
The vomiting continued on, and we soon developed a rhythm, fill one barf bag, blot her chin, fold and seal, prep the next bag. She threw up about every 10 minutes for the next 4 hours. During our drive home from the airport we consulted our doctor friend, who directed us to the emergency room. She had become lifeless, unresponsive, sleeping even as she sat up to spit up bile into yet another bag. (Even in the middle of the chaos, I was able to muster a wry smile for the irony that I, a person who strives for independence from plastic bags, was individually wrapping each quarter cup offering my daughter produced...). As we drove, we prayed, and asked our community of friends in Nashville to pray as well.
I really, really did not want to go into the emergency room. Anyone who's been there knows. It's a long, uncomfortable process. I couldn't imagine having Elliott in a bed, with an I.V., possibly spending the night...but of course, I wanted what was best for her. It didn't look like she was going to be able to stop throwing up otherwise. We sat in the hospital parking lot and deliberated. Fiona began to cry, tired of transit. Elliott, out of a dead sleep, sat up and started talking! "It's okay, it's Sissy! It's Sissy! Don't cry!" She began the routine she goes through to distract Fiona from frustration. Seth, his dad and I were dumbfounded. She hadn't uttered a decipherable sound since the airport. I really believe that God touched her.
I offered her a sip of water and she immediately threw it up again, but her spirit was on the mend. We decided to take her home. Over the next hour, she threw up a couple more times, but we could see she was making a comeback. She asked for a warm bath, and then melted into bed. The storm had passed.
After she was asleep, I went to do the laundry. I couldn't imagine anything grosser than morning-after throw-up soil. Disgusting. And I didn't want Curly Bear to be stained orange. As I looked around, the little black garbage bag was no where to be found. A questioning of all parties present revealed that it had been inadvertently discarded as we loaded our luggage into the car. It looked like garbage, and it certainly smelled like garbage. It's easy to understand how this happened. But inside was a treasure trove of things cherished by my little girl, and this loss pushed me over the edge for a bit.
Ultimately, I remembered that things are just things, and Elliott hasn't even realized that it's all gone. Nanny had another small white bear who I deemed Hurly Bear, Curly's cousin. And life goes on.
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