Five-plus years ago, he came home with Rich, a gift from Sloan Kettering. One and a half feet tall, 100% pure polyester, with a "Polo" emblazoned red scarf around his brown furry neck, Rich immediately named him: Ralph the Care Bear.
At first, he was -- well, an inanimate object, made in China and donated to Sloan Kettering patients by designer Ralph Lauren.
But soon we gave him a personality (bearnality?) and soon after that we forgot that he was our creation.
He sat with Rich on the rocking chair.
"Fight the chordoma, Ralph," Rich would say, and we would see a fierce look in Ralph's eyes.
And he joined us for dinner, sometimes, propped between the candlesticks.
When Rich hurt, Ralph looked sad. When we asked him questions -- will Rich get out of this, what's next -- he looked thoughtful and hopeful.
When I said, once, that Ralph was useless, he wasn't curing anything, Rich defended him.
"He's not a cure bear," Rich clarified. "He's a care bear."
About this time a year ago, at the beginning of the final unraveling, Ralph disappeared. Maybe I moved him, maybe Rich did; I don't remember. But he was gone from the table, gone from the rocking chair. Our fantasy couldn't help, not anymore.
Today, I lift Ralph up, wiping some dust off his scarf. A heap of polyester, nothing more.
Then I look into his eyes.
Dazed, stunned, sunken with sadness.
He is my reflection.
You didn't fail, Ralph. I didn't fail. We cared, that was all we could do.
Candace
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