LITMIR.BIZ

      In the spring of 1937, I was visited by a beautiful lady with black hair and brown eyes. She had a pretty pink dress on and smelled so nice. I don’t remember seeing her before. She told me she was my mother; I couldn’t seem to remember her. I had already been in the hospital for less than a year and was visited by Eunice but never by this lady who called herself my mom. She said, “I have a surprise for you.” She handed me a bag and inside of it was a very soft doll. The doll looked like Aunt Jemima, a character in one of my storybooks. She had a red and white checked scarf tied on her head and a red and white checked dress with a shawl tied around her shoulders. She was the same color as my friend Marianne, and I told my mom I was going to name the doll after my friend. I hugged the doll and thanked my mom for bringing her to me. She said that I should turn the doll upside down and see what happened. I did this and on the other end was another doll; she was a Dutch girl with blonde braids and a blue print dress with pink flowers. She was wearing a white Dutch hat that looked very similar to one of the nurse’s hats, except that the nurse had a black stripe on hers. I reached up and gave my mom a big hug and kiss, and when I let go I noticed a tear roll down her cheek. This made me sad. When it was time for her to leave, she said goodbye and told me to be a good girl and do what the nurses told me to do. She also told me to make sure I said hello to God every day. I wondered who God was, yet promised to say hello to God to make my mother happy. Then she turned to leave; I started crying but not loudly as I didn’t want her to hear me. She looked back and waved. I remember feeling what I know today is loneliness. I hugged the doll she brought, not knowing that I would never see my mother again. I clutched the doll close to my cast and held her tightly in my hands. This doll was the biggest comfort to me through the next several years. When I finally left the hospital, my aunty Catherine would not let me bring my toys. She said I had to leave them as they might have germs in them. I said, “Well, I have to bring my upside down Marianne doll with me,” and she said, “No,” My heart was heavy. I did not want to leave this doll behind as she was my comfort and knew all my secrets, fears, hopes and dreams. All my pleading and begging did me no good. The doll was left behind.

      Later in life my husband and I would search antique shops looking for an upside down doll. I would describe the doll to the shop owners, and although they would know what I was talking about I continued to hear the same answer over and over again: “Sorry, we don’t have one.” I would ask if they knew of any vendors that did. The answer was always the same—no. After many years of searching, my husband suggested that I should make one; he thought it would be very therapeutic for me. I agreed to try it. A friend had given me a book on making upside down dolls a few years previously and I had made one for my granddaughter. I was off to the fabric shop the next day, picked up all the material for the doll and came home and started on her. It took me about four days to create her. I had to embroider her face (or faces) on and try to remember what they both looked like. I found myself going through a lot of emotions, feeling angry that she had been left behind and lonely for my mother and, at the same time, excited to be creating my lost doll. When she was finished she was so beautiful and I felt so satisfied. I held the doll and hugged her for a very long time. Memories flashed in my mind of the day the beautiful lady came to visit me and brought me the doll. It was her last visit to me and the last time I was to see her as she died at age twenty four.