The Monkey That Taught Me to Sew

It's late, hope this makes sense. 

In a way that title is true. Tell you a little story, when my daughter was very small she had an inoperable brain mass in the middle of her brain, inside that little pocket of liquid approximately in the sector between the temples and the very middle/top of the scalp. It was the size of a man's thumb and in addition my daughter had a seizure disorder. These things not only meant she was, “dying” they also meant that what little time she had to live was spent in Miami Childrens' Hospital.

The amount of time that most kids spend on the playground my daughter spent between neurologists and telemetry labs. She spent more time in hospital beds than she did going to school. This was my daughter's life and though she'd never known anything different than this meager existence, she hated it with a passion. In school, you see, were other kids. In school there were toys. School had a library, a playground, an art room and fun. She couldn't even get out of bed to go to the bathroom, much less the hospital's play room. Ten leggos and three comic books get boring after a while. And back to back elongated hospital stays afford you very few visitors.

I vividly remember holding her as she screamed hysterically when her hair started falling out and I remember the pact I made with her... if she lost all her hair then I promised I would shave my head. One of the other teachers called that stupidity and vanity, telling me that if she lost her hair I would be a responsible parent and buy her a wig. (I'm not real sure why that woman thought that hiding from your disease is helpful but needless to say she wasn't invited back to our room.) Anyway I watched my normally happy child grow sullen. She sunk deeper and deeper into depression. She got sicker with that mood. It didn't look like she would leave there this time.

But then for no reason some woman with ebony hair and dark, deeply swimming eyes visited our room. She didn't know us. She brought Sarah a blue, stuffed monkey. The thing was pitifully small. It was handmade.... and not very well made I might add. She gave this toy to my daughter, who immediately perked-up when the woman announced that this was a “Wednesday present.” Sarah's EEG returned to normal by the end of that day. She was home in a week, and even though she went back in 2 weeks, it didn't matter. She no longer minded the endless tests and labs. That gift changed her mind-set and her mind-set changed her healing process. Random acts of kindness. She still had that toy when she was 18... even though it was torn-up by then.

Years later I tell this story, the beginning of my Bibbity Bobbities, the dolls I make for charity. Some say it is a waste of time. My dolls have been called ugly. My dolls have been criticized endlessly... people have even told me to take a sewing class or add mouths or... and the list goes on. But that doesn't matter to me. My dolls I pray will change the course of a child's life simply because I cared. My dolls I pray will change the hatefulness of a disease, make children forget (if only for a little while) to suffer and instead just be kids. A little love helps us heal sometimes.

To all of those nay-sayers and haters who criticize those silly dolls, those random acts of kindness, I say, “Perhaps you have too much time on your hands. I use my spare time to try to help others. And you?”

And so you see the Rag-doll people I create sort of evolved from a little blue monkey. I suppose that means that the universe is not without a sense of irony, huh?

That's my side of it,

Angel