Best Friends, Forever

It was an innocuous gift, really, just a yellow, plush, stuffed lamb given to me by a co-worker at one of the many baby showers thrown for me the summer of 2001. I always kept lists of who gave what, and thank goodness, because otherwise I would have never have record of "Who gave me this, Mommy?" P.S. gave it to me, and a part of me wishes she knew what a cornerstone her gift was in my daughter's five year existence. From the onset, Lammie has been Grace's "lovey", her security blanket, her best friend.

We've never left the house overnight without Lammie. Still don't. And each night at bedtime, Grace bites and chews on Lammie's ears and nose, and rubs Lammie's softness against her feet, comforted moment by moment, until she drifts deeper and deeper into dreamland.

In February, 2003, my mom ended up back in the hospital at Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem. Kate and my dad had a room at the Hawthorne Inn, where we usually stayed when we went to visit her at the hospital. The Hawthorne Inn has free shuttles to the hospital from the hotel, so lots of patients' families end up staying there. It's also a Conference Center, so non-patient families end up there too. In the middle of February, 2003, the Hawthorne was packed. There was some type of youth convention going on and the hotel was swarming with young people everywhere.

Grace was 18 months old and still in that stage where I packed everything but the kitchen sink in her diaper bag for overnight visits (or even visits to the mall, for that matter). Or I guess you could say, I was in that stage of brining along everything that she might need. Grace and I were only staying one night, and David wasn't along for this trip. So after spending the day visiting in my mom's hospital room, Grace even napping on the foot of her bed, we made it back to the Hawthorne to retire for the evening. Our room was up on like the third floor, I think, and I remember the struggle of schlepping Grace and the over-stuffed diaper bag back up to our room, Lammie hanging out of one of the side pockets. When I got settled, Grace fed, bathed, changed, and her port-a-crib all set up, I couldn't find Lammie anwhere. Did we leave Lammie in my mom's room? In the car? Where was Lammie? I looked everywhere in the room, in the car, called my mom's room--no sign of Lammie anywhere. My heart sank and the pit formed. Grace didn't know it yet, but I potentially had just lost the best friend she'd ever know.

My dear sister Kate, always lending a helping hand when I'm in need, set out on a mission to locate Lammie, complete with reward posters drawn up and everything. She went down to the hotel lobby and talked to the receptionists. She asked every young person she saw if they'd seen a little yellow stuffed lamb anywhere. Eventually, the rumor made it back that yes, Lammie had been spotted and was put on a bench right outside of one of the elevators. I was hopeful, but still panic-stricken. When was that and where was Lammie now? Kate's reward posters said to knock on Room 305 if found, and that was her and my dad's room. I had to leave the next morning and they were staying for at least one more night.

I don't even remember how Grace ended up falling asleep that night. I have a vague memory, perhaps distorted, that I strolled her down the halls, back and forth, back and forth, in her umbrella stroller until she nodded off. At any rate, she did fall asleep and slept through the night but that's more than I could say for myself. I was totally distraught and couldn't stop crying. I called my mom's room and she talked to me from her hospital bed, trying her best to comfort me. She said, "Sarah, you've got to calm down. It's just a 'thing' and it's not the end of the world. It will be ok. No one is hurt, and it's going to be fine." It was the last time my mother would mother me. "But I lost her best friend," I sobbed, "and there's no way to replace it." I hadn't gone out, like the parenting books recommended, and bought a replica of Lammie just in case this very thing happened. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Grace would have known the difference.

Everyone was trying their best to help, but every time I thought about Lammie being gone, I just lost it in a sea of tears. Driving back to Chapel Hill the next morning, I called David, just sobbing uncontrollably. I blurted out, "David, you won't believe what happened. I lost Lammie. I lost Lammie. Lammie is gone!" He said, "Wait, slow down. You lost who?" For a minute, and from the sound of my voice, he thought I was calling to tell him I had lost our daughter. "NO! I lost LAMMIE. In the hotel. It must have fallen out of the diaper bag." He tried too to console me, but I was a complete wreck. I think we all know that the tears weren't just falling at the thought of losing Lammie.

The story has a happy ending, in one sense, that is. That evening after I'd gotten back to Chapel Hill and settled back in, the phone rang. It was my dad. He was ecstatic--Lammie had been returned! My heart flipped again, I couldn't believe it! A couple from western NC was staying at the Hawthorne Inn, making trips to Baptist Hospital to visit his sick sister. They had seen Lammie on the bench in front of the elevators and picked it up and took it to their room. They also saw the posters that Kate had plastered on every hall, saying that if found, please deliver to Room 305. Reward Available. They'd knocked on my dad's door hours after I'd left. It was a humble man, probably a blue-collar worker based on my dad's description, and my dad reached into his wallet and handed the man a twenty dollar bill and said, "God bless you." (I thought my dad didn't believe in God). But then, the story wasn't over...a few hours later when my dad and Kate were leaving their room again, they saw a little piece of notepaper that had been folded and slipped under the door.

The note said, "Here's your money back. It is reward enough knowing that a little girl got her stuffed animal back."