Meet Choco.
Choco the plushie totem
That’s short for “Chocolate”. A sophisticated piece of work, is our dear Choco; I made him when I was five, maybe. Really I don’t know for sure, and I certainly don’t remember doing it.
Like so many other projects I fumbled through as a girl, Choco became a fixture of our holiday trimmings, just one of many mutant plushies who kept the tree company until Santa showed up. I didn’t think much about him; he was another lame curiosity from my youth that Mother insisted upon clinging to. That is a parent’s prerogative, so I resigned myself to Choco’s annual appearance.
Then, Mother developed cancer.
I can’t say “she got sick” because heavens almighty, that woman was always sick. Born a century earlier, my mother would not have made it past thirty years old. In the end, though, one of her sicknesses was worse than the others, and so cancer killed her. Before that happened, there was a year and a half of bitter struggles, messy medical treatments, messier symptoms, and Choco.
Her last holiday season (1993), she pulled Choco out from the plushie menagerie under the tree and placed him on her bedside table, and there he stayed until her forever.
Mother was childish in a lot of ways, but I don’t put her affection for Choco in that bucket. Truth be told, though, I don’t know what he meant to her outside of the obvious, sentimental value. Lost youth? Her identity as a mother? A time of hope and optimism? Perhaps he represented something more grim, such as death or futility. Or maybe she just thought he was funny looking, and made her smile. I don’t know.
I don’t know because (like most of the important stuff), we never talked about he meant. However, I can tell you what Choco actually was, no matter the meaning behind it: Mother’s totem.
The official definition of a totem is an animalistic spirit that represents a group of people, such as a family or tribe. Over time that meaning has drifted (especially in the New Age crowd that Mother associated with) to become a representation of a person’s inner spirit, or in some cases their spiritual guide. I’m not claiming such esteem for Choco, who is about as animalistic as a rock. In some ways, though, he took on a similar spiritual significance. He watched over Mother when I couldn’t, at night or in hospital; he was the holder of secrets and fears she could not share with me; he held some part of her in thrall, as guardian and confessor and friend.
Now, he sits on my bedroom chest of drawers like a sentinel to her memory.
For a long time, his presence bothered me, but I was helpless to relegate him back to the holiday decorations box. There was no question that throwing him away was not an option, because as mother’s totem, he symbolizes her very spirit. That was the source of my discomfort, actually: the idea that I was not moving on within acceptable parameters by not letting go of the silly, meaningless toy.
As mourners, we are often told by well-meaning friends and family to “let it go” or “move on,” but as advice it is lacking in specifics. What do we let go of? Memories? Things? Emotions? In that ambiguity I decided I was a failure for clinging to Choco. Wasn’t I supposed to “let go” and put him away? I began to feel like it was more childish of me to hold on to Choco than it was for Mother to do so.
But Mother did hold him, and looked for him, and needed him. He became an extension of her, during those dark, deadly times, and in the end he became the bridge over the impossible divide between me and my dead mother. Whatever he truly represented to Mother, he was precious to her, and that simply makes him precious to me. I’m okay with that.
