When I was at the hospital in November, a friend brought me a box of eight adorable, food-themed squishmallow plushies from Costco. Every time a fellow patient commented on how much they liked them, I gave one away. By the time I was discharged two weeks later, I had one squishmallow left—a little dragonfruit plushie.
The hamburger and fries went to my two best friends, who played bananagrams with me late into the night. The boba went to my enthusiastic coloring squad partner. The ramen went to a freshman who had experienced an unexpected turn during her first semester at college. The avocado went to my roommate, who struggled with awful migraines after her ECT treatments. The sushi went to a former prosthetic tech who had many heart-to-hearts with me during the nurse-led fresh air walks around the facility. The cookie went to a college junior like me, who spent his afternoons writing a cool book about Buddhism that he intended to one day publish.
When I see my dragonfruit squishmallow, I think about the seven friends who had matching plushies. I like the thought that, similar to these squishmallows, we had once been together—walking down the same path that was the long, white hallways of the hospital unit. But we parted ways and, moving forward, these eight squishmallows will represent eight distinct stories.
Sometimes, I’m asked whether I am triggered by this object that reminded me so directly of the hospital unit. After all, this isn’t a happy, go-lucky story. My friend with the fries squishmallow passed away, and I miss him dearly. But, as far as I know, all the other squishmallow parents are still soldiering on, and I dare to say that some are living truly meaningful lives. It makes me smile to think about those friends and to acknowledge rather than repress that difficult chapter of my life.
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