If I scroll to the very first week of pictures in my iPhone, about 12,000 pictures deep, I find the last pictures I took of my grandma. She is four years into her nursing home stay, where she wins Valentine Queen every February and sits propped in her wheelchair at an entrance to a home where visitors who may come might not be remembered. Unlike her roommates, she does not wail, cry, or complain. In these pictures, she stares intently at her teddy bear. She wears an expression as if the teddy bear is her last hope and her entire world. There is a desperation, as if she is expecting this stuffed animal to answer her next call.

The bear’s name is Justin. It is named after its giver. She wipes its face with tissue paper and gently folds him back into her grasp. Justin “the person” was once my grandma’s nurse’s aide. He was a mid-30s, flamboyant Texan with a confident booming voice and he made my grandma feel deeply loved and taken care of. He doted on her and got her a teddy bear. Then one day, life moved on and Justin the person did not come back to work.

I think about my grandma and that teddy bear a lot. They say that we start as babies, grow up, and then go out like babies. I don’t know my grandma’s life, because any questions asked about her life during my childhood, she would grunt angrily and go back to cooking. I do know she had 12 children with the same husband, some of whom they kept, and some of whom they handed off to relatives or the orphanage. I used to think she must not have cared, but now as a mother I question that notion. One can only guess at a marriage in those days back in Singapore.

Today, it is almost the end of 2020, arguably the worst year of human history for any human who is alive. I, like a lot of my friends, struggle to hold it together mentally.

Today was also the start date for a sleep training program for my 2-year-old. We went through all the steps: bath, brush teeth, read books, and more and more books. I milked the books. The time came. I expected him to jump out of his bed and want to lay with me. However, he simply did circles in his “Cars”-themed sheets. I gave him his stuffed animals: a puppy from Oma and Opa, and Monchichi, a monkey with a banana, from Uncle Jonny.

I finished the books. I turned out the lights. I sang a song. I gave three kisses. I said good night. Then I retired to a futon mattress on the floor and waited to see what would happen. There was so much tossing and turning. Then, I sensed that he was getting out of bed. As it happened, he was just dropping the puppy near my head. A few seconds later, he thought twice about it and retracted his offer. I continued to observe and pretend being asleep. Ten minutes later, Monchichi dropped down at my face, and he patted it into place and retreated back to his space.

How can one describe the emotions of a 2-year-old trying to comfort Mommy to sleep? I realized an incredible generosity I didn’t know he was capable of. I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt so loved in such an unexplainable way?

This “teddy bear drop” has made me realize that life is so finite. There is a beginning and there is an end, and all the stuff in the middle is the cat’s “Japamas” (as my son would say). In 2020, a teddy bear is no longer just a teddy bear, and we all need teddy bear love more desperately than ever before.

Dr. Cassandra Peterson, of Hawaii Kai, is a chiropractor and owner of clinics.