by Liv Wisely, special contributor to The Good Table at Home

I have a significant object, which is actually two objects, one inside the other, that sits in a place of honor in my home. It is a tiny rubber dinosaur in an official medical biohazard bag. Immediately, so many questions. What fiendish crimes did this little fellow commit? Is he radioactive, is he toxic? What horrors could have been carried out by this small green triceratops, the most docile of herbivores in the animal kingdom, its stubby legs outstretched in a permanent trot? Why has he been thus imprisoned, and does he deserve freedom, or is he condemned like Kronos in a Ziplock Tartarus for the good of humanity?

You can’t look at it and not think ‘there’s a story here’. And there is one – and it’s one of the most wonderful stories I know: the story of how I got to keep my mom.

Now, this tale is just the most recent chapter of this little creature’s life. Once upon a time, he was crafted in some factory in China, unaware of his destiny to cross my path. He changed many hands and crossed an ocean to come to rest at the China Bazaar on Grant Avenue, where I saw it and my squeal of unrestrained joy entwined our fates. It was love at first sight. 50 cents and he was mine to own. I’ve always been a kitschy person, and small, strange accouterments have always brought me joy. Growing up, it was proposed that I could be on the autism spectrum, and though it was never settled upon, I do have a fondness for security objects.

Little did I know in 5 years time, how secure that little fella would make me feel. Over time, my tiny plastic dinosaur collection grew and flourished. I loved the novelty of dinosaurs made from plastic, which is made from fossil fuels, which, in turn, is made from dinosaurs. Through my entire orthodontic process with braces, I collected a dino every appointment. It gave me something to look forward to in the hours of tightening and prodding and pulling and poking. I bought a rubber squeaky stegosaurus in china, I bought a vintage orange T-Rex at an estate sale and a collection of various colored stegosaurus miniature sponges. I even had a wind up silver velociraptor tinker toy that doubles as a pencil sharpener.

But through it all, my triceratops remained the dearest in my heart. I kept him in my purse on commutes and long trips, I could always take him out and walk him around in unfamiliar terrain, and feel a little less alone. But it came to pass, that on the day I felt most alone I had ever felt, I gave him away.

On Labor Day, 2020, we took my mother to the emergency room for head pains. An hour later, we got a call from the doctor, announcing they had found a 5 cm tumor in her brain. I was inconsolable. I thought I had lost my mom in an instant. COVID and schoolwork and depression was nothing compared to this. We were told she was going to be immediately taken to Redwood City, 40 miles from us, for emergency 4-hour brain surgery. We had one day to see her, and there was no way of knowing if we’d ever see her again.

Yeah, woah.

I remember rifling through my belongings, mumbling mi shebeirach. What can I give? What can I do? What have I instilled with love and light and luck that I can pass onto her? In a rush, I snatched what I could, but it was what was already in my purse that fit the bill. As she was loaded into the ambulance, lights blaring, siren wailing, I folded my rubber triceratops into her hand. I am told she held triceratops in her fist while they sawed through her skull and made the incisions. It has seen the fluorescent lights, and bore witness to the inside of my mom’s cranium. It was lost on the operating floor, but someone went back and got it for her transfer because she was so distressed.

When my mom came home, going through her suitcase, she pressed the dinosaur back into my hand, individually wrapped because of COVID regulations, in its standard-issue baggie. It sits on my dinosaur collection display shelf now, in its rightful place on honor, as a hero.

As my mom has now starts 6 weeks of chemo and radiation, I hope my collection of dinosaurs, and memories with my mom, continue to grow and flourish.

Special contributor, Liv Wisely is a 2020 graduate of El Cerrito High School and now a freshman at San Francisco State University. Liv’s mom, Wendy Wisely, is the Vice-Moderator (officer) of The Good Table United Church of Christ church council.

The Good Table At Home: The Smallest Dinosaur