Memory Foam

Last week my husband and I upgraded our nearly decade old, lumpy, queen-size, pillow-top mattress—which sat atop a metal frame that came with the box springs—for a king-size memory foam mattress and an actual bed frame with foot rails and a headboard.

Increasing the size of one’s bed is a decision that never solely hinges on desire. It mostly hinges on logistics. Only when we moved into our current home a couple of years ago did we finally have a master bedroom that could accommodate a king. In our previous house, if you could get the bedroom door opened entirely, you were already lying down.

Finally having the room, however, doesn’t mean it’s necessary to go up in size. But for reasons I can’t quite articulate, it was important to me—after seven years of marriage—that we finally buy ourselves an actual bed. So, since we were already planning to buy an actual bed, we figured now was as good a time as any to upgrade the size.

But laboring over which size of bed, and then agonizing over which style of bed, was nothing compared to which type of mattress we should buy.

My sister had recently purchased a brand-name memory foam mattress and talked about it like she’d suddenly found religion. Her infomercializing was enough to make me think memory foam was a good call. Now, there’s a chance memory foam is just today’s waterbed, but there’s enough research out there that supports claims that it can lead to a better night’s sleep, reduce joint pain and increase your ability to learn a second language while managing your blood sugar. Plus, the mattresses tend to last longer than traditional spring mattresses. And I was intrigued by how I could safely rest a glass of wine on my side while Jim did jumping jacks on his.

Understanding that one of the major hurdles to buying a memory foam mattress is the cost, I took to the internet and found a company that would ship me a memory foam mattress in a box for an extremely reasonable cost. All we would need to do was assemble the platform for the mattress, then undo the box with a vacuum-sealed mattress inside, cut open the packaging and watch the mattress virtually inflate in seconds. (If you have a few hours to kill, feel free to YouTube videos of people unwrapping their Bed in a Box mattresses. Fascinating stuff).

So on the day the bed was to be delivered from the furniture store—a beautiful tufted bed in soft cream with brass nailheads—the small box containing our massive king-size mattress was to come FedEx.

There was something truly thrilling about not having any guarantee (beside the “money-back” one) of how this would all come together. Would the bed overwhelm our room? Would the fabric color work well with the bedding I’d picked out? Would a box that small really hold a mattress that big? Would the mattress even be comfortable? Exactly how many wine glasses could it support?

Jim and I became as informed as we possibly could before leaping into a decision that would impact both of us for seven, eight if we’re lucky, hours every night. But in the end, as with any major life decision--like getting married or having kids--we proceeded with ignorant confidence.

Happily, the bed fit in the space and looked good with our wall color. And the never-seen-in-person mattress not only provided a unique experience in unpacking—seriously, it was an enormous mattress crammed in a box—but the memory foam seems to be everything my sister, and the thousands of customer reviewers, promised me it would be.

And I’ve really needed a little happy change in my life.

And some comfort.

Last month, I lost my beloved pug Izzy. The sadness and grief hit me with strong and unforgiving force. Obviously I knew her death would affect me deeply, profoundly, but I was woefully unprepared for how much.

Part of my sadness was seeded in the traumatic morning of her death. I was in the bathroom and I heard Izzy moving around downstairs. I heard her cough a few times before she quieted back down. A few minutes later, as I was brushing my teeth, Jim called up to tell me the words I didn’t know I had been dreading: “Izzy isn’t moving.”

I rushed down the stairs to see my sweet dog motionless under the couch. Without thought, I threw the couch off to the side and collapsed onto her.

In the weeks that followed Izzy’s passing I struggled to make sense of my own grief. I’d lost loved ones before—grandparents, an aunt, various other pets—but for reasons I couldn’t comprehend, the loss of my pug was astoundingly sad.

Part of the sadness was because I felt an instant and overwhelming vulnerability with my spouse and children. The day after Izzy’s death I made Jim go to urgent care over what turned out to be a harmless spider bite. And I forced my four-year-old to let me rock her to sleep—something I didn’t even do with her as an infant.

But a bigger part of the sadness was that my memories with Izzy paralleled my most substantial and transformative life events. And until that morning when I lost her, I didn’t realize how her entire existence was the bedrock of the most powerful decade in my life.

I got Izzy when I first moved to this town ten years ago. I was living alone for the first time, and I was incredibly lonely. I moved into a high-rise apartment building that didn’t allow pets. But because I didn’t do drugs in high school and don’t have any tattoos, I assumed I was due a little rebellion.

I kept Izzy quietly, and illegally, by teaching her how to pee and poop in a litter box on my back patio. To take her for walks, I used an old gym bag I poked holes in so I could discretely take her down the elevator and to the park across the street. I taught her not to bark. And she knew to run into the closet if she heard the super come in for repairs.

She conformed to my needs so that I could have a friend.

Later, I met and married Jim. She adjusted to living in a house and peeing on grass. She quickly learned how to get along with Jim’s dog, and she peacefully accepted our new life.

And when the time came for our first child, she accepted and adapted to Lowery’s innate fear of her. She never pushed Lowery for love or attention. And eventually, about three years in, Lowery suddenly overcame her fear and fell deeply and madly in love with Izzy.

Izzy sat calmly at my feet while I worked on my dissertation, and later while I worked on my book. And with our second child, she patiently tolerated ear-piercing squeals and sticky hands pulling at her skin folds.

And then, as all the crazy transformations of my life finally slowed down, when life began to level out, she was preparing to leave.

I couldn’t shake the thought that Izzy died a little over a year after the birth of my last child. I’m not silly enough to believe Izzy knew I had gotten through the most transition I would ever face, but it was incredible to see how much she bookended the single most transformative decade of my life.

When Izzy came into my life, I was alone. And sad.

And when she left it, I was surrounded by love. And happy.

The realization that she was the backdrop to all my transformation had me suddenly aware of how much I’d transformed. And that awareness was paralyzing. Like when you’re unaware you’ve left your license at home, you drive as normal. But when you realize you left it behind, you are overly cautious.

Suddenly, I felt overly cautious.

How could I go forth and try new things if Izzy wasn't at my feet to comfort me?

I know there’s more to come in this life. While I don’t want another spouse or more kids or another degree, I still want more. I want to write another book (available on Amazon and at fine retailers everywhere, 2017!). I want to live in another country. I maybe even want to get that tattoo. But nothing, no single thing I can do, will ever match what has happened in the last ten years of my life.

And the only one who saw me through every second of it is gone.

When we got ready for bed last night I looked across our big bed and our memory foam mattress—where my husband was standing on the other side admiring its vastness—and I was suddenly struck by how much the new piece of furniture had transformed the room. Beyond that, though, the bed had somewhat transformed our routine. We have been turning in earlier at night, we are sleeping better, and I am actually making our bed every morning.

It was a small change. I mean, technically, it was nine cubic feet of change, but still, it wasn’t a drastic change. It wasn’t as transformative as getting married, birthing children, earning degrees or writing a book.

But it was a transformation of sorts.

I miss my dog. But I take solace in knowing that life will go on.

So with that I got into bed, laid back, closed my eyes.

And sank into the memory.