What’s the Story?
I’ve always loved that lovable bear, Winnie-the-Pooh. Some of this is due to his own charms and some thanks to the association of Pooh with my dad, who used to say “Oh bother,” Pooh style when something went wrong or he made a mistake.
We’re all familiar with Winnie-the-Pooh in some form, most likely the Disney version.
Winnie first appeared in 1926 as illustrated stories written by A.A. Milne inspired by his son Christopher Robin Milne and and his toys, particularly a stuffed bear named Winnipeg.
Disney kept much of the stories’ original charm. The first movie adaptation closely mirrors the books, quite literally with the story presented as a storybook’s turning pages. So does the ride at Walt Disney World, which immerses riders as readers; one enters into the book itself with text appearing on walls that look like pages.
Both Milne and Disney intentionally appeal to the inner child, not merely to children, with sweet messages that emphasize kindness and innocence. The stories contain no villains.
Now, however, Winnie has entered the public domain, no longer protected by copyright, which means anyone can do pretty much anything to that silly old bear and his friends.
Alas, someone has in the form of a horror movie released in early 2023 (with a sequel in the works). Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey transforms Pooh and his pal Piglet into violent killers who terrorize a now grown up Christopher Robin and a group of young women.
I watched the trailer when teaching a class last fall on Disney and transmedia storytelling. I wish I hadn’t! Winnie and Piglet as cruel killers makes for a different experience when seeing them at the Magic Kingdom. When Pooh recently snuck up behind me at lunch, I had to wonder if he was going to gently put his paws on my shoulders, my only real concern that he might get me sticky with honey, or if was he going to strangle me!
As the picture of me shows, I exaggerate, for I was happy not fearful, refusing to accept the transformation to horror.
Like the stories about Winnie-the-Pooh, sometimes our lives change drastically, and we must reject the temptation to transform the situation into a horror story.
This was particularly true for me when of both my parents were diagnosed with dementia, which affects 55 million people worldwide.
Like the intended readers of the original Winnie-the-Pooh stories, I was certainly not a child upon their diagnoses, but the child within me felt fear more intense than that of watching a horror movie.
Reading material intended to inform and help caregivers did nothing to assuage those fears. When reading the one book consistently recommended to me, The 36-Hour Day, I felt as if I were reading about the inevitable turn of my beloved parents into monsters who would proceed to threaten my own life. I even published an article about the similarity of representation of those with dementia to zombies in fiction.
This horror version affected me negatively to the point where I confess with sadness and some shame that for a period I interacted less with my parents than I would have otherwise. I regret that and wish I had more time with them.
After my mom’s diagnosis, which came earlier than my dad’s, a friend shared his own story about his father having Alzheimer’s. The entire family was gathered. His father was wearing every watch that he owned, more than one on each wrist and kept repeating, “What time is it?” My friend said everyone laughed, enjoying the irony of so many watches and not knowing the time.
My friend’s family took an incident that could have represented the horror of Alzheimer’s and decided, rather than a tragedy, to see the comedy — not in an insensitive way. Rather, they used laughter to form a bond, to uplift each other, and to find love in that moment. They found a way to laugh with his dad.
Eventually, I got there in enough time before both of my parents died. I’m happy to report that the last eight months of my mom’s life, when I moved her to be near me, were some of my best times with her. The highlight of my day tended to be visiting the dementia-care facility. I also made a point of being with my dad, who lived in another city, on what would turn out to be his last birthday as he died the following month.
But I was only able to embrace these different versions of my parents once I changed the story back from horror to a tale of sweetness for the inner child within me.
It would be lovely to see my parents one last time, to say goodbye, and to apologize for my struggles that kept me from being the daughter I would have liked to be.
However, I know they forgive me. In response to any guilt I still carry, I can hear my father responding, “Oh bother.”
