So Long, Bertha

It would be a lie to say that I didn’t know about her before we got married. In truth, Bertha had been a part of my husband’s life long before I showed up. She seemed harmless enough, and she made him happy, so I assumed that she wouldn’t be a problem. I underestimated his attachment and failed to recognize the significance of the role she’d played in his life. Looking back, I should have known that getting rid of her would not be easy. I should have seen that there would come a day when it would be her or me.

She was there when we returned from our honeymoon, sprawled out on our bed like she owned the place. Forty pounds of goose feathers and cotton batting sewn into some kind of cotton canvas fabric. They’d been together all through his childhood, all through his college years. He couldn’t sleep without her. I was pretty sure that most people slept on top of a feather tick, but he was accustomed to Bertha’s heft and warmth. No one was going to stuff her under a mattress pad. Her place was right smack in the middle of our bed, and his place was snuggled up like a bug right beneath her.

It made no sense to me that someone who is comfortable outdoors in a short-sleeved shirt in January could turn into someone who can’t sleep without forty pounds of blanket on top of him, but I said nothing. As the last one out of bed most mornings, I quickly became Bertha’s caretaker, dragging her from one side of the room to the other as I tried to make our bedroom look like the ones I’d admired in magazines. Put plainly, she was an eyesore. No amount of Victorian décor or floral pillows could distract from her huge, awkward, teal-green presence.

I was seven months pregnant the first time things got ugly between me and Bertha. My allergies were making my life miserable and the dismal days of February weren’t helping. I pulled Bertha off the bed one morning as the sun made a momentary appearance in our unheated second-floor bedroom. Tiny particles of disintegrating feathers wafted up from the floor in a dust-like cloud, shimmering in the sunshine. She just sat there in a heap, looking unapologetic. Good God, I thought to myself. No wonder I felt like dirt, breathing all this stuff in night after night. I opened the window and gave her a hard shove, watching as she hit the frozen ground. She sat there in the snow for several hours, enduring below-zero windchills and periodic snow squalls. I didn’t care. The stunned look of disbelief on his face when he pulled into the driveway made me feel something close to guilt, but being seven months is like having a get out of jail free card. “I’ve ordered a new one and I don’t want to hear about it,” I snapped before he could say anything. Bertha #2 was already being boxed up and labeled for shipping. She’d be arriving in 3-5 business days, according to the confirmation email.

The second version of his beloved blanket arrived on schedule. This one came with a washable, almond-colored cover, and despite being just as heavy as her predecessor, she was less gawdy and blended in a little better with her surroundings. Still, she and Bertha #1 were cut from the same cloth, and I knew it was a matter of time before she, too, would start to break down and fill the room with cough-inducing flakes of feathers. I wasn’t worried. A precedent had been set, and I figured this one could go right out the window, too, when the time came. I refused to be held hostage by this monstrosity parading as cozy comfort. And so I watched. And waited.

Feather ticks are predictable. They start out filled to bursting with feathers, but eventually, one by one, the sharp little quills work their way through the fabric and escape. If enough of them find their way through the 400-thread-count cotton, they tend to lose their charm. When I noticed a small tear in a seam, I realized that a vacuum hose held near the tear would speed the process along quite nicely. Bertha #2 didn’t have the tenacity of Bertha #1. It didn’t take long before she looked nothing like her former self. Enter Berthas #3, #4, and #5. I had no issues with any of them when they were new. It was later, when they slowly began to disintegrate and made it their mission to stop me from breathing through my nose, that my tolerance evaporated. Each one lasted about 5 years, give or take, depending on the mysterious circumstances that befell them.

At some point, the catalog I’d been ordering from began carrying down-alternative Berthas in a range of gorgeous colors. I mentioned this several times, only to be told that feathers were the only thing that could keep him warm. By this time, the original Bertha was a distant memory, and as long as subsequent Berthas weighed about the same as the first one, he was happy. Still, this did nothing to improve the life of the person stuck lugging this boat anchor back and forth when it was time to make the bed.

We had recently added on to our home, and since I had made every decision for the seven-room addition, compromise seemed in order when he came home one day and told me that he’d found a bedroom set that he liked at the local furniture barn. I agreed that we should get it immediately, sight unseen. A week later, the delivery truck pulled into our driveway with a king-sized cedar log bed, two matching nightstands, and praise be to the heavens, a massive quilt rack. Even though a log bed wasn’t exactly my taste, this new acquisition meant that Bertha now had a place to spend her days tucked back into a nook and mostly out of my sight. And the person who couldn’t live without Bertha could make sure that she was moved there before leaving for work. The job of hauling this interloper around was no longer mine.

As we got older, Bertha became even heavier. Between my arthritic neck and his shoulder surgery, lifting her became nearly impossible. Once again, there she was flopped on the bed 24/7. Three long months of both of them just lying there. And of course, it’s February again. I stood at the bedroom window, watching the snow pile up. By this point, we were in a first-floor bedroom and nothing short of dragging her to the burning barrel and setting her on fire would have made me feel better. 36 years of her giving me grief. I knew in that moment that she would be here until the day I died.

I don’t remember the particular circumstances that led up to Bertha’s downfall. All I know is that one night just before bed, I went upstairs and got a down-alternative comforter out of the closet and asked him if he would just give it a try. Unbelievably, he said he would. He was sure he’d be freezing the entire night, but he pulled this lightweight blanket over his shoulders and went to sleep. I braced myself for a 3:00 a.m. rant that never came. His first words the next morning were “Wow. I can’t believe how warm this thing is! I really like it.” Seriously? Thirty-six years of low-level aggravation only to hear that hey, he really likes it? A year later, I still do a slow burn every time he mentions how amazed he is that something so light could be so warm.

I wish I could say that Bertha and I are no longer living under the same roof, but after all this time, I’m finally able to see that she is not without her redeeming qualities. She’s staying in our spare bedroom for the time being, making life more comfortable for our three cats that sleep on top of her every night. In fact, she’s in the very same bedroom where the first Bertha took up residence, and she’s able to be what she was always meant to be – a feather tick that goes under a mattress pad.