It started out in every way a normal Christmas, back in those days 25 years or so ago when there was such a thing as normal. Mom and Dad, my brother Bill and I lived in three different cities in the state, but we always spent Christmas at Bill’s house because he was, and still is, a retailer and always had to be open until late on Christmas Eve. So we were all there on this Christmas Eve.
We had shared a big breakfast and afterwards I went to take a shower to get ready to go to Bill’s jewelry store to help out on what promised to be a very busy day. I was looking forward to the day, and also to the arrival of my best friend, Phyllis, who was driving up to spend the holiday with us after she got off work that afternoon. When I had finished getting ready, I went back into the kitchen to find no one there except my nephew,
“Where is everybody?” I asked. “They’ve all gone to the hospital,” he replied, “Your mother’s had a heart attack.” I was in a state of utter disbelief. She had never had heart trouble before. How could this be happening? Disbelief quickly gave way to fear and then to a harsh sense of the cruel irony that this should be happening at Christmas. I don’t remember anything else about that day, except the great comfort of Phyllis’s arrival in the evening. She happened to be a cardiac nurse and is one of those take-charge individuals that you love to have on hand in a crisis.
Christmas afternoon the doctors gave us permission to see Mom and to bring a few of her gifts up to the hospital, as long as we didn’t stay long. Bill put on a Santa Claus suit, although to this day I have no idea where he got it. Phyllis and I, who always loved to sing harmony together, sang some Christmas carols for Mom, which delighted her no end.
After a couple of rounds of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”, a nurse came in, and we fell silent, assuming she was going to ask us to be quiet. Instead, she said that there was a very elderly stroke patient a couple of doors down who was unable to speak or move, but who had heard us and wanted us to sing for him. Would we come? We went straightaway, followed by Santa Bill, doing his most convincing, “HO, HO, HO!” We sang “Silent Night” for that old gentleman, and as we sang, a single tear fell from the corner of his eye. I will never forget that moment.
In the end, we traveled up and down the whole ICU singing to the patients with Bill “ho-ho-ho-ing” along with us. Bill doesn’t remember donning the Santa suit, but I have a faded Polaroid photo that proves it. That Christmas turned out to be one of the very best ever. Mom made a full recovery and was with us every Christmas until her last one in 2005.
What a joy it was to bring a little light into a place of sickness and sadness on Christmas Day. It just goes to show what we all know, but so easily forget in this over-the-top, materialistic age, that simple things done for others are the best and most important.
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