It was Christmas Eve on the Children’s Ward. The few lights on the small tree in the centre of the room reflected softly on the rows of white metal cribs and tiny white beds that lined both sides of the ward.
Although it was only seven-thirty in the evening, all the parents had left and the children had been settled for the night. Each had received the necessary bedtime treatments and medications. It was time to sleep. But only the very young and the very ill had done so. All the other children sat quietly and despondently in their beds, their eyes wide open.
Everyone—staff as well as children—longed to be home with families and friends on this special night. Each child’s face showed the same sombre anxiety: Would Santa know they weren’t at home in their own beds and, if he did, would he be able to find them in the frightening maze of corridors and connecting doors of the hospital?
There had been a Santa in visiting the ward that afternoon. He wore a red suit and had a long white beard. He jingled his bells constantly and called out frequently in a loud voice, “Ho, ho, ho!” He left each of them a small gift. But he had left no joy.
As the lights in the big ward were dimmed, we became aware of a figure standing in the doorway—a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police decked out in full dress uniform.
A chorus of small gasps filled the room. To the staff, our visitor represented the law, but to the children, he was a symbol of mystery and adventure.
He stood there for several minutes in his Stetson hat, scarlet tunic, breeches, and shining brown leather boots. He didn’t say a word.
Then he walked quickly to the first small bed, pulled up the nearest chair, and began an earnest and private conversation with its young occupant. We couldn’t hear what he was saying, and he obviously didn’t intend us to hear. His words were only for the child. He stayed for a few minutes and then moved quietly to the next bed.
He stood silently by the crib of a very ill baby, holding the small hand in his for several minutes and then leaning over to place a gentle kiss on the forehead of the sleeping child. His conversations varied with each little person. Some were sombre and soft, some were private whispers, others became animated and jolly. He stayed the same length of time with each, not missing a bed.
Our visitor left as silently as he’d come. There were no “Ho, ho, hos,” no calls of “Merry Christmas,” and no parcels, but each child had received a priceless gift—a few minutes of his undivided attention, a few minutes of being special.
Two hours later, when the evening supervisor made her routine rounds, I mentioned the visitor and she said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I should have told you. He comes every Christmas to visit the children. He lost his own son on this ward several years ago. It was at this time of year. Every year since, he’s made a visit in his memory.”
(submitted by her daughter Karen Careless of Gibsons, British Columbia)