Dear Friends and Family,
First, and most importantly: Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah.
Our hospital room is deeply personal and extremely intimate today. It is not surprising that the fifth floor is quiet because every patient well enough to be discharged has been sent home for Christmas. Nancy is dressed for the occasion in her candy cane pajamas, Christmas socks, and no-longer-visible bald head. She is nonchalantly hiding it beneath a Santa hat, a present from her sister, Linda. (It’s a way for us to be connected to Linda even though she is physically in Georgia.) Nancy’s glowing face makes the room feel warm and fuzzy. Even though it’s not the place we would have chosen for our Christmas gathering—we are off to a good start.
Jayna arrives a few minutes later, huge plastic bags slung over her shoulders. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” she utters in a deep and throaty voice as she drops one of the overflowing bags and spills the presents across the floor. Nancy and Jayna fill the room with laughter.
The ivory-colored phone on the portable stand besides Nancy’s hospital bed rings. And rings again. And again. Uncharacteristically, Nancy answers the phone, and her eyes immediately tear up and become slightly glassy. The many voices she hears are loved ones from near and far away sending their best wishes. Every caller wants us to know they are thinking of Nancy and the Winn family. Nancy recaps each phone call to us, describing in considerable detail each person she speaks with and word-for-word their kind messages.
Jayna’s two bags filled with presents double those already neatly stacked in the chair that guards the end of Nancy’s bed. The chair is overflowing with offerings of varying sizes and shapes. I can’t for the life of me think of who shopped, wrapped, and bestowed so many gifts for our family. The stockings are bursting with goodies that were also not brought by Jayna. Emmy must be the culprit. (She’s not only an angel, she’s a saint, too.)
The next hour or so is deliciously joy filled for the Winn family and, unlike any Christmas I can remember, it is totally relaxed. There is no table to set. There are no meals to prepare. Nancy sits up in her bed and Jaret, Jayna, and I take a seat along the edges of her blankets. During our “family” time together, we do not encounter any interruptions that would somehow disrupt the magic in our room. The hospital staff seems to know not to disturb us.
Nancy is somewhat hesitant to be the center of attention as we make “merry” in our little room. We snap picture after picture, making sure that anyone who sent Nancy a gift will see firsthand that she received it. We urge Nancy to model a new bracelet and hold up a new pajama top for the world to see. We toast to her new blood type by clinking water-filled glasses. And then I notice—Nancy’s face looks like she has just received an injection.
“Shall we take a break, Sweetie?”
Nancy doesn’t answer. Instead, her forehead lines soften as she rests her head on the pillow behind it and shuts her eyes. Initially, I fear that we have asked too much of Nancy and that we have worn her out with too much activity and commotion.
Ten minutes later, our nurse Hope tiptoes into the room, taking a somewhat circuitous route through all the wrapping paper, bows, and boxes haphazardly strewn on the floor. She taps Nancy on the shoulder: “I’m sorry to interrupt, dear, but it’s time for your pills.”
Nancy sits up and carefully swallows three white pills. She doesn’t lie back down. She turns to Jaret, Jayna, and I bunched together on the one remaining empty chair and flashes a smile that nearly knocks me over. “Don’t I have any more presents?”
You do indeed, my love.
She opens the final gift-wrapped packages, unable to alternate with us since we’ve long since opened the last of ours. In days gone past, Nancy was always Mother Santa. Inevitably, when it came to unwrapping gifts, Nancy was always the first one finished. But this is a very different year. It is time to write new Winn family traditions. Now we take more pictures, we talk of past holidays—and we share more kisses and hugs and water toasts.
“I got more than you did, Winnie. I also got more than Jayna and Jaret. How did that happen? It’s not fair,” Nancy declares when all the gifts have been opened and shown around the room by each “giftee.”
“I remember a lady who once told me ‘Life is rarely fair.’ But as I recall, she wasn’t bald back then.”
I remove Nancy’s Santa hat to kiss her head amid more merriment. The Santa hat is appropriate even though she didn’t purchase a single present this year. Somewhat wistfully, I long to freeze the moment and the warmth I feel inside my body. All I can see is the happiness on faces that surround me. Unfortunately, moments in time don’t freeze and the door opens unexpectedly.
“I guess it is a little late to say, ‘Good Morning, Winns.”
Julie Asch, our attending doctor, walks into our room with only two of the “regulars” from her entourage. The clock reads three-thirty in the afternoon. It is many hours past Julie’s customary morning visit time. (Holidays in the hospital are different for the doctors, too.)
“I thought you forgot me today, Dr. Asch.”
“Not a chance, Nancy. As you might imagine, I had some pressing family business this morning. I left a living room full of decorations and opened boxes to come see you.” Dr. Asch gestures at our messy room. She is not wearing her traditional white coat, and she looks as relaxed as my bride. “Well, Nancy, I am ‘Dr. Santa Claus’ today. All your numbers look good, and your bowel seems to be behaving better. We can start full clear liquids this afternoon. And do you remember the winding tunnel I described to you yesterday—with twists and turns, and even an occasional dead end? I think we might be seeing the first rays of light at the far end. If all continues well, we may try to get you out of here soon—maybe sometime next week.”
I don’t believe that I’ve ever heard such beautiful words.
“Really?” Nancy’s face brightens the entire room.
I bend over the bed, attempting to give Nancy’s forehead a kiss, but she guides me to her lips. My legs wobble after so many weeks of being so cautious about spreading any germs to Nancy’s weakened and compromised body. She whispers in my ear, “Winnie, this Christmas is the best ever.”
As Jaret and I head for the door, I turn back and Nancy is already dancing with sugarplums. Her presents have disappeared from the bed, but the red Santa hat with white trim peeks out from under the edge of the green blanket. I think to myself as I walk to the car that, indeed, this is a Christmas to remember.
Summary: Today we celebrated Christmas inside the hospital. Unlike past years, we did not have a live tree, hot drinks were not served, and our traditional Christmas was not prepared by Nancy. But nonetheless, this year’s holiday will be a Christmas we will never forget. Our family was together and joined in celebration as Nancy’s condition improves.
With much love,
Winnie