Christmas Eve, 1986

I wrote this story three years ago, to share with my Drama Team. It is a glimpse into one of my Christmas' past. I hope you enjoy it.

Christmas Eve, 1986. I trudged through the slush, holding my scarf protectively around my face. It was a cold and bitter Christmas Eve in the city of Chicago. The streets were uncharacteristically empty, except for a few lonely homeless folks. I passed brownstone apartments, and watched enviously at the merrymaking I could see through the windows. People celebrating together. The atmosphere inside looked warm and inviting, contrasting hugely with my depressed heart.

I was on my way to work the night shift at Children’s Memorial Hospital. As one of the newbie R.N.s, I was assigned to work the least-coveted holiday shift of the year, 11:00pm-7:30am, beginning on Christmas Eve and ending on Christmas Day. I begrudgingly acknowledged that I was needed to care for the very sickest of children that night. But I had indulged in some moments of self-pity. I didn’t want to be working on Christmas Eve. This was my all-time favorite holiday! I wanted to be with my parents and brothers at their home in the suburbs, drinking eggnog and watching “It’s A Wonderful Life," as was our tradition. I wanted to go to Midnight Mass with them. I did not want to be working all night tonight, come home to my empty apartment for a few hours sleep early on Christmas morning, and then catch the train to Palatine to finish the last bit of the holiday with my family. That was not my idea of a good Christmas. And working the night shift always played havoc with my sleep cycle. I just knew I’d be exhausted. I envied my co-workers who got this holiday off.

So here I was feeling melancholy, and walking the 1 1/2 miles from my apartment on Fullerton to the hospital in the bitter cold, late on Christmas Eve. I reached my destination at last, and rode the elevator up to the 9th floor. I hung up my coat in the locker room, then headed out to report in to the Unit on 9West where I worked. My spirits rose a bit as I saw the halls that some loving hospital worker had festively decorated with garland. A lit Christmas tree was displayed in the Playroom, attempting to brighten the lives of the children who were forced to spend their holiday here. I took Report, poured a cup of coffee in the hopes that it would fuel me for the long night ahead, and then headed off to assess the children I was assigned to care for that evening.

The doctors mercifully had discharged as many of the patients as they possibly could earlier in the day, allowing them to spend Christmas at their homes. So only the very ill children remained there that night, with their worried parents sleeping fitfully in fold-out chairs by their beds.

That evening I had four children assigned to me. Three would require very little care throughout the night. I would need to check on them a few times and distribute some IV meds, but I would try to let them sleep undisturbed.

My fourth patient was one that I knew would keep me very busy. Her name was Amanda. She was a four-month-old baby girl with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. She had leukemia. I had taken care of her in the past and was familiar with her care. I observed that her young parents loved her tremendously, but they didn’t have much money, and worked very hard. They couldn’t be by her side as often as they’d liked when she was in the hospital. She had been admitted earlier that day for a fever and low blood counts. She was alone on Christmas Eve.

Amanda had a private room that night. I entered it, and saw a little red stocking with a teddy bear appliquéd on it, hanging from her crib. But that was the only sign of Christmas. A blinking IMed pump stood next to her crib, with an octopus of tubes infusing fluids into Amanda’s heart. The full head of black hair she had been born with was now gone, one of the side effects of chemotherapy. Childhood leukemia, in some forms, is curable. But because Amanda was a tiny infant, her prognosis was not great.

I crossed the bedroom and went over to her crib. Her big brown eyes were open wide, and she smiled and kicked her feet when she saw me. “You poor baby,” I said. “Having to spend your first Christmas stuck in the hospital!” But Amanda was oblivious to her circumstances, and to the disease the ravaged her body. She just sucked on her pacifier and looked content.

I picked up the baby and brought her to the rocking chair by the window, careful of the Central Line that was anchored to her chest. The Imed pump trailed along behind us. Amanda eagerly took the bottle that I offered her. I rocked and fed her and looked out the window. As I watched the snow fall outside, and the cars intermittently drive down Lincoln Ave., I thought about Amanda and wondered. I wondered if she would grow up. Would she know Christmas’ other than this? Would she sit on Santa’s lap? Would she ever get to help her mom decorate cookies? Go sledding with friends? And I thought about her parents, whose hearts must break that they couldn’t be here to hold their baby on Christmas Eve. This poor baby. All alone in the hospital without family tonight.

And then another thought occurred to me. Amanda’s parents weren’t here tonight. But I was. I could hold their baby tonight. I could be present with this baby, on her first Christmas Eve. “I’m without my family tonight, too, Amanda,” I whispered. “So you and I will just have to enjoy spending this Christmas Eve with each other.”

Amanda’s tummy grew full, her eyelids became heavy, and she drifted off to sleep. I continued to rock her for a while. I spent a lot of time in her room that shift. I felt like the Grinch, my heart growing several sizes that night. I began to feel grateful for all the Christmas’ I had been given. And I became grateful that I was here to spend this one with this baby.

I don’t know what happened to Amanda. She was still alive and well at age three when I left my job at Children’s. But I’ll never forget that particular Christmas Eve, when I spent my holiday with that little baby girl.