The Christmas Lesson

"We'll get you to do Meggie's treatment tonight," the charge nurse said to me as she was doing her workload assignment. "It's difficult, takes time, but Meggie will put you at ease with it."

It was Christmas Eve, and I was looking forward to the morning when my children would see what Santa Claus had brought to them. Christmas is a hectic time for young, working mothers, and I was no exception. I was totally fatigued. There had been so many Christmas concerts and parties, and shopping, baking, and all that we do at Christmastime.

To accommodate the holidays of the employees, our hospital reassigned nurses to where the need was greatest. I had already worked a day shift on this particular unit, and had heard about Meggie, a frail little 80-year-old lady who suffered in silence. Advanced carcinoma was gradually destroying Meggie's face, exposing blood vessels and leaving her prone to hemorrhage.

Meggie was on a progressive care unit, and many of its patients would be going home the next day, Christmas Day, to spend time with their families. I read Meggie's chart and realized that going home was not an option for her. She required too much care to be eligible for a nursing home, so she stayed where she was on the unit, the place she now thought of as home.

I went to her room and introduced myself.

"Do you like my tree, dear?" she asked.

Yes, I told her. Though she could barely see it, Meggie had a wonderful tree with twinkling lights, and ornaments donated by her nurses. Her tape player quietly played Christmas music, and before I started her treatment, Meggie asked me to change the music. I chose a tape, put it in the player, and Silent Night, my favorite Christmas carol, started softly playing. I glanced out the window at the glistening snow that was reflecting the Christmas lights that were part of the hospital's effort to make it feel more like home for those who could not go home for Christmas.

I started to remove the huge bandages that covered Meggie's head and face. I was ill prepared for how disfigured she was from the carcinoma, how involved her treatment was, and tried hard not to let her know my shock and disbelief. I had never, ever, seen facial deformity so severe. I found myself sweating, and my heart racing.

Meggie could barely see, and spoke in a whisper. "You're not scared, are you dear?" she asked softly. I assured her I was not. Tiny, frail, and ill, she endured her treatments without complaint, often reassuring me that she was OK, and not to be upset for her, because it wasn't too painful if her treatment was done gently.

"You're new though, and very young. Do you have children dear?" she queried. (To Meggie, everyone was "dear.") I told her about my little children and how excited they were about Santa.

Then I felt her hands on my face. Meggie said she wanted to know what I looked like, and remarked that I had my hair pulled up under my nurse's cap. She asked if she could touch my long hair. I stopped the treatment, removed the gloves and took off my cap and let my hair fall loose. She ran her hands through my hair, and told me about the long hair she had as a young woman, how her husband had loved it, how he would tell her how attractive she was, and how proud he was of her and their children. She told me about the Christmas traditions they kept, how she loved him, and how she was relieved that, having predeceased her years ago, he did not have to see her like this.

Meggie's care took over an hour, and she talked in her whispering voice as I did her treatment with a lump in my throat, and listened to the soft sounds of the Christmas carols filling the room.

When I was through, Meggie asked me to sit for a moment. The night was quiet, so I sat beside her as she held my hands. She continued to talk, and give me advice. She told me she thought I was tired, and she remembered being tired when her children were small and Christmas so demanding. From under those heavy bandages, she advised me to never take my health for granted, to be thankful that I could see and hear, that I could dance around my house with my baby girl in my arms as I told her I did, that I could drive a car, read a book, laugh and sing, and do all the things that make up a life, things I had never thought about to any degree. She felt my wide wedding band, and expressed how she wished she could see it.

One of the tears that I could no longer hold back fell from my face onto her hand.

She told me not to cry, that she had accepted her fate, and I should, too. Meggie made me promise to live life fully while I was able, thanked me for my tenderness with her painful treatment, and wished me a Merry Christmas. The music was still softly playing.

When I left her room that night, I knew that my experience with Meggie was exceptional. A weak, elderly woman, clinging to life, understood the angst of a young nurse, wanted to touch my hair, wanted to talk, and to give advice to a young mother. She made me aware of just how much I took for granted, and reminded me to remember the reason for the season.

Because I was then off for the holidays, and after that I returned to work in the operating room, I never saw Meggie again. That Christmas Eve with Meggie was 30 years ago, but I recall it with amazing clarity. I believe our paths crossed for a reason.

Meggie reminded me of just how much, in spite of my busy life, I should slow down and treasure all that I have. This is especially true at Christmas, when amidst the tumult, frenzied activity, and hurried preparations, the true meaning of Christmas is often lost. It was an unforgettable lesson.

Thank you Meggie, and Merry Christmas!

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