A Christmas Smile

Christmas Eve had arrived once again, and once again Mr. & Mrs. Santa Claus were making their special visits, saying a goodnight to the children of friends and neighbors. These visits were expected!

Frank, with his blue eyes and gold-framed glasses, made a divine Santa. I was Mrs. Claus, and Frank's wife Dolores, my friend and nursing colleague, had made a skirt suit for me. It included the most lovely red wool hat, trimmed with white fur, that blew in the wind and gathered sparkling snow crystals. With Christmas earrings, high red boots, black leotards, and rosy red cheeks, I was transformed into Mrs. Claus. It was always a marvelous experience!

Mr. & Mrs. Claus liked children – theirs were all grown up. In all kinds of weather, Dolores and my husband drove the sleigh-car for the Claus's visits. We did this for years. Many times Dolores had to cover my OR call. Dressed as Mrs. Claus, with the serious job of spreading cheer and ringing bells, I certainly couldn't be called in to work! So my colleague did it willingly, and she was called back many times.

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It was a very gratifying experience for us, especially our visits to one household. We always left this special visit for the last. Santa really loved to visit a special young boy, and always arranged it so he could spend more time with him. The last visit was to an exceptional family, one that had had more than its share of heartache, but kept going, holding each other together tightly through the sad illness of their son and brother, Joey.

Joey was a patient at our hospital. He had been diagnosed with a degenerative brain disease at the age of six. The disease slowly and destructively stole his life. The picture on his bedside table was of a smiling blond-haired tyke dressed in a tuxedo, as the ring bearer at a summer wedding. Shortly after that wedding, the first seizure came, a warning of what was to come, and the life of the family and of Joey changed forever.

All the investigations were done, the seizures increased, and his mom took time off work and cared for him at home. He had an older brother and sister who cherished him. But no amount of love, hugs, or kisses could make Joey better. His health gradually declined. His mother and father were exhausted, and Joey was brought to the hospital.

At the beginning of his hospitalization, his family would take him home often. But as his illness progressed, the home visits became less, and the pattern reversed, and his family visited the hospital. Many times in a crisis, they were there day and night. His mom was a smart, bright, petite woman with tremendous spirit, energy, and faith. His dad, an engineer, was always trying to find some way for Joey to receive his tube feeding more efficiently, and eventually he did.

The years passed, Joey slid away from the real world, slowly but surely, and became unresponsive for most of the time.

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As I was helping Joey's nurse one evening, his dad sat and talked to us as we worked. I glanced at the discouraged father, and something caught my eye. I noticed he was making small nurses' caps out of Styrofoam drinking cups, drawing black bands on them for the RNs and yellow bands for the LPNs. He was putting the names of Joey's nurses on the tiny caps and decorating the hospital room for his son. After seven years in the hospital, the room was much like a room at home. The image of that father so engaged in that creative undertaking, sitting in a chair with an air of resignation and grief, is an image I have never forgotten.

By now, 10 years after Joey's diagnosis, his mom had returned to work, but came to visit every lunch hour, and his father came in the evening. His sister was at university, but she brought her big smile into his room whenever she came home. His brother visited, but not as often; he, too, was heartbroken. As the years passed, Joey slipped deeper into a coma.

The nurses loved Joey. The hospital staff, from the cook to the administrator, would visit him to say hello. He had music playing most of the time, because his parents had found he was less agitated if he had music. Joey was a baby again and he received the tender loving care babies receive.

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Joey's parents were friends of Mr. & Mrs. Claus, so Santa knew that every Christmas Eve, regardless of weather, or other commitments, Joey's parents took him home. The feeding pumps, a suction machine, medications – everything making the corner in their lovely home a mini-hospital – but complete with a magnificent Christmas tree. His family was sure he knew he was home, that he knew it was Christmas, and remembered Santa. Maybe he did. The family members worked out schedules for having someone with Joey at all times.

So Christmas Eve became a special time for Joey and his family. Not only was Joey home, but Mr. & Mrs. Claus always visited. Even after Joey's sister married and came home for Christmas with her husband, the tradition carried on.

The car-sleigh would pull up the long driveway, and Mr. & Mrs. Claus would bounce out of the car, and run toward the house that was so beautifully decked out for the season. We would go right in and right to Joey's bedside. Santa would talk a little while, then he would ring his bells. A miraculous thing would happen when those bells rang. Joey would smile! He knew the sound of the bells. He knew Santa's voice, proving that a memory deep inside from long ago still remained. It made Christmas sheer joy, because that smile was miraculous!

The years passed, and Christmas seasons came and went, Joey deteriorated, but he still smiled at the Christmas bells. It was indeed amazing, and truly a gift to everyone who loved him.

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At age 19, Joey passed away. His parents were grief-stricken because now he was gone forever. But time healed, and they slowly returned to their lives. His mother smiled again and was steadfast in keeping his memory alive. They weren't bitter. They had no regrets.

Santa and Mrs. Claus had no regrets either. I remember the tiny nurse's caps, the Christmas bells ringing, Joey smiling, and a Mr. & Mrs. Claus standing beside his mother and father watching him smile, all of us with tears sneaking down our faces.

I believe Joey has Christmas bells whenever he wants them now, and he can enjoy his gifts again.

But the best gift of all he left for us – the memory of that Christmas smile!

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