Best Christmas Present

Gazing out of the window, my eyes fall on snowy marshmallows resting on pine boughs. More had fallen over night, and the trees were heavy under Mother Nature's most recent gift. Blue Jays flit from pine to birch, and back again. A chickadee bounces across the ground looking for a tasty morsel in the morning sunshine. A sense of serenity has fallen over me, sheltered by the warmth of indoors. I haven't been this relaxed in weeks. I hear a door open behind me and am brought out of my mental sanctuary. I slip back to reality. Turning, I see that the day shift has begun and Sara, my favourite nurse, is working this morning.

"Good morning, Mrs James." She smiles warmly, "How are you doing this morning? Did you get any sleep?"

She walks over to the bed, adjusts the blankets, while checking monitors, and gadgets the whole time. That was one of the things that I liked about Sara. She was very efficient with her time. And mine. I tried to smile back at her, not sure whether I succeeded or not.

"Good morning... I think that I dozed a little bit around 2 a.m. I was watching the storm most of the night, though."

I turned back to the window, unable to watch as she changed the catheter bag. The feeling of helplessness washed over me, yet again. This was another thing that I, as of yet, was unable to do on my own. The nurses had been so good to me so far, showing me little things that I could do to help. Not wanting to give away all of their trade secrets until they were positive that the information was something that I would have to know. Sara finished her morning routine, and rested her hand on my shoulder.

"Will there be anyone coming to see you for the holidays?", she asked softly.

The holidays. I had been trying to push them out of my mind, and had been successful, until this morning. Thoughts of beautifully wrapped gifts, hidden away in my bedroom closet at home, not to be opened with squeals of delight on Christmas morning this year. The turkey, bought weeks ago, is still icy in the freezer downstairs. The tree that we had painstakingly hunted for, and chopped ourselves, was decorated and drying out in the living room. When had it been watered last? Were the lights still on? These thoughts flitted through my head quickly. I shook my head to clear it, my eyes moist.

"Umm... No. I, uh, asked everyone to not come on Christmas morning. I didn't want this to ruin the holidays for them, too." I turned away, and sniffed.

Taking a breath, I added hopefully, "Besides, maybe things will be different by then."

Sara looked at me, unsure of what to say. She didn't reflect my hope; I could see it in her eyes. She thought that there would be no change. I would still be sitting here Christmas morning, gazing out the hospital window, holding on to my son's small hand, praying for him to wake up. Wishing that he hadn't been in that car when his father slid out of control on the icy road, flipping over and slamming to a stop into a tree. They had been on their way home from the mall, buying gifts for me.
It had been almost two weeks now, since my husband had died on impact, and my seven-year old son was rushed to the hospital with head injuries. The funeral had been last week. The only day so far that I had left the hospital. My grieving period had been cut short with worry and hope for my son’s life. Occasionally my mother would stop in to check on us, but after the first week of bustling visitors, I had kindly asked most of the family to not come often. I needed to do this alone. They all had lives beyond this, but for me, this was the only life that I had left.

"Maybe.” she said softly, "I hope so, Mrs. James... I really do. If anyone deserves a miracle, it's you." She gave me a warm hug. "You are so strong... I don't know how you do it." Standing up, she sniffled, and hurried out of the room.

My eyes filled, again. Not so strong after all, just good at hiding it.

******

I gazed out the window, my head turned up to the clear, crisp night sky, stars brightly staking out their claim. Occasionally, I see the lights from a plane go by slowly, high up in the sky. No more snow tonight. My thoughts return to how different this Christmas would be from the others we had shared. My son's fragile hand, held in my own, twitched. This was normal; the nurses had explained about the occasional muscle spasms that he would have.
I glanced at his resting face, lit by the light coming in from the corridor. It too had begun to twitch gently. My heart jumped slightly. This was new. Not wanting to get too excited, and set myself up for disappointment, I sat patiently, watching the new slight expressions cross his angelic features. As sudden as it had started, the twitching stopped.

My eyes filled with tears, and I began to cry. I looked out into the night again, sobbing, hating myself for getting my hopes up. Would our life ever be returned to us? Why am I doing this alone? How could this happen? I hated my husband for leaving me alone with this pain. And then I hated myself for hating him. God, I missed him so much. I would never be able to survive this. I cried for my dead husband, and my resting son, but mostly I cried for myself. The dream life that we had known was shattered, and the reality of it had hit me. Hard. No more happy holidays. No more family outings. No more simple daily routines. My husband was dead. My seven year old was in a coma. No one knew, if, or when he would come out of it.

I don't know how long I cried for, but eventually, I stopped, exhausted. I closed my eyes, and drifted off to sleep in the hospital chair. Dreams of our past life danced through my mind. I had visions of our family together, laughing. My heart ached when I awoke groggy from all of the tears. Sitting up and slowly stretching the kinks out of my body, I glanced at my sons face. t was twitching again. I wouldn't let myself get excited. I turned away for a moment and then I heard it. His little mouth opened for a breath. Slowly turning to look at him, I saw it. His eyes opened slowly, looking around, confused. When he saw me standing there, the fear went out of his face, and he tried to smile.

"Mommy", he said with a dry little voice like sandpaper.

Swallowing down the lump in my chest, I touched his cheek, "Yes...baby. I'm here."

"Mom... did Santa come?” he asked with the innocence of youth.

"Oh, yes, honey...” I said through my tears, "Santa came."