A Canadian Christmas
At seven weeks of age, she’s likely too young to be impressed by the fake Santa who leans over her, dangling a stuffed toy. The man ho-ho-ho’s softly and jingles some bells on a leather strap. Before moving on to the next tiny tot, he touches my daughter’s cheek with tenderness.
I choke back tears.
We’re not at the mall or my company’s family Christmas party. We’re at Sick Kids and my firstborn is critically ill with an out-of-control pneumonia. She has an intravenous line snaking out of a vein in her head because her tiny feet are too bruised from earlier tube insertions. She’s been through a barbaric spinal tap, which mercifully came back showing no meningitis. Now, a few days later she lies here, lethargic. She doesn’t cry—the baby who has wailed non-stop from birth is eerily silent. Her blue eyes are glazed grey.
My husband and I sit on either side of her bassinet. We focus on our daughter, knowing we’ll have a complete meltdown if we make eye contact with each other. I stroke my baby’s hot, sparse curls and try to say soothing words. My sister arrives, spots a piano in the hallway, and, with permission, starts playing Christmas carols to the delight of many. The nurses smile, some of the older kids sing garbled lyrics. I hear “Hark, the Hairy Angels Sing.” Normally this would make me laugh. Not tonight, but I’m grateful for the music and my family’s support and the sound of tiny voices upraised in song.
As our first family Christmas, it’s a doozy. Yet, in spite of the dread and the sadness, we are blessed. The doctors and nurses at Sick Kids are beyond superlative in their expertise and caring. Even on Christmas Day, when they must long to be home with their own loved ones, they are there for us.
And we are Canadian, which means we are graced with the world’s best healthcare in state of the art facilities. As young parents, we don’t have to worry whether we’ll have to remortgage our house to pay for our daughter’s hospital stay. We just have to be there with her, holding her china-doll hand and, when allowed, picking her up and holding her close, being ever so vigilant not to jar the ugly tube in her perfect head.
And then, quite rapidly, she recovers. Two days after Christmas we say good-bye to the other parents on our ward, knowing that in spite of the best science and care not all of them will experience such an incredibly happy outcome. Before leaving Sick Kids, we hold onto each other’s shoulders and weep. We’re emotional jumbles of uncontrolled happiness and sadness and undying hope.
We bring our baby girl home, treating her like the precious, fragile being she is. In our photos, she is posed under our miniature tree with its homemade decorations, crafted with love by my husband in the days before she got sick. Her cheeks are unnaturally bright, maybe from the remnants of fever but more likely from the drugs that infuse her system. Her eyes shine a bright blue.
She is a made-in-Canada, saved by Sick Kids miracle. Each Christmas we remember this, and are eternally grateful.
