As in many hospitals, different floors specialized in different medical treatments. Some patients had minor illnesses and injuries, but others had more serious conditions that would keep them there through the holidays. The nurses informed me whenever I was about to talk to a child who would not be home for Christmas, and I assured these kids I would bring their presents to the hospital. This alleviated a lot of concerns from children who feared not getting presents for Christmas if they weren’t home in their own beds on Christmas Eve.
I had been visiting for a couple of hours when my nurse guide took me to the burn unit. As a child, I was badly burned when my mother accidentally tripped over me and spilled a pot of boiling water on my shoulder, and I have a scar to this very day. So I felt a special empathy for the pain and discomfort those children in the burn ward had to go through, especially when their dressings needed to be changed and their wounds cleaned. I remembered how intensely painful that part of the healing process had been. But nothing could have prepared me for Timothy.
I visited a few other children in the burn ward first, most with minor injuries and a few bandages in various places. I spoke with all of them, and they appeared generally upbeat and excited about Christmas, despite being in the hospital. They all seemed comforted by the fact that they’d be going home fairly soon.
As the nurse led me to a room at the end of the hallway, she stopped before taking me inside. “This last patient is Timothy,” she said in a barely audible whisper, almost choking back tears. “They brought him in with severe burns over most of his body. He’s very weak, and the doctors don’t expect Timothy to make it until Christmas.”
“Oh, my God,” I said, choking back some tears of my own.
“We’d understand if you want to skip this room,” she tried to sound as supportive as she could. “After all, you didn’t volunteer to visit children in critical condition.”
“I couldn’t do that to him,” I said, feeling absolutely committed to going into Timothy’s room. “Santa Claus doesn’t care how sick a child is, and maybe my visit will help him get better.”
“You’re a wonderful man,” the nurse put her arm on my shoulder and leaned in closely. “There’s one very important thing, though.” She looked over her shoulder to make certain Timothy’s hospital room door was closed. “Timothy doesn’t know how bad his condition is, and his parents don’t want him to know. So please act like he’ll be getting better and leaving the hospital soon.”
I didn’t like lying to any child, but I respected the wishes of Timothy’s parents. “All right, I understand.” I got myself ready as the nurse knocked on the door.
“Timothy?” she said quietly as she pushed open the door a little. “Are you awake? You have a special visitor.”
“Who is it?” I heard a small, weak voice ask from inside the room.
“Well,” said the nurse with a warm smile, “why don’t I let him introduce himself?” She opened the door wide and motioned me to come in.
Usually I enter a room with a hearty “Ho, ho, ho!” But this time, I walked in softly and came right over to Timothy’s bed. “Hello, Timothy. Do you know who I am?”
“You’re Santa Claus,” he said, smiling. Bandages covered all the parts of Timothy that I could see other than his head. Fortunately, Timothy’s face seemed undamaged, and I could see that he was a handsome boy. From the nurse’s description, I had imagined Timothy looking much worse. But his smile and bright eyes made me believe for at least one hopeful moment that the doctors were all wrong and that this little boy would be just fine.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” said the nurse. “Santa, you just come and get me if you or Timothy need anything.”
I sat down next to the bed. “So, Timothy, how old are you?”
“I’m eight,” he said, still sounding weak. I noticed all the machines around his room, the IV drip, and a balloon in the corner that read “Get Well Soon” tied to a chair.
I chose my next words carefully: “Is there anything special that you’d like to tell Santa?”
Timothy didn’t respond. I waited for a few seconds, noticing him looking out the window and realizing that he might be trying to think of what to say. It took a while for Timothy to turn back in my direction, and still he appeared to be hesitant to say anything.
I was about to say something to break the silence when, finally, Timothy looked into my eyes with a very serious expression on his face. “Santa, I have something important to ask you,” he said quietly.
“Sure, Timothy. Ask me anything you want to.”
“I know that I’m going to die—”
I interrupted him immediately with a smile. “Now, who told you that?”
“I know,” he said with a composure far beyond his eight short years. “I hear the doctors and my mom and dad talking when they think I’m asleep. And it’s okay. I know the fire was bad, and I got really hurt. I know I’m gonna die very soon…”
I started to disagree, but something in his eyes stopped me.
“They say that when you die, you become an angel, right?” He waited for me to answer.
I paused for a second, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. “Yes, Timothy, a lot of people believe that.”
“Well, I don’t want to come back as an angel, Santa. I know that being an angel is supposed to be nice and stuff, but what I really want is to come back as an elf and make toys with you at the North Pole. Santa, can I come back as an elf?”
I froze. I didn’t know how to respond to Timothy’s request. So many things raced through my mind. I didn’t want to contradict or interfere with any religious beliefs that Timothy’s parents had taught him. And of course, how could I possibly promise to make him a mythical elf?
I found myself turning to stare out the window and think, just as Timothy had done moments before. I could feel Timothy watching me with such hope and expectation on his innocent little face. I had to tell him something. As the seconds ticked by, I decided to stall him until I could talk to his parents or maybe some of the nurses to see how they thought I should answer his request.
“Well, Timothy, I’ll have to check with my boss…” I looked up and pointed at the ceiling. “He’s the one who makes these kinds of decisions. But I’ll come back and let you know what He says.”
“Okay, thanks,” Timothy said, smiling. We continued talking for a few more minutes, and then the nurse came back to get me. I told her to make sure to bring me back to see Timothy before I left in the afternoon. Hopefully by then, I thought, I’ll come up with a way to answer his question.
The nurse led me to other floors and many, many more children. I had visited maybe three-quarters of the patients, having been passed along from nurse to nurse with each new floor I visited, when the nurse from the burn ward walked up to me. Seeing her grim expression, I felt a knot in my stomach even before she told me the news. “I know you wanted to visit Timothy once more before you left, but he just passed away.”
I started to weep, right there in the middle of the hallway. A small voice in my head told me to hold it together, that it was inappropriate for Santa Claus to be seen crying. The nurse seemed to instinctively know what I needed. “Here,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulder and leading me down the hallway, “there’s a room where you can be alone for a little while.”
I honestly don’t recall whether she led me to a hospital room, a break room, a chapel, or a broom closet. All I remember was the nurse closing the door and then falling to my knees. Tears rolled down my face for a few minutes as I prayed for Timothy—that he find the peace that he so truly deserved. And I prayed for myself, for strength enough to make it through the rest of my time at the hospital without breaking down crying.
As I visited the remaining children, I did manage to hold it together. But all I could think of in the back of my mind was how I should have answered Timothy’s question: “Yes, when you die, that’s what will happen because you want it to happen.” It would have helped him in h
is final minutes. But I simply couldn’t think of that answer in time.
After Timothy, I made a vow to myself that I would never again leave a child waiting for an answer to a question for Santa. No matter what a child asked me, I would always answer it immediately. And I would never disappoint a child who was suffering. But this tragedy also helped me discover my limits. I decided that I could not visit hospitals ever again. I simply did not have the strength in my heart.
That is, until a second chance came my way many years later, when I had my own healing Christmas miracle….
IN 2010, NEARLY FIFTEEN YEARS AFTER MY experience with Timothy, I got a call from a good friend who was a fellow Santa Claus asking me a favor. By that time, my family and I had relocated to New England, and I’d become a seasoned Santa Claus with much more experience under my shiny black belt.
Professional Santas always do whatever they can to help each other out, so when my friend asked me if I was doing anything during the daytime from December 6 to December 10 that year, I didn’t hesitate to say, “Not yet. What do you need?”
“Well, I have an appearance scheduled at a cancer treatment center in Boston, but I just got this incredible offer to play Santa Claus in Japan, and it’s just too good of an opportunity to pass up. So I’m trying to find someone to fill in at the hospital for me, and I’d really like for it to be you.”
My stomach tightened and my heart leapt into my throat. My thoughts raced back to Timothy. I seldom talked about that incident, but it had locked itself into my memory. In all the years since, I’d never approached a hospital to offer my services. My heart just couldn’t bear the sadness and pain of seeing children who might not make it until their next birthday, or even a couple of weeks until Christmas. And I had never quite forgiven myself for falling apart that day and not helping Timothy the way I believed I should have. I’d since learned that there were properly trained Santas who specialized in hospital and hospice visits. Those men have my absolute respect and admiration, and I knew it was best if I left such visits in their capable hands.
Of course, my friend had no idea about what had happened to me previously. So I’m certain he was surprised when I responded, “Actually, I’d prefer that you asked someone else.”
“I’ll be honest with you, Sal,” he began in a serious but sympathetic tone. I don’t know whether he suspected that I might be squeamish around hospitals or if he just wanted to sound encouraging. “I’d really hoped it would be you and not someone else, because you’re one of the best Santas I know, and you’re so believable. These are kids with cancer, and I wouldn’t feel right turning this over to someone I didn’t trust to make his appearance special for them.”
I closed my eyes, and asked myself, Can I do this? Could I get through all those gut-wrenching visits, hospital room after hospital room, sick child after sick child, and still be the Santa Claus these children needed me to be? I honestly wasn’t certain.
And then I remembered the vow I’d made to myself the day Timothy died to never disappoint a child who was suffering. Those kids were suffering, to one degree or another, and my fears and limitations seemed very small in comparison. This wasn’t about me; it was about delivering sunshine to kids who needed Santa’s loving reassurance. I took a deep breath and mustered my strength to sound as confident and committed as I could. “All right, I’ll do it.”
“Thanks, Sal. This will really mean a lot to those kids,” he said, not realizing how much his statement applied to me as well.
My friend provided me with the contact information for the director of the cancer treatment center, a woman named Lisa, who called me the following day. Lisa explained to me that her facility, a clinic attached to a much larger hospital, specialized in outpatient cancer treatment for children ranging in age from newborns to teenagers. Each year, the clinic would put on a special series of events to entertain their young patients at Christmastime. Santa Claus, of course, played an essential part in the program, along with jugglers, a cartoon artist, and more. Starting the following Monday through Friday, I would work from 10:00 A.M. to 1:00 P.M., visiting with the kids and handing out presents.
As uplifting as the festivities sounded, I still tossed and turned in bed on Sunday evening, trying to fall asleep while dreading the next five days of my life. What have I gotten myself into? How am I going to get through this? Linda tried to ease my mind, assuring me that I’d come a long way since visiting Timothy and that my experience would carry me through, but my heart was still heavy. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I definitely remember waking up feeling panicked about the day ahead.
I arrived at the clinic carrying my red suit in a garment bag over my shoulder and found Lisa’s office. I knocked on the already-open door, sticking my head inside. “Lisa?” I said to the slender, dark-haired woman sitting behind her desk.
She looked up from her computer and, seeing a white-bearded, portly gentleman standing in her doorway, her face brightened as she said, “Santa! I’m so glad you could make it!”
“Happy to be here,” I said merrily, hoping I sounded convincing.
Lisa led me out of her office and down a surprisingly cheerful hallway, decorated with bright furniture and vintage Disney paintings. “Right in here, Santa,” Lisa said, opening a door for me. “This is usually a file storage room, and some doctors and nurses use it to fill out paperwork or take a quick break. I’m afraid it’s a little full at the moment…”
I looked around and saw immediately what Lisa meant. Brightly wrapped presents and toys filled the room almost from floor to ceiling in some places. Stuffed stockings had labels taped to them specifying age ranges like INFANT, TODDLER, 5–8 YEARS, 13 AND OLDER, and so on. I couldn’t believe how many toys and presents they had. These folks certainly took their Christmas event seriously.
Fortunately, I also saw a few chairs and tables to put my things down and space to get ready. Lisa backed out into the hallway, saying, “This door doesn’t lock, but if it’s closed, someone will always knock before walking in. As soon as you’re ready, just come back to my office and I’ll show you where to go next.”
“Great,” I said. “Thanks so much.”
“Thank you, Santa,” Lisa said with a grin as she closed the door.
The familiar ritual of putting on my Santa Claus attire steadied my nerves a bit. When I was all ready, I paused and took a deep, calming breath. Okay, Sal…you can do this.
I walked back into Lisa’s office. She gave a gasp and a huge smile. “Oh, the children are going to be so excited! Come on!” She hurried me down the hallway in the other direction, and we entered a huge waiting room filled with children and their families.
I’d never seen a waiting area like this before. It looked more like a kindergarten classroom, filled with toys, books, huge blocks, and even a small slide that younger children could play on. In the center sat a gigantic aquarium filled with brightly colored tropical fish and elaborate coral formations. Hanging everywhere were festive Christmas decorations.
On one side of the room, I saw an artist doing caricature sketches of some of the children. On the other side, a brightly dressed juggler entertained the crowd with jokes and fancy tossing tricks. Against the far wall, placed in front of a large cardboard cutout of a fairy-tale castle, I saw a cushioned chair with several stockings placed on either side of it. And next to those stockings—in bright red dresses with white fur on the sleeves, collar, and hemline—were two of the loveliest “Santa’s helpers” I had ever seen.
“Over here, Santa,” Lisa said, leading me toward the chair.
Upon hearing the word Santa, almost every child suddenly stopped whatever he or she was doing and began jumping up and down and shouting my name. I had to smile, even though I felt a little guilty because the poor cartoonist and juggler had found themselves quickly abandoned and forgotten as the children began to spontaneously form a line leading to Santa’s chair.
“Santa,” Lisa turned to face the two attractive young helpers,
“this is Dr. Kelly and Dr. Stockton.”
“You’re doctors?” I felt suddenly embarrassed by my surprised reaction. It wasn’t their gender so much as how young they both looked. On the other hand, at the age of almost fifty-five, more and more folks had started looking young to me. Nevertheless, I tried to hide my little faux pas by adding, “Aren’t you supposed to be wearing white coats?”
The two doctors smiled. “This is our uniform for the week,” one of them said.
“And the male doctors are all dressed as elves!” the other one added.
“Okay, Santa,” Lisa said, as a young fellow wearing normal clothes and holding an elaborate camera walked up to join us. “This is Paul, our photographer, and he’ll take the pictures that we’ll give to the parents. Each child will come up and sit on your lap for a minute or two. Then Dr. Kelly will pass you a toy, and Dr. Stockton will hand you a candy cane to give each one. Sound good?”
“Just perfect,” I said. As I looked at the line of excited children, I had almost forgotten that we were all in a cancer treatment center.
The first few children all went very smoothly. It felt just like being at a mall. They would sit on my lap, we’d talk for a brief time, Paul would take a few pictures, and then the next child would hop up.
But then I saw a little girl with a tube inserted into her nose, snaking back behind her ear, and then down her chest. She seemed too weak to climb up onto my lap herself, so I reached out for her incredibly carefully so as not to knock out the tube and gently brought her up onto my knee. Everything seemed okay, and I made certain to put her back down just as carefully when we finished.
I didn’t want to inadvertently do something wrong and cause one of the children harm, so before the next child came forward, I quickly turned to one of the doctors. “Is there any special way I should be picking them up when they have tubes?” I asked quietly.
Being Santa Claus : What I Learned About the True Meaning of Christmas (9781101600528) Page 6
