A Christmas Story
Posted: Mon Dec 26, 2011 9:33 pm
This one, an original story, is not meant to be funny, but I don't know what other thread to put it in.
A Christmas Story
Aaron’s leukemia had taken a turn for the worse. He lay on a hospital bed, a privacy curtain pulled around it. His mother stood over him. One of his arms was strapped to a pad; an IV dripped into a vein in that arm. In his mother’s hand was a glass of apple juice with a flexible plastic straw in it. Lifting the oxygen mask off his mouth and nose, she held it to his mouth.
“You want a sip, Honey?”
He pushed it away with his free hand. Chemo always made his sick to his stomach, and even though he was thirsty, he was afraid he would throw up.
“Just a little, Honey.”
“I’ll throw up. I want to go home.”
“You’re too sick, Baby. You have to get better, so you can go home.”
“But, it’s Christmas Eve.”
“I know, Baby. We’ll have our Christmas here at the hospital.”
He wasn’t going home; as hard as it was for her to admit it, she knew he wasn’t. The doctor hadn’t even wanted to start Chemo this time, but hoping for a miracle, not willing to let him go, she had insisted on it. Now, she realized it was a mistake. He wasn’t going to get better; there would be no miracle. She’d tell the doctor to stop the Chemo. Maybe, he would feel a little better, if she did.
“But, Santa won’t know where I am. He’ll go to our house looking for me.”
“Santa knows everything. He knows whether you’ve been good or bad; remember? If he knows that, he’ll know you’re not at home. He’ll find you here in the hospital.”
She had presents out in the car, waiting for him to drift off to sleep before bringing them in. They would be beside his bed when he awoke in the morning – if he awoke.”
“You need to let him go,” the doctor had told her earlier that day. “His pulse is thin and weak. I don’t know what’s keeping him alive.”
“Maybe, it’s the Chemo,” she had said. “Maybe, the Chemo is working.”
“No, it’s not. It’s too late for that. It’s just making him sick. I want to take him off it.”
But, not yet ready to let him go, clinging to this only hope, she had refused.
Christmas had always been his favorite time, better than birthdays, better than vacations. Although he was seven, an age at which most boys stopped believing in Santa Clause, he still did, refusing to believe his friends when they told him there was no Santa Claus.
“There is too,” he had always told them.
“It’s just your dad playing Santa,” had been their answer.
“I don’t have a dad,” had been his.
She placed the mask back over his nose and mouth. He closed his eyes. She glanced up at the monitor. “Beep….beep…beep,” it displayed his heart beat. Even to her untrained eye, the pulses seemed weak.
Leaning over him, she kissed his forehead. He didn’t stir.
“I’ll be back in a minute, Honey.”
She would get the presents. She could put them beside the bed out of sight and tell him in the morning Santa had brought them.
“I love you,” she whispered and left the room.
Aaron awoke. The nausea, the aches, and the weakness, were gone. Someone stood beside his bed. It was Santa – the real Santa. Somehow, he knew it was. In his heart, he knew it wasn’t a Mall or department store Santa. It was the real Santa.
“Santa…you found me. I was afraid you wouldn’t know where I was. They told me you weren’t real, but I knew you were.”
He looked for Santa’s bag of toys, but he wasn’t carrying one.
“Where’s the toys? I’ve been good; really I have. I didn’t want to be sick. I know it’s made my mom sad that I am, but I didn’t want to get sick.”
“You’ve been good, Aaron. You’re the bestest of my boys, so good that I’m taking you with me to the North Pole. You’ll have all the toys you could ever want and other boys like you to play with.”
“But, I’m sick. Mom said I couldn’t leave the hospital until I get better.”
“Do you feel sick?”
Amazed that he didn’t, Aaron shook his head.
“That’s another of my presents. You’ll never be sick again.” He held his hand out to Aaron. “Come, the reindeer are waiting.”
“Is Rudolph with them?”
“Of course, he is; Rudolph, Donner, Blitzen, all them are waiting for us.”
Grasping Santa’s hand, Aaron swung his feet over and slipped off the bed onto the floor. Santa was right: he wasn’t sick any longer. He didn’t remember ever feeling better. Hand in hand, they headed for the door.
“Wait. What about Mom? Shouldn’t we wait to tell her I’m going?”
“She knows you’re going. She loves you. You know that, don’t you?”
Aaron nodded.
“Yes, I know that.”
As they walked down the hallway, Aaron heard an alarm in his room blare. A nurse rushed down the hallway, past him and Santa, and into his room. She didn’t even seem to notice them. The next thing he knew, he sat alongside Santa, and led by Rudolph and the reindeer, the sled flew through the sky on its way to the North Pole.
A Christmas Story
Aaron’s leukemia had taken a turn for the worse. He lay on a hospital bed, a privacy curtain pulled around it. His mother stood over him. One of his arms was strapped to a pad; an IV dripped into a vein in that arm. In his mother’s hand was a glass of apple juice with a flexible plastic straw in it. Lifting the oxygen mask off his mouth and nose, she held it to his mouth.
“You want a sip, Honey?”
He pushed it away with his free hand. Chemo always made his sick to his stomach, and even though he was thirsty, he was afraid he would throw up.
“Just a little, Honey.”
“I’ll throw up. I want to go home.”
“You’re too sick, Baby. You have to get better, so you can go home.”
“But, it’s Christmas Eve.”
“I know, Baby. We’ll have our Christmas here at the hospital.”
He wasn’t going home; as hard as it was for her to admit it, she knew he wasn’t. The doctor hadn’t even wanted to start Chemo this time, but hoping for a miracle, not willing to let him go, she had insisted on it. Now, she realized it was a mistake. He wasn’t going to get better; there would be no miracle. She’d tell the doctor to stop the Chemo. Maybe, he would feel a little better, if she did.
“But, Santa won’t know where I am. He’ll go to our house looking for me.”
“Santa knows everything. He knows whether you’ve been good or bad; remember? If he knows that, he’ll know you’re not at home. He’ll find you here in the hospital.”
She had presents out in the car, waiting for him to drift off to sleep before bringing them in. They would be beside his bed when he awoke in the morning – if he awoke.”
“You need to let him go,” the doctor had told her earlier that day. “His pulse is thin and weak. I don’t know what’s keeping him alive.”
“Maybe, it’s the Chemo,” she had said. “Maybe, the Chemo is working.”
“No, it’s not. It’s too late for that. It’s just making him sick. I want to take him off it.”
But, not yet ready to let him go, clinging to this only hope, she had refused.
Christmas had always been his favorite time, better than birthdays, better than vacations. Although he was seven, an age at which most boys stopped believing in Santa Clause, he still did, refusing to believe his friends when they told him there was no Santa Claus.
“There is too,” he had always told them.
“It’s just your dad playing Santa,” had been their answer.
“I don’t have a dad,” had been his.
She placed the mask back over his nose and mouth. He closed his eyes. She glanced up at the monitor. “Beep….beep…beep,” it displayed his heart beat. Even to her untrained eye, the pulses seemed weak.
Leaning over him, she kissed his forehead. He didn’t stir.
“I’ll be back in a minute, Honey.”
She would get the presents. She could put them beside the bed out of sight and tell him in the morning Santa had brought them.
“I love you,” she whispered and left the room.
Aaron awoke. The nausea, the aches, and the weakness, were gone. Someone stood beside his bed. It was Santa – the real Santa. Somehow, he knew it was. In his heart, he knew it wasn’t a Mall or department store Santa. It was the real Santa.
“Santa…you found me. I was afraid you wouldn’t know where I was. They told me you weren’t real, but I knew you were.”
He looked for Santa’s bag of toys, but he wasn’t carrying one.
“Where’s the toys? I’ve been good; really I have. I didn’t want to be sick. I know it’s made my mom sad that I am, but I didn’t want to get sick.”
“You’ve been good, Aaron. You’re the bestest of my boys, so good that I’m taking you with me to the North Pole. You’ll have all the toys you could ever want and other boys like you to play with.”
“But, I’m sick. Mom said I couldn’t leave the hospital until I get better.”
“Do you feel sick?”
Amazed that he didn’t, Aaron shook his head.
“That’s another of my presents. You’ll never be sick again.” He held his hand out to Aaron. “Come, the reindeer are waiting.”
“Is Rudolph with them?”
“Of course, he is; Rudolph, Donner, Blitzen, all them are waiting for us.”
Grasping Santa’s hand, Aaron swung his feet over and slipped off the bed onto the floor. Santa was right: he wasn’t sick any longer. He didn’t remember ever feeling better. Hand in hand, they headed for the door.
“Wait. What about Mom? Shouldn’t we wait to tell her I’m going?”
“She knows you’re going. She loves you. You know that, don’t you?”
Aaron nodded.
“Yes, I know that.”
As they walked down the hallway, Aaron heard an alarm in his room blare. A nurse rushed down the hallway, past him and Santa, and into his room. She didn’t even seem to notice them. The next thing he knew, he sat alongside Santa, and led by Rudolph and the reindeer, the sled flew through the sky on its way to the North Pole.