Post by emily on Dec 7, 2023 9:13:48 GMT -5
If you like the chicken soup stories, (I love them!), you'll enjoy this
It was a hectic day at the office. We were coordinating Christmas gifts for hundreds of needy children, a massive undertaking. Our Angel Tree deadline
had passed, and colorful parcels were being dropped off by “Angels” for distribution to the recipients. The office looked like the North Pole.
When the phone rang after closing, I hesitated. I was exhausted, and the after-hours voicemail could answer. But with the holiday coming… Sighing, I lifted
the receiver. “May I help you?”
The woman’s voice on the line was tremulous. “I’m looking for an Angel Tree. I’m sorry… I need to put my grandkids’ names on one.”
I started to direct her to one of the local organizations that might be able to assist, but she was still speaking. “They’re so little. The girl is seven,
and the boy is only four. They’re so excited for Santa Claus. But we live on Social Security, so there just isn’t anything extra.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but our deadline has passed…”
“Their mama just dropped them off without one word,” she said heavily. “We’re working on getting custody, but we can barely feed them as it is. My husband’s
health isn’t good, and we hardly know which way to turn. I saw an Angel Tree at the library and thought…” A sigh. “Well, I do thank you for…”
“Ma’am, wait!” My hand groped for my pen. “Tell me a little about them.”
The little girl loved Barbie, crafts, and books. The little boy liked dinosaurs and trucks. I also had their address. We had already made our charitable
contributions for the holiday, but I showed the list to my husband.
Tom, a retired naval officer, adored Christmas. Months in advance, he had planned a huge holiday feast and spent December practicing a jolly “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
for his yearly stint as Santa Claus at his office children’s party. But Tom was about to have a biopsy to confirm a lymphoma diagnosis. Although the doctor
was optimistic, I was concerned that my husband might not wish to undertake anything extra. But his eyes crinkled merrily. “Let’s go shopping before I
start chemo. I’ll handle the logistics.”
On our shopping day, Walmart was bustling. Tom and I sang along with the Christmas music as we headed to the toy department. “Dinosaurs dead ahead!” Tom
said. He moved efficiently down the row, frowning in thought. “T-Rex, of course,” he said, “This one, I think—the one that roars but has a benign expression.”
While I was still trying to determine what a dinosaur’s benign expression might look like, Tom was on his way to the next aisle. He peeked around the corner.
“Trucks!” he called. I reached him to find his arms full. A fire truck and a dump truck joined the T-Rex in the cart, followed by various puzzles, board
games, and a set of Legos. “Little kids like Legos,” Tom explained seriously. He checked his list. “Books next!”
Marching along, we passed the crafts, so a jewelry-making kit and a set of art supplies joined the assortment. Tom delegated the selection of chapter books
to me while he found one about construction machinery that made alarming noises and again consulted the list. “Barbies,” he directed.
“Over there,” I waved. Tom strode down an aisle with floor-to-ceiling fashion dolls on both sides. He came to a halt so suddenly that I nearly collided
into him with the cart. “These are pretty,” he said, contemplating gorgeous holiday-themed dolls. “And these are exotic… Morocco and India and… here’s
a mermaid and a fairy… and here is a veterinarian with her little animals… and a teacher… and—it looks like a Lady President Barbie!” My erstwhile logistics
expert stood looking about helplessly, list crumpled, totally overwhelmed by the folks at Mattel.
Laughing, I added a veterinarian doll and several gowns, joking that Barbie might wish to have both a career and a night on the town. We were a very merry
pair as we loaded up our car. “We can drop the gifts off after my biopsy,” Tom said. His eyes twinkled at me. “And we should get some treats.”
“We can get treats before we deliver the toys, so they’re fresh!” I agreed.
“I’m looking forward to it,” he beamed.
We chatted and planned the next morning as they prepped him for the biopsy. Then I kissed him, saying, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours!”
I did see Tom a few hours later, intubated and unable to speak or open his eyes. The “lymphoma” was actually lung cancer—a massive tumor—and the doctors
couldn’t extubate him after the procedure. Briefly, he held my hand one last time, squeezing it with all his strength. I knew what he was telling me. “I
love you, too,” I told him. “I have always, always loved you.” With great effort, his head nodded before he fell into a coma, and the fierce grip on my
hand relaxed.
The following days were a blur. I sent for our children, and we talked to doctors, seeking some desperate hope. But there was none. And after the children
had a chance to say goodbye, I knew what my next duty would be.
That Saturday, I spent the afternoon wrapping gifts. Piling them into the car, I could hear Tom’s excited “I’m looking forward to it!” Then I remembered
my own promise to get treats before delivering the toys. I had no treats.
Impulsively I pulled into the grocery store. I picked up candy canes, cookies, Christmas cake—but I couldn’t stop. Tom loved me; he loved bringing joy;
he loved Christmas. Today, I was just his instrument. I piled in a holiday dinner, along with staples to help fill empty cupboards. And hot chocolate mix—Tom
always loved hot chocolate.
It wasn’t far to the small house, but it was nearly dark by the time I pulled into the drive. I told the elderly lady who answered my knock that I was
the response to her Angel Tree request.
“The kids are out with their grandpa,” she said, “Come in.”
“This needs refrigeration,” I said as I handed her the first box and continued unloading.
“Oh, my goodness,” she kept repeating. “Oh, my.” When I had brought in the last bundle, she clasped my hand.
“It’s from my husband and me,” I told her warmly. “Merry Christmas!”
“Thank you,” she said, with tears in her voice. “I know the Good Lord put you here at this moment for a reason.”
As I drove home, I said tearfully, “You were right, honey. It was something to look forward to.” The following day, I made another trip. I went to sit
beside Tom and held his hand as they switched off his life support. He quietly breathed his last with me at his side.
Tom’s funeral was December twenty-third. The next night, Santa’s gifts were under a tree in a small house where two children needed him. It was Tom’s last
earthly deed, and his first as part of the eternal spirit of Christmas.
It was a hectic day at the office. We were coordinating Christmas gifts for hundreds of needy children, a massive undertaking. Our Angel Tree deadline
had passed, and colorful parcels were being dropped off by “Angels” for distribution to the recipients. The office looked like the North Pole.
When the phone rang after closing, I hesitated. I was exhausted, and the after-hours voicemail could answer. But with the holiday coming… Sighing, I lifted
the receiver. “May I help you?”
The woman’s voice on the line was tremulous. “I’m looking for an Angel Tree. I’m sorry… I need to put my grandkids’ names on one.”
I started to direct her to one of the local organizations that might be able to assist, but she was still speaking. “They’re so little. The girl is seven,
and the boy is only four. They’re so excited for Santa Claus. But we live on Social Security, so there just isn’t anything extra.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but our deadline has passed…”
“Their mama just dropped them off without one word,” she said heavily. “We’re working on getting custody, but we can barely feed them as it is. My husband’s
health isn’t good, and we hardly know which way to turn. I saw an Angel Tree at the library and thought…” A sigh. “Well, I do thank you for…”
“Ma’am, wait!” My hand groped for my pen. “Tell me a little about them.”
The little girl loved Barbie, crafts, and books. The little boy liked dinosaurs and trucks. I also had their address. We had already made our charitable
contributions for the holiday, but I showed the list to my husband.
Tom, a retired naval officer, adored Christmas. Months in advance, he had planned a huge holiday feast and spent December practicing a jolly “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
for his yearly stint as Santa Claus at his office children’s party. But Tom was about to have a biopsy to confirm a lymphoma diagnosis. Although the doctor
was optimistic, I was concerned that my husband might not wish to undertake anything extra. But his eyes crinkled merrily. “Let’s go shopping before I
start chemo. I’ll handle the logistics.”
On our shopping day, Walmart was bustling. Tom and I sang along with the Christmas music as we headed to the toy department. “Dinosaurs dead ahead!” Tom
said. He moved efficiently down the row, frowning in thought. “T-Rex, of course,” he said, “This one, I think—the one that roars but has a benign expression.”
While I was still trying to determine what a dinosaur’s benign expression might look like, Tom was on his way to the next aisle. He peeked around the corner.
“Trucks!” he called. I reached him to find his arms full. A fire truck and a dump truck joined the T-Rex in the cart, followed by various puzzles, board
games, and a set of Legos. “Little kids like Legos,” Tom explained seriously. He checked his list. “Books next!”
Marching along, we passed the crafts, so a jewelry-making kit and a set of art supplies joined the assortment. Tom delegated the selection of chapter books
to me while he found one about construction machinery that made alarming noises and again consulted the list. “Barbies,” he directed.
“Over there,” I waved. Tom strode down an aisle with floor-to-ceiling fashion dolls on both sides. He came to a halt so suddenly that I nearly collided
into him with the cart. “These are pretty,” he said, contemplating gorgeous holiday-themed dolls. “And these are exotic… Morocco and India and… here’s
a mermaid and a fairy… and here is a veterinarian with her little animals… and a teacher… and—it looks like a Lady President Barbie!” My erstwhile logistics
expert stood looking about helplessly, list crumpled, totally overwhelmed by the folks at Mattel.
Laughing, I added a veterinarian doll and several gowns, joking that Barbie might wish to have both a career and a night on the town. We were a very merry
pair as we loaded up our car. “We can drop the gifts off after my biopsy,” Tom said. His eyes twinkled at me. “And we should get some treats.”
“We can get treats before we deliver the toys, so they’re fresh!” I agreed.
“I’m looking forward to it,” he beamed.
We chatted and planned the next morning as they prepped him for the biopsy. Then I kissed him, saying, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours!”
I did see Tom a few hours later, intubated and unable to speak or open his eyes. The “lymphoma” was actually lung cancer—a massive tumor—and the doctors
couldn’t extubate him after the procedure. Briefly, he held my hand one last time, squeezing it with all his strength. I knew what he was telling me. “I
love you, too,” I told him. “I have always, always loved you.” With great effort, his head nodded before he fell into a coma, and the fierce grip on my
hand relaxed.
The following days were a blur. I sent for our children, and we talked to doctors, seeking some desperate hope. But there was none. And after the children
had a chance to say goodbye, I knew what my next duty would be.
That Saturday, I spent the afternoon wrapping gifts. Piling them into the car, I could hear Tom’s excited “I’m looking forward to it!” Then I remembered
my own promise to get treats before delivering the toys. I had no treats.
Impulsively I pulled into the grocery store. I picked up candy canes, cookies, Christmas cake—but I couldn’t stop. Tom loved me; he loved bringing joy;
he loved Christmas. Today, I was just his instrument. I piled in a holiday dinner, along with staples to help fill empty cupboards. And hot chocolate mix—Tom
always loved hot chocolate.
It wasn’t far to the small house, but it was nearly dark by the time I pulled into the drive. I told the elderly lady who answered my knock that I was
the response to her Angel Tree request.
“The kids are out with their grandpa,” she said, “Come in.”
“This needs refrigeration,” I said as I handed her the first box and continued unloading.
“Oh, my goodness,” she kept repeating. “Oh, my.” When I had brought in the last bundle, she clasped my hand.
“It’s from my husband and me,” I told her warmly. “Merry Christmas!”
“Thank you,” she said, with tears in her voice. “I know the Good Lord put you here at this moment for a reason.”
As I drove home, I said tearfully, “You were right, honey. It was something to look forward to.” The following day, I made another trip. I went to sit
beside Tom and held his hand as they switched off his life support. He quietly breathed his last with me at his side.
Tom’s funeral was December twenty-third. The next night, Santa’s gifts were under a tree in a small house where two children needed him. It was Tom’s last
earthly deed, and his first as part of the eternal spirit of Christmas.
