For the Love of Christmas by Jeanne Bice

Author:Jeanne Bice
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: true, stories, amazing stories, magical, holiday, moments, love, respect
Publisher: Health Communications, Inc.
Published: 2012-08-30T04:00:00+00:00

Bah, Humbug! When Christmas

Seems More Blue Than White

The Butterfly Tree

By Jeanne Hill

When the supervisor turned down my Christmas leave request for the third year in a row, she shot me that old saying, “Duty has its own rewards, dear.” Bedpan duty on an obstetrics ward? I thought. Not likely.

That night, the only person on 4-Center worse off than me was Emily, a first-time mother my age who had come in two days ago and delivered a beautiful full-term boy. Stillborn. Poor, pale Emily had not eaten or even slept much since. My heart ached for the frail girl, but none of us could reach her. Seldom speaking, she remained turned to the wall, long taffy hair streaming down her back and IV bottles hovering above her, feeding her through the vein.

Aside from Emily and construction sounds, 4-Center was not a challenge. Due to remodeling, the ward shared a temporary hall wall with a delivery room. During the day, the workmen’s amplified hammering was nerve-racking. At night, exaggerated sounds whipped in on the wind, making the place spooky.

The next night, I dreaded going on duty because it was traditional for the night nurse to decorate the ward tree, and hospital decorations were skimpy. As soon as the ward was quiet, I started hanging scuffed red, gold, and silver ornaments on the lopsided pine that listed toward the temporary wall. When I finished, the bedraggled tree looked ­terrible.

I was shaking my head in despair when I answered Emily’s call light. She wanted a blanket and, as I tucked it around her legs, she surprised me with, “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t get the ward Christmas tree to look decent,” I confided. Again she surprised me by asking to be put into a wheelchair for a look at the tree. So I bundled her and her IV bottles into the wheelchair and carefully wheeled her to the tree across from the nurses’ station.

She examined my pitiful effort.

“We could make some ornaments,” she suggested, her gray eyes showing a faint spark of interest. I admitted that I wasn’t any good at that. “I’m not either,” she said. “All I know how to make are paper butterflies. I learned how in grade school.”

At my questioning look, she explained. “You paste a sheet of red cellophane paper between black paper butterflies whose wings have been cut out for the red to show through. Then you cut trim for the butterflies, pinch them in the middle, and staple their centers to raise the wings. They’re pretty.”

Butterflies hardly seemed appropriate for a Christmas tree, but since they were the only thing that captured Emily’s interest, I agreed. Emily’s husband shored up the tree and brought supplies. When I came on duty the next night, a bevy of beautiful butterflies flitted across Emily’s dresser.

“Their red cellophane wings shine like ruby-stained glass!” I praised. “I’ll cut and paste some tonight between call lights, Emily. Emily?” She was sound asleep.

“Wore herself out making butterflies,” the day nurse informed me, “but she actually ate some dinner this evening.

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