When Father Bob came into my 4-year-old daughter’s hospital room on Christmas, I was watching “Home Alone” on mute.
“Hello, merry Christmas,” he said in a loud, jovial voice. A man in his 70s with thick salt-and-pepper hair, he looked a lot like Santa.
“I’m making the rounds in my best Christmas vest,” he said, and tugged at the bottom of his blue Irish cardigan. His smile showed stained teeth and gold fillings.
There was an awkward pause. He looked at Emily and then back at me.
“Are you visiting all the rooms today?” I asked.
“Oh no, just the patients and parents who are Catholic and would like visits from us while they’re here.” Emily’s dad must have checked the Catholic box on an intake form. I wished he hadn’t. I didn’t want to entertain unexpected guests, but, out of respect for Jesus, Santa and God, I made the muscles of my face form a smile.
“Great movie,” he said, and pointed to the television. Then he looked at Emily. “How’s the little one?”
I wanted to tell him that she’d love the American Girl doll wrapped in the corner if she’d wake up. That her 6-year-old sister didn’t want to open her gifts that morning in a Boston suburb because it wasn’t fun without Emily. Did he have a magic wand?
He didn’t, so he opened his Bible and adjusted his glasses. He recited a prayer to heal the sick. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I bowed my head and clasped my hands. “In the name of the Lord, amen.”
“Amen,” I whispered.
Father Bob closed his Bible and glanced at the clock above the door. “I’m heading over to my niece’s today for a big family gathering,” he said, rocking back and forth on his heels, Bible held tight against his chest. He was anxious to leave. I wanted to grab my little girl and follow him. Christmas held my best family memories, too.
My Nana had always made Christmas magical. Though gifts overflowed, the feeling of being part of a huge family — one that bantered during rounds of Trivial Pursuit and preferred canned rolls to homemade — made me feel safe and loved. My Nana had seven kids. Mismatched tables snaked through the dining and living rooms, my Nana’s porcelain nativity set displayed on a side table near the window. The energy was electric.
Nana was a quiet Irish Catholic who said more with looks than words. To be near her was to be safe. She was also unrepentantly religious. She embraced God. My own situation with God — with Catholicism — was tricky. I was close to God because I was close to my grandmother. Everything I’d learned from my Nana about God and Catholicism indicated that God wouldn’t fail feel-good Catholics in this way. But God had failed me. God had allowed Emily to get cancer, and I didn’t understand why.
I was mad at God, but also counting on God to make her better. I wanted to stay on God’s good side; I just wasn’t sure how. I’d gone wrong somewhere. Or the system was flawed.
Now, I was mad at God, but also counting on God to make her better. I wanted to stay on God’s good side; I just wasn’t sure how. I’d gone wrong somewhere. Or the system was flawed. I was told by many well-intentioned people, “God works in mysterious ways.” I wanted an explanation from God himself, but instead I was left to deal with his representative, Father Bob.
I wasn’t convinced that Father Bob had answers or guarantees, but a part of me hoped that he knew things I didn’t. Maybe he’d talked to God and knew Emily was going to be OK. But maybe I couldn’t call on God anymore. I no longer thought of myself as Catholic. I’d stopped going to church in college, but showed up for family baptisms and confirmations.
When Emily was diagnosed, I prayed all the time, especially at night when my mind refused to rest. I recited “Our Father” on repeat to quiet the voices. Often, I struck deals with God: I’ll be a better person. I won’t complain. I’ll make gratitude lists. I’ll participate and get in the water at the girls’ swimming lessons.
During the quiet, and eerie, hospital moments on Christmas Day, I thought about Christmas, God and my Nana. I might’ve questioned my religion, and a holiday with mixed messaging, but I never questioned my Nana.
Since Emily had been diagnosed, six months earlier, I’d called out to her at my lowest points. During Emily’s trips to the intensive care unit and emergency surgeries, I needed to know I wasn’t alone. I sobbed with my head on the steering wheel in the parking garage and called out to my grandmother for help. Maybe it was the heat of the car, but I could feel her with me. Her big hand on my shoulder, the smell of her Aqua Net hairspray.
How was I supposed to get through Christmas Day while the rest of the world celebrated? No one could tell me.
Christmas at Boston Children’s Hospital wasn’t like I’d imagined before Emily had cancer. In those visions, Santa ho-ho-ho-ed down the hallway while Christmas music played from the hallway speakers. The nurses were jolly. Kids sipped hot chocolate and took turns opening presents.
Any kid who was able to make it through Christmas Eve and day away from the hospital was sent home to be with their family.
“The hospital is no place for a kid to spend Christmas,” a doctor told me during morning rounds a few days before Christmas. “I wish Emily were a little better.”
But in the middle of a second stem cell transplant, morphine and machines were getting Emily through. Mucus filled her lungs and her blood pressure was high. She slept all day propped up on pillows so she could breathe better. I’d hoped she’d feel well enough to open a few gifts. She didn’t.
After Father Bob left, I wandered the hallways. In the lobby, two security guards wore Santa hats. A woman talked on her cell phone near the elevators. I picked at stale cookies on Christmas platters in the patient kitchenette.
As I walked back to Emily’s room, I felt my Nana was with me. While Emily’s machines beeped and I applied cold compresses to her forehead, I could almost see my Nana knitting in the corner of the room, nodding her head, reassuring me that all would be well.
The hospital was lonely on Christmas Day. Connection and energy were nowhere to be found, but I needed that connection to save me. Was I crazy to believe that my deceased Nana was with me? I’m not sure. I didn’t need an explanation, or a sign. I felt her love and support. Her spirit filled the room.
Maybe we pray to God to feel less alone and place our faith and trust in someone bigger than us. Someone who has shown us love, and who serves as a reminder that we’re never alone. For me, imagining my Nana was beside me on Christmas got me through. And that was enough. Calling out to my Nana was as powerful as calling out to God.