Patricia G. Kay Elf Story
Resume Elf
Patricia G. Kay 2019
I was promoted from an evening staff nurse to the night supervisor at Children’s Hospital forty years ago. I remember smiling at the Director of Nursing’s positive feedback that included increased pay. Her final words were, “You are a true self, “which I later discovered was “You truly are an elf.” These words resonated weeks later when, at one o’clock Christmas morning, I met our Santa Claus at the hospital. For twenty six years, he had kept alive the tradition of trading in his black, professional suit to morph into Santa.
A parade of volunteers stood still, like a team of reindeer, transporting utility carts filled with pink and blue Christmas stockings that bulged with wrapped toys. Annually, donated toys from the community were divided into age-appropriate packages for all the hospitalized children.
And I, the once-in-a-life-time elf, was going to deliver stockings with none other than Santa. Now I ask, who could add “Elf” to their professional work resume.
We walked toward the preemie intensive care unit, where, in dimmed lights, parents hummed softly as they rocked their children in bright red blankets, shadowy figures, appearing as if they were a medical nativity scene. Whispering “Merry Christmas” to each baby, he laid a Christmas stocking on top of each incubator.
We took the elevator to the oncology unit. Rooms were filled with bald-headed patients who wore Christmas light head bands, colorful scarves, or baseball hats turned backwards. Welcoming squeals and shouts greeted him in a jungle of hanging intravenous tubing. Some rooms had plates of cookies, and Christmas letters scribbled on black-lined nurse charting notes.
Santa stood outside one closed door, the window blinds closed, and looked at me. I whispered, “She just died. The family is praying with the hospital chaplain.” He hung a pink stocking on the door knob, pressing his hand on the door. Without speaking, I think we both realized that heaven was welcoming their newest Christmas angel.
Like a rubber band, he would step toward the sleepy children who smiled in awe, their lips forming circles of wonder but would step back quickly if their eyes tightened, their faces flushed, or they wailed in fright.
As we wove through the clutter of the equipment on the rehabilitation unit, wheel chairs parked outside of rooms, crutches leaning against doors, teenagers shouted to Santa they did not believe in him, but they still wanted a stocking.
Hearing a respirator, Santa walked into the next room where a paralyzed teenager lay. I whispered, “She is alert she responds by blinking her eyes.” He brushed aside a brown curl that had fallen over her eye. “Now young lady, if you want me to leave you a stocking, say yes, if you believe in Christmas.” Her eyes fluttered in an overindulgent flirtation, never taking her eyes from Santa’s.
I still wonder why so many children were awake, why this Santa was so dedicated, and why I had been the chosen elf that year.
(Remembering Phil Smart, owner of Seattle Mercedes Benz)
Resume Elf
Patricia G. Kay 2019
I was promoted from an evening staff nurse to the night supervisor at Children’s Hospital forty years ago. I remember smiling at the Director of Nursing’s positive feedback that included increased pay. Her final words were, “You are a true self, “which I later discovered was “You truly are an elf.” These words resonated weeks later when, at one o’clock Christmas morning, I met our Santa Claus at the hospital. For twenty six years, he had kept alive the tradition of trading in his black, professional suit to morph into Santa.
A parade of volunteers stood still, like a team of reindeer, transporting utility carts filled with pink and blue Christmas stockings that bulged with wrapped toys. Annually, donated toys from the community were divided into age-appropriate packages for all the hospitalized children.
And I, the once-in-a-life-time elf, was going to deliver stockings with none other than Santa. Now I ask, who could add “Elf” to their professional work resume.
We walked toward the preemie intensive care unit, where, in dimmed lights, parents hummed softly as they rocked their children in bright red blankets, shadowy figures, appearing as if they were a medical nativity scene. Whispering “Merry Christmas” to each baby, he laid a Christmas stocking on top of each incubator.
We took the elevator to the oncology unit. Rooms were filled with bald-headed patients who wore Christmas light head bands, colorful scarves, or baseball hats turned backwards. Welcoming squeals and shouts greeted him in a jungle of hanging intravenous tubing. Some rooms had plates of cookies, and Christmas letters scribbled on black-lined nurse charting notes.
Santa stood outside one closed door, the window blinds closed, and looked at me. I whispered, “She just died. The family is praying with the hospital chaplain.” He hung a pink stocking on the door knob, pressing his hand on the door. Without speaking, I think we both realized that heaven was welcoming their newest Christmas angel.
Like a rubber band, he would step toward the sleepy children who smiled in awe, their lips forming circles of wonder but would step back quickly if their eyes tightened, their faces flushed, or they wailed in fright.
As we wove through the clutter of the equipment on the rehabilitation unit, wheel chairs parked outside of rooms, crutches leaning against doors, teenagers shouted to Santa they did not believe in him, but they still wanted a stocking.
Hearing a respirator, Santa walked into the next room where a paralyzed teenager lay. I whispered, “She is alert she responds by blinking her eyes.” He brushed aside a brown curl that had fallen over her eye. “Now young lady, if you want me to leave you a stocking, say yes, if you believe in Christmas.” Her eyes fluttered in an overindulgent flirtation, never taking her eyes from Santa’s.
I still wonder why so many children were awake, why this Santa was so dedicated, and why I had been the chosen elf that year.
(Remembering Phil Smart, owner of Seattle Mercedes Benz)