Why I Believe in Santa Claus

December 20th, 2022

Now that you know “My Best-Kept Holiday Secret,” it won’t surprise you (nor did it surprise my parents) that at the ripe old age of five, I announced to them that this Santa Claus thing was too far-fetched and I wasn’t buying it anymore. I was finished with that childish stuff.

But many years later, on December 21^st, 2018, I found myself in an ICU room at Nationwide Children’s Hospital, finally getting a piece of good news.

My nine-month-old son had been in intensive care for respiratory failure from RSV and pneumonia. It was the darkest time of our lives. When he continued to get sicker despite the best care, I feared the worst.

But now the doctor was telling me that he was starting to turn around. He was improving and she expected him to continue.

She said they would gradually wean him off the Bi-Pap machine that was helping him breathe and then remove his feeding tube. Once he was able to breathe and eat on his own, he could go home—maybe even before Christmas.

He might actually be home in time for his first Christmas. It was the best news I had received since the news of his birth.

And yet, when the doctor left, I hid my face in a corner and cried.

I cried because it was my son’s first Christmas and even though he might come home for it, I didn’t have a single present for him.

I had planned to shop after my teaching ended and while his daycare was still open. I would travel to the nearest city and visit toy stores. I would prepare the house and do the things that moms are supposed to do for Christmas (whatever those things are).

But instead, he got sick on December 3^rd. Everything changed; I didn’t even think about what my plans had been. 

Now, even if he did get out before Christmas, was I going to take him directly from the hospital to the mall? Of course not. And to my town of Acropolis, even Amazon has Prime 5-Day Shipping.

I felt like I had failed my son.

I tried to hide my sadness. I kept my back turned to the door, knowing that the nurse who was assigned to monitor my son’s breathing was always watching through a window from the hallway. 

A little while later she rushed into the room and tapped me on the arm.

“Go up to the 6^th floor, quickly.”

“What? Is everything OK?”

“They are giving away Christmas presents.”

I located my shoes and shuffled to the elevator, which made me queasy after days of barely moving. 

The doors opened on the 6^th floor and I stumbled out. The fluorescent lights glared at me and sun streamed through the windows. It was a shock to my eyes after the dimly-lit ICU.

Bathed in all of this light was every toy, game and book you could imagine, laid out on tables and stacked high up the walls.

It was a dream come true. I had stepped into Santa’s workshop. 

A volunteer handed me a garbage bag. “Fill this with anything you want for your child,” she said. 

An entire garbage bag?

I was in a daze. This couldn’t be real.

Another volunteer noticed my confusion and jumped in to help.

She asked how old my son was and then flitted, elf-like, from table to table, helping me locate toys for a nine month old. 

Everything that I had imagined buying him was there: the Fisher-Price telephone and corn popper, just like the ones I held onto when I was learning to walk. Shape sorters, block books, oversized crayons. 

When the toys reached the top of my bag, I turned to leave.

Another volunteer stepped forward. “I’ll rearrange your bag so you can fit more in.”

As I exited, a volunteer handed me a stack of gift bags. They had thought of everything a parent would need to make a Christmas.

The next few days went well. Scott continued improving and was weaned from the machines. He came home for his first Christmas.

I found a little felt tree and surrounded it with the presents from the hospital. He tore bags and mouthed presents, as any nine month old should. It was a miracle to see him doing normal baby things.

In a way, I was right when I was five. A pudgy gentleman flying around the world in one night, being pulled through the sky by animals that are usually found eating my hostas—well, that’s pretty far-fetched. 

But there is a little Santa Claus in each of us. Each person who donated gifts to Nationwide Children’s Hospital, each person who volunteered to help exhausted parents choose presents, and each doctor, nurse and respiratory therapist who saved my son’s life and delivered him home for Christmas. And in every person who does something to help a friend, family member or stranger, no matter what time of year.

We are all Santa Claus. 

And I believe.

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_{Mom Flies Solo welcomes sharing if you enjoyed this story and know someone else who would. The link above will take you to the donation page for Nationwide Children’s Hospital. Happy Holidays for each and every day that you celebrate!}