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Authors: Kevin Alan Milne
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replied.
“How’s your arm?”
“My arm is fine. It’s just everything else that hurts,” I joked.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. Can I just come in so we don’t have to talk through the door?”
“Just a minute.” There was a light shuffling sound like ruffling of paper, and then she opened the door. She was wearing a new pair of pajamas and a pair of pink slippers, plus the usual white paper bag to cover her head.
Over the next thirty minutes I got to know Katrina better than I’d thought possible. For the first time she opened up and began to talk about herself, sharing some things that were sad and difficult for me to hear, but important for me to understand. The conversation began mildly enough with a few laughs about our brush with death on the gurneys, but then it took a more serious turn.
“Katrina, how come you don’t talk about your sickness?” I asked. “I don’t even know what kind of cancer you have?”
“I used to talk about it more when Grandpa was around. He made me feel better. He always told me everything would be fine.” A new sadness reverberated in her words.
“Did he, you know . . . die?” I asked.
She told me he had died four months earlier of a heart attack, and that now she was a ward of the state under the immediate care of the hospital for medical treatment. She never knew her father—even her mother wasn’t fully sure who her father was—and tragically, a drunk driver killed her mother on the way to work when Katrina was four years old. So for nearly as long as she could remember, she had depended on her grandfather for everything, especially after she was diagnosed with a brain tumor in July 1979.
As she recounted the horrific details of her life, I couldn’t help but reflect on how good my own life was. It was a thought I’d never considered before, that there were people far less fortunate than myself. I realized that I had things really easy. I had people who loved me, parents who cared for me, and friends who took interest in me and wanted to be with me. Katrina had none of that.
All she had was a fading memory of a mother and a grandfather who she now missed more than anything in the world.
“Grandpa didn’t care what I looked like,” she said at one point. “He just loved me. I always knew he loved me no matter what. Other people aren’t that way.”
“Katrina, I’m sorry about your granddad and your mom, too.”
“Thank you, Molar. I guess not having my grandpa around is why I wouldn’t let anyone put up Christmas decorations this year. He always used to love doing that with me, and I’d hate for him to think I was enjoying Christmas without him.”
“It’s Mo,” I corrected. “My friends call me Mo.”
“What?”
“My friends call me Mo,” I repeated. “You said Molar.”
“So
I
can call you that?” she asked timidly, almost doubting that someone would ever be willing to count her as a friend.
“Of course you can. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I can’t be sure, but I thought I glimpsed a trace of a smile spreading across her face through the mouth hole in her large paper bag.
“Mo,” she said proudly. “I’ve decided something. Even though I technically didn’t lose the gurney race, I didn’t exactly win either. So I’m going to keep our bargain and join the Christmas pageant.”
“Really!?” I would have jumped out of my seat but the lingering pain in my ribs kept me restrained.
“Really, really. Do you think they still have a part for me?”
“I’m sure they do. And if they say they don’t, we’ll just have Madhu talk to Nurse Wimble for you!”
Chapter 8
Christmas began in the heart of God. It is complete only when it reaches the heart of man.
—Author unknown
W hen we entered the large rehearsal room, the first thing I heard was Aaron. He was standing near the edge of a makeshift stage shouting his lines into the corn dog he was using as a microphone.
“And Joseph also
“How’s your arm?”
“My arm is fine. It’s just everything else that hurts,” I joked.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. Can I just come in so we don’t have to talk through the door?”
“Just a minute.” There was a light shuffling sound like ruffling of paper, and then she opened the door. She was wearing a new pair of pajamas and a pair of pink slippers, plus the usual white paper bag to cover her head.
Over the next thirty minutes I got to know Katrina better than I’d thought possible. For the first time she opened up and began to talk about herself, sharing some things that were sad and difficult for me to hear, but important for me to understand. The conversation began mildly enough with a few laughs about our brush with death on the gurneys, but then it took a more serious turn.
“Katrina, how come you don’t talk about your sickness?” I asked. “I don’t even know what kind of cancer you have?”
“I used to talk about it more when Grandpa was around. He made me feel better. He always told me everything would be fine.” A new sadness reverberated in her words.
“Did he, you know . . . die?” I asked.
She told me he had died four months earlier of a heart attack, and that now she was a ward of the state under the immediate care of the hospital for medical treatment. She never knew her father—even her mother wasn’t fully sure who her father was—and tragically, a drunk driver killed her mother on the way to work when Katrina was four years old. So for nearly as long as she could remember, she had depended on her grandfather for everything, especially after she was diagnosed with a brain tumor in July 1979.
As she recounted the horrific details of her life, I couldn’t help but reflect on how good my own life was. It was a thought I’d never considered before, that there were people far less fortunate than myself. I realized that I had things really easy. I had people who loved me, parents who cared for me, and friends who took interest in me and wanted to be with me. Katrina had none of that.
All she had was a fading memory of a mother and a grandfather who she now missed more than anything in the world.
“Grandpa didn’t care what I looked like,” she said at one point. “He just loved me. I always knew he loved me no matter what. Other people aren’t that way.”
“Katrina, I’m sorry about your granddad and your mom, too.”
“Thank you, Molar. I guess not having my grandpa around is why I wouldn’t let anyone put up Christmas decorations this year. He always used to love doing that with me, and I’d hate for him to think I was enjoying Christmas without him.”
“It’s Mo,” I corrected. “My friends call me Mo.”
“What?”
“My friends call me Mo,” I repeated. “You said Molar.”
“So
I
can call you that?” she asked timidly, almost doubting that someone would ever be willing to count her as a friend.
“Of course you can. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I can’t be sure, but I thought I glimpsed a trace of a smile spreading across her face through the mouth hole in her large paper bag.
“Mo,” she said proudly. “I’ve decided something. Even though I technically didn’t lose the gurney race, I didn’t exactly win either. So I’m going to keep our bargain and join the Christmas pageant.”
“Really!?” I would have jumped out of my seat but the lingering pain in my ribs kept me restrained.
“Really, really. Do you think they still have a part for me?”
“I’m sure they do. And if they say they don’t, we’ll just have Madhu talk to Nurse Wimble for you!”
Chapter 8
Christmas began in the heart of God. It is complete only when it reaches the heart of man.
—Author unknown
W hen we entered the large rehearsal room, the first thing I heard was Aaron. He was standing near the edge of a makeshift stage shouting his lines into the corn dog he was using as a microphone.
“And Joseph also
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