He was a proud war veteran, this man who changed my life. He lived alone in a tiny apartment and had no family left alive, at least none that he knew of. He was alone, yet he was fiercely independent, and now he was dying.
I was a fledgling hospice home health nurse working in a poor community that was fast becoming a ghost town, falling victim like so many others to the loss of once thriving industry. My husband had recently lost his job, and we had a new home and mortgage. I was now the sole breadwinner and low on the pay scale. Christmas was coming. I was deeply depressed.
Mr. J came into my life uneventfully, another patient living in gang territory. I was used to the area and knew the necessary safety precautions. We were to visit early in the day and let the patient know when to expect us. We wore standard colors easy to identify as "the nurse". We moved in and out of the homes quickly, and left the area if there was any sign of trouble. I knew the rules and planned my day accordingly. Mr. J was my second visit of the day.
When I arrived I had that feeling of anticipation that only a home health nurse can know, the increasing adrenalin as you knock at the door wondering what you will find within. I knew only that he lived alone, was dying of cancer, and was discharged from the hospital the day before. Did he know his prognosis? What kinds of problems was he having? Was he ready for hospice? Thoughts raced through my head.
Mr. J. opened the door and greeted me with a warm smile. He welcomed me in. The room was sporificely furnished but neat as a pin. As we talked I learned that he had never married and had no one save for a few friends in the neighborhood. They would help him get to appointments and get his food with food stamps. I noticed that the TV was on but had no picture. He saw me looking at it and got up to turn it off, telling me "I listen to it; I don't need to see it anyway". I asked about his sleeping arrangements and he pointed to the bedroom. That was when I noticed he had no sheets, just a bare mattress with a blanket on top, stretched tightly with nary a wrinkle. His corners were neater than any I had ever folded, the military training perhaps. As we turned towards to the kitchen I noted his clothes were so threadbare that you could practically see through them. There was no sign of laundry anywhere, no chests or boxes, no hamper, nothing but a bed and a small closet. I peeked inside to see only a few pieces of clothing on hangers in similar condition as those he wore.
I looked around with dawning awareness as I realized that this man had nothing in the world save for a few items. He had worked all his life, but somehow ended up here, unable to afford any of the things that we think are so important to happiness. He was overwhelmingly poor, yet he was happy and kept his tiny apartment and his ragged clothes clean and neat as though he had a palace and the fine robes of a king.
He wanted nothing, and denied the need for any assistance or services. He thought that he was doing well the way things were, thank you very much. He would allow the nurse to visit a few times to make his doctor happy, but nothing more. He knew he was dying, and that was ok with him for it was in God's hands and God had never failed him yet.
I cried that night. I felt so guilty for worrying about money and presents when in reality I had so much to be thankful for. At the next visit I took him a few pieces of clothing from my husband's closet, and some sheets, lying and casually telling him that we had things in the office that people had given us for anyone who might be able to use them. If he could use them that would really help us out since there was not much room in the office for storage. He thought that would be just fine.
I wanted to do something for him for Christmas. I knew he would not want anyone to fuss over him. I thought of him all alone, listening to the TV looking out at the snow and it gave me an idea. My husband and I had combined our furniture when we married, and I still had the small TV from my apartment. It wasn't much, but it had a picture and his did not. I decided that he would at least have TV to watch at Christmas.
On Christmas Eve it was snowing heavily. We were headed to the annual family gathering, but I told my husband I needed him to do a favor for me before we went. We drove the dark winding road through the snow to where Mr. J lived. I was so excited, thinking that this is what it must be like to be Santa. I was concerned about going to the rough neighborhood after dark, but I knew that I had to do this.
When we got to the apartment complex I had my husband take the TV to the door to give to Mr. J. He had recently grown his beard out and I had him wear a red Santa hat for the job. When he opened the door my husband wished him Merry Christmas and said that he heard that Mr. J could use a TV as he took it in, turned and left. I stayed hidden in the car.
We went on to the party, filled with happiness. My husband never questioned why I asked him to do this. He knew in his heart that I must have a good reason, and he was excited to be a part of it.
Mr. J died a few weeks later. We never spoke about the TV, but it was there in the living room during my last few visits. I hope he watched something wonderful on Christmas Eve. I know he had at least one gift for his last Christmas here on earth. I hope he liked it. I hope he knew that someone cared for him and that he was not alone.
I have never shared this story with anyone before. It was secret moment of joy that I have treasured over the years. I think of it every year as the holidays come around, and I am grateful. I am sharing it now to encourage others to give from the heart to someone who is in need at Christmas. Even if you have little to give there are so many who have less. For as Saint Francis said "It is in giving that we receive". That is the real magic of Christmas.
