DP Tool Club 19/CD_ASCQ_19_010295.iso/vrac/rubyv39.zip/RUBY39-5

Text File | 1994-11-24 | 8KB | 129 lines

Copyright 1994(c)
                        A CHRISTMAS TALE
                          By Lyle Davis

     It all took place at Bishop Clarkson Hospital, Omaha,
Nebraska. At least most of it took place there.
     There was a 15 year old lad in for observation and tests that
would shortly result in an appendectomy. While being pushed,
prodded, probed and thoroughly checked from stem to stern he
observed a new, younger patient being moved into his room.
     The new patient was an Indian boy, from the Winnebago tribe
up near Sioux City. He was 12, had skin as brown as a hickory nut,
jet black hair with bangs that just naturally fell over his
forehead, the whitest teeth and widest smile you've ever seen.
There was a sparkle in his eyes when he talked. There was also
torment there when he was hurting. Which was often.
     Like the 15 year old, they didn't really know what was wrong
with the Indian boy named Joe. He would have intermittent bouts of
excruciating pain. He would never cry out. He would grimace, grab
the sides of the bed rails, clump the pillow up in his hands and
squeeze, but never a cry. After the pain went away he would talk
and flash that wonderous smile of his.
     They talked about all the things young lads talk about. Joe
would talk about the reservation, about the rivers and creekbeds
he would frequent when out running trap lines or fishing or
hunting. He would talk about his new quarters in Omaha. Living
conditions must have been pretty rough on the Winnebago reservation
because he described his living quarters in Omaha as though they
were a castle and its surrounding gardens. Yet the area where he
lived was the slums of Omaha, skid row. There were many Indians
living there, true. But they were generally derelicts, drunks, down
and out beggars and thieves. Yet Joe thought this was heaven on
earth.
     Joe had no one to come visit him. His parents lived up on
the reservation and his father had little, if any, work. They had
no car so it would have meant a long bus ride to Omaha, finding a
place to rent, a long bus ride back, and meanwhile they needed to
eat.  And they only had limited funds available. The options were
limited. The easiest one, financially, was not to visit Joe in the
hospital as often as they would like.
     As Christmas approached the parents and friends of the 15
year old had come to befriend "Little Joe" as he was called by most
everyone. Each day they would bring in a small box, gift wrapped
nicely, so that Little Joe might have something of a Christmas. He
fairly tingled with excitement and his eyes sparkled even more as
he watched the pile of presents grow higher and higher.
     The pains were coming more often now for Joe. They still
hadn't isolated what was causing them. It was necessary to give
him painkillers now as the episodes of pain lasted longer and
longer. The pain killers made him groggy and it was a while before
he was able to flash the "Little Joe Smile" again.....but when he
smiled....he smiled!
     On Christmas Eve day, Joe was having a difficult time. But
even though he had been in great pain and even though he was still
a bit groggy from the medication his eyes lit up brilliantly when
he saw an elderly Indian couple enter the room. Upon closer
examination it became evident that they really weren't all that
elderly....it was just that they both appeared stooped, their faces
heavily lined, their clothing, though clean, was shabby; they were
old beyond their years. It was Little Joe's mom and dad.
     They had taken the bus down from the reservation to Omaha.
As they neither had the money for a cab, nor did they understand
the Omaha City Bus system, they had to walk from the bus station
to the hospital, a distance of about 5 miles.
     It had been a cold, blustery, punishing walk. Omaha winters
are notoriously cruel. Yet Joe's mom and dad trudged on. They were
used to cruelty.
     Somewhere along the way they passed a Christmas Tree lot.
Business was slow. Most folks had bought their Christmas trees
already. Joe's father had asked if there might be a small tree they
could buy for 50 cents; when he explained it was for his son who
was in a hospital room the Christmas tree vendor handed him a small
tree, a bit on the scraggly side, but still a nice small Christmas
tree. He bade Joe's parents a merry Christmas and refused payment.
     Upon entering the hospital floor where Joe was staying, a
couple of nurses raided the arts and crafts room and liberated a
few strands of red, green, white and blue bits of yarn. Someone
cut out a star from some drawing paper, another found some crepe
paper left over from a Halloween party. True, it was orange and
black but it was colorful. Together, they "decorated" little Joe's
Christmas Tree.
     After mother and son had hugged one another and mother
brushed away a tear, and after the stoic father had ruffled Little
Joe's hair (it would have been unseemly for him to hug his son;
Indian men didn't do that), they set up the little Christmas tree
on the table by his bed. They adjusted the wooden cross nailed to
the bottom so it stood upright, perhaps with a slight tilt to the
left, but still, it was upright, after a fashion. Little Joe
eagerly piled his presents under the little tree.
     They enjoyed one another's company for several hours. Then
Little Joe had a bad, bad pain. The nurses came and gave him a pain
killer. It only partially worked. An intern came and examined Joe.
He asked that the resident physician be called. They decided to do
some type of surgery and Joe was taken to surgery within the hour.
     Several hours later Joe had awakened in recovery; they
returned him to his room, still groggy, but conscious. Again, his
smile beamed when he saw his mother, his father, and his bed-mate,
the 15 year old. This time, the father gently cradled his son and
gave him a tender hug. It was no longer important whether it was
"seemly" or not to hug his son. The mother stroked her son's face.
The 15 year old wanted to talk to Little Joe and ask him about
surgery, the recovery room, the doctors.....but, he thought better
of it and didn't interrupt the family visit.
     The next morning the floor nurse, as nurses for centuries
have done, awakened the 15 year old to ask him how he was feeling,
while she took his pulse and other vitals. The 15 year old sleepily
allowed as how he was feeling fine, though a bit tired. He noticed
what looked like a tear in the nurses eye.
     His stomach froze.
     He looked over at Little Joe's bed. It was not only empty
but the bedclothes had been removed; Little Joe's chart, his
nameplate, everything was gone.
     Except for the scrawny Christmas tree next to his bed, with
gifts piled beneath.
     He looked at the nurse's face. A questioning look of
disbelief on his face.
     "Little Joe died this morning at 3 a.m.," the nurse said.
     The 15 year old let out a scream and buried it in his pillow.
He sobbed and sobbed. The nurse slipped silently out the door,
tears flowing down her cheeks as well. The 15 year old continued
to cry. He cried for Little Joe...he cried for Little Joe's
parents...he cried for the pain Little Joe had to endure....he
cried for himself.....he thought of the little Christmas tree left
by Little Joe's bed and he cried even harder.
     It has been 34 years since all this happened. It was
probably the biggest single reason that he never really enjoyed any
Christmas after that.
     I remember it well.
                               END