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Life, actually…

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THE ALMOST CHRISTMAS ANGEL

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HER STORY:

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I’m walking along the sidewalk near the St. Vincent’s Hospital parking deck and I just plain topple over something. I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but all of a sudden I’m flat on my back and my head is cut and hurting and my eyes are closed because I’m dizzy. I keep squinting, and I’m afraid to look around because I don’t know whether I’m dead or dreaming, or what.

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I hear this deep voice saying, “Just lie still, you’re going to be all right.” I want to see who is talking, so I open up and everything looks dark red and I think maybe I’m blind.

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“I can’t see,” I say to the voice. I think maybe I really am dead.

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The deep voice says, “You will be fine. Just be calm. Just be calm.”

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I try to take a deep breath and hold on. I feel a warm hand touching my forehead and soothing me.

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It isn’t long before I wake up in the emergency room and learn that I really will be all right. The nurses have cleaned the blood out of my eyes and I’m just fine.

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I’ll always wonder how my deep voice angel knew how to comfort me at just the right moment. I wonder if I’ll ever need him again.

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MY STORY:

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I’m walking along, near the St.Vincent’s Hospital emergency room near Christmastime, absentmindedly trailing behind a large woman who is in a hurry. Suddenly, she trips over a partially off-center manhole cover and falls flat to the ground, her head gushing blood. Her eyes are closed, and I lean over to see whether she’s conscious.

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She moves and squints, but the blood from her cut fills her eyes so that she probably can’t see. I don’t want to cause further damage, so I figure the best thing to do is stick by her till somebody comes from the emergency room.

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I sit down beside her so that she will know that she’s not alone out here. I lean close to her ear and quietly speak so that she won’t be startled. “Just lie still, you’re going to be all right.”

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She turns toward me and says, “I can’t see.”

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All I can think to do is reassure her whether or not I know she’s going to be fine. “You will be fine. Just be calm. Just be calm.”

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She responds and seems calmer.

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I recall the comforting healing power of my father’s large hand when he touched my forehead so many years ago, hovering over my sickbed and worrying.

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I reach over and my hand becomes my father’s hand and warmly touches her forehead.

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She lies quietly, almost smiling.

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Within minutes two casually-moving ER employees show up with a wheelchair and escort the woman away. Even though her eyes are still closed, I feel she’s going to be taken care of.

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I walk toward my car and go about my life.

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And I often wonder what this unknown woman thinks about when she remembers her Christmas blindness near a hospital parking deck.

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Does she wonder who I was?

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Does she know that I gave the only Christmas gift I knew how to give

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© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

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