The Gift of Presence

 From the December 20, 2023 issue of the Transformational Times

The Gift of Presence  

Karen Herzog

“Greetings from Milwaukee! It’s the season of miracles, and we have a little one named Kelsey Marie. She views the world through big, blue eyes, and has an Eveready smile. Seven months into her life, we’re still in awe of everything she does. All Kelsey wants for Christmas is to crawl, and we believe she’ll get her wish any day now…” 

– Our Family’s 1995 Christmas letter 

Despite the magical lead-up to our firstborn daughter’s first Christmas, a painful ear infection and high fever made her inconsolable, and left us at wit’s end, on Christmas Eve. We finally did what many parents do when physician offices are closed and there’s no urgent care: We bundled her up in the wee hours of Christmas morning and drove her to the ER of the small hospital in my hometown, where we were visiting my parents. 

Kelsey was the only patient at that hour, and the ER was peaceful before her crying pierced the silence. Thankfully, relief was on the way when a young resident appeared in the examining room. The amoxicillin he prescribed (with a dose of reassurance for her anxious, sleep-deprived parents) was a small Christmas miracle. 

I wish the bleary-eyed resident who crawled out of an on-call room bed at 4 a.m., because of a crying child’s non-emergency ear infection could have seen that tiny patient a few hours later, once the amoxicillin kicked in. There’s nothing sweeter than a sweet baby, cheeks still flushed from fever, staring in awe at the twinkling lights on her grandparents’ Christmas tree, her first Christmas morning. 

Of course, first holidays of life often stand in contrast to last holidays of life. I can’t think about one without the other, as my mom died four days before Christmas four years ago. She was 90. 

The awe I felt at the end of my mom’s life was for the healthcare workers. Their presence was as warm as the Christmas lights that filled her room in a skilled care facility. 

This holiday season, my wish for healthcare workers who make tremendous sacrifices to “be there” for patients in hospitals and skilled care centers is to know their presence is a gift that will hold a special place in the holiday memories of those they touch. 

Karen Herzog is the copy editor of the Transformational Times. In a previous life, she was an education reporter at the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel.  

Christmas Morning Rounds

From the December 21, 2023 issue of the Transformational Times

Christmas Morning Rounds

Bruce H. Campbell, MD FACS

In the days running up to the Christmas Holiday, the Transformational Times editors offered reflections. Here, we publish an essay by editorial board member, Dr. Bruce Campbell.

Many years ago (even before HIPAA), my family was visiting for the holidays. On several occasions I had tried, without a lot of success, to explain to my father what I did for a living as a head and neck cancer surgeon. On this day, I looked at him and said, "Dad, I have to see a couple of people in the hospital this morning. Do you want to come with me?" He readily agreed.  

A few minutes later, we arrived at the inpatient floor. One of my patients that day was a man in his early 30s who had undergone cancer surgery to remove part of his cheekbone the day before. He had done well overnight and was recovering. I stuck my head in his room.  

“Merry Christmas!” I said. “I know this is unusual, but my father is with me this morning to make rounds. He is not a doctor—actually, he is a retired dime store owner—but he would love to meet you. Do you mind if he comes in with me?”  

“Really?” replied my patient. “Sure! That would be fine.” 

I returned to the hallway and explained that the patient’s face was pretty swollen but that he was otherwise doing fine. My dad nodded and we went in. I introduced them to each other. If my father was surprised by the man’s early post-operative appearance, he did not let on.    

“Good morning!" said my dad. “Nice to meet you! How are you doing today?”  

Despite his swelling, my patient replied, “Actually, I’m doing very well, thanks. Better than I expected.” The young man was lying in bed with one eye nearly shut and his cheek full of packing material. His upper lip was swollen, making conversation a bit of a challenge. Nevertheless, as I checked his surgical sites and looked through the notes in his chart, my dad asked the patient about his cancer, his hometown, and his family. My dad, a distinguished looking gentleman with graying temples, nodded and smiled, absorbing the story.  

The patient asked my dad, “So, how long do you think I will be in the hospital?” My dad smiled and glanced at me.  

“I don’t know what my dad thinks, but I think you’re doing great,” I said. “I predict you’ll be ready to go home the day after tomorrow.”  

“Thanks again, Doc. I’ll let my family know.” We all said goodbye and Dad wished him well. After we finished seeing my other patients, Dad and I headed home for our family’s Christmas meal. 

For years, my father recalled the day we made rounds together. He would remind me what he had seen and would ask how the patients were doing. Those few minutes had given him a glimpse into my life and work that I had never, ever been able to adequately share by trying to tell him what I did. 

A few years ago—and long after my dad had died—I received a holiday card from the patient, marking the anniversary of his hospitalization. “I remember you and your father even came in to see me on Christmas Day! I will never forget that,” he wrote.  

I was surprised by how much that one brief Christmas morning rounds encounter had impacted both my father and the patient. The shared experience had preserved the memory and sharpened our senses. I wrote back to the man, now a long-term cancer survivor, that I was very grateful I had been able to share that moment of insight, healing, and presence, both with him and with my dad.

It is a Christmas present I have always treasured.

Bruce H. Campbell, MD FACS is a retired professor in the Department of Otolaryngology and Communication Sciences at MCW. He has been on the Transformational Times editorial board since March 2020. www.BruceCampbellMD.com 

'Twas the Night Before Christmas: Love, Grief, and Snowflakes

From the December 21, 2023 issue of the Transformational Times

'Twas the Night Before Christmas: Love, Grief, and Snowflakes

Kathlyn Fletcher, MD MA

In the days running up to the Christmas Holiday, the Transformational Times editors offered reflections. Here, we publish an essay by editorial board member, Dr. Kathlyn Fletcher.

My mom loved snow.  When she was alive, she would always call me on the first snow of the year, even when we lived in different states, and it was only snowing where she was.  Having a white Christmas was very special to her--almost sacred--and I wished for snow every year because she loved it so much.  I grew to love it, too.   

One year when I was in high school, we had a stubbornly brown landscape right up to the time that we stepped into the Presbyterian Church on Christmas Eve for the 11:00 PM service.  I loved that church service; we sang favorite Christmas carols and ended with Silent Night by candlelight; magical in its consistent simplicity.   

We left church that night to find that it was snowing beautiful, large flakes, and the streets were already completely blanketed with the quiet, peace of heavy snow.  My mother and both had tears in our eyes as we looked around.  It felt like a small gift meant just for us. 

My mom loved the Christmas season, and writing this remembrance makes me teary that she is gone and grateful that I had her at all.  The holidays will do that to a person.  A few years before she died, she recorded herself reading Twas the Night Before Christmas and gave it to my daughter.  

Every Christmas Eve, we open the book and listen to her voice reading to us as we sit together in our matching Christmas pajamas.   Every year, I feel simultaneous grief and love.  It's a hard place to live, but it's worth it.  Miss you, Mom.    

Kathlyn Fletcher, MD, MA is a professor in the Department of Medicine at MCW and program director of MCW's internal medicine residency. She is a longstanding member of the Transformational Times editorial board. 

 

A Message from the One Who Stays Home while the Resident is Working

 From the December 24, 2021 issue of the Transformational Times

A Message from the One Who Stays Home while the Resident is Working

Clare Xu

Hospitals don't slow down just because the calendar says it is time for a holiday. This essay, originally published in December 2021, shares how the spouse of an internal medicine resident altered her family Christmas plans so that her resident-spouse would also have a special celebration. Remember, this was when COVID-19. vaccines were just becoming available ...

When my husband and I got married in November 2021, our officiant had us make a list of the five things that we love most about the other person. My husband shared that I “live in the moment and celebrate the small things.” Fair enough, though he didn’t mention that I also love to celebrate the big things. By that I mean all the festive holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, Easter, and Halloween (plus a few more!).

Christmas is probably my favorite “big thing” to celebrate. Unlike me, my husband didn’t grow up celebrating Christmas. When we got together, he went from living without a single Christmas decoration adorning his dwelling to a home popping with red, green, gold, and silver. He now enjoys our felt garlands hung across the mantle, snowmen, reindeer, and whatever else I bring home. I introduced him to many other Christmas traditions enjoyed by my family, including Christmas crackers, blintzes, and The Muppets Christmas Carol. It brought me joy to share my family Christmas traditions with my husband.

Last Christmas, Zhu was scheduled to work on Christmas Day. I started planning early, considering ways that I could include him in the festivities. My goal was to maximize my participation in my family Christmas celebration while still preserving a special bit of the Christmas magic for Zhu. After conferring with my family on the matter, we opted to have two Christmas celebrations: one on Christmas Day with everyone except Zhu, and one in early January with Zhu as the guest of honor.

On Christmas Day, after celebrating with my family, I dashed back home, through the snow with our two dogs sitting in the back of the car, determined to be there to greet Zhu when got home. My husband never wants anyone to make a fuss over him. He said that he wouldn’t have been bothered if I had chosen to stay on at my parents’ house for Christmas dinner, and I am sure that he was sincere. I explained to him that above all, Christmas is about giving; not just presents and food and all of the other trappings, but of ourselves. He’d spent his Christmas giving to his patients who, on this special day, deserved the utmost care and compassion. By being there for him, at home, on Christmas Day, I was able to show him how much I love and value him.

For our January-Christmas, I arranged with my parents to leave all of the gifts for and from Zhu unopened, and the holiday decorations up exactly as they were on Christmas Day. This day was for Zhu. Of course, the attention made him feel a little shy, but we all knew how much he appreciated the gesture and the opportunity of joining in the festivities.

I believe that preserving celebrations and tailoring them to Zhu’s work schedule helps him to focus on his patients. He doesn’t have to feel that he is missing out and give into feelings of loneliness. He might not be able to celebrate with his loved ones on Christmas Day, but he is helping people who are struggling on Christmas Day. This might be the worst day of their lives and their families. They’re scared and maybe in pain. I like to think that the staff who are taking care of the patients will be able to bring joy and healing, even on holidays.

This essay was written while Zhuchen Xu, MD was completing his internal medicine residency. Dr. Xu is now on the MCW faculty.