The Tale of the Sweaty Resident

Just look at the world around you
Right here on the ocean floor
Such wonderful things surround you
What more is you lookin’ for?

“Under The Sea,” The Little Mermaid

Week 13: Creative Problem Solving

With San Diego now under a “Stay- At- Home” mandate, and as many of us, my family included, consider how, with whom, or even when to celebrate the holiday, I come back to this: 2018, the night before Christmas Eve, and to the people, my parents — who remind me, in some of my most unglamourous moments, that problems, especially conundrums around celebrations, special events, and showing others how much they are loved, seen, and appreciated, are simply opportunities for creative solutions. Whatever your circumstance this holiday season, I hope this story brings you inspiration, hope, or even something like solidarity.

All my love,

Jesse

The Tale of the Sweaty Resident

Christmas 2018

I make my way across the Subway dining area and slide into a booth across from my dad, glancing briefly at a tall thermos on the table before I close my eyes and slowly, gently, lower my head to the table. “Please. For the love of God. Tell me that’s wine,” I mutter into my lap.

I hear him laugh, before he says, “Yes it’s wine, to go with the shrimp!”

I can’t see his face, but I know he’s smiling. I slowly sit up and slump, holding my chin with my hand as he lifts a compact cooler onto the Subway table and begins to unpack a veggie tray and hummus, cheeses, and eventually, a small shrimp platter. I feel my eyes widen as I stare at the small feast before us, and feel a twinge of guilt. The food was intended for a Christmas party at my parent’s home.

An event which was quickly cancelled when I brought Nora to the ER. The waves of guilt continue as I again consider the impact of Nora’s frequent illnesses on my family: the reshuffling of plans, and people (my son, Everett) and the cancellation of gatherings that happen when Nora is sick, having a hard epilepsy day, or in this case, when she is admitted to the hospital.

At this moment, she is just down the hallway, with my mother, getting an IV placed in her four-year-old veins. It is the day before Christmas Eve.

“I’m sorry our party plans didn’t work out tonight Dad — thank you for bringing this all the way down here,” I say quietly, reaching for the thermos of wine.

“You’re welcome!” he says cheerfully, and quite suddenly transitions to a solemn tone, “I do have a serious question for you…”

“Go on,” I say taking a sip of chardonnay.

“What is it like to be Jesse Van Leeuwen, mother of one of San Diego’s sickest kids?”

Suddenly I’m laughing, I spew chardonnay into the crook of my elbow as we laugh out loud. I reach for a napkin and heatedly sputter, “MOTHER TO A CHILD WHO IS SICK!” knowing he’s teasing me and trying to get me to laugh all at once. Recently, Children’s Hospital, this hospital, had begun airing a financial campaign asking for money for – and I quote – “San Diego’s sickest kids.” This language irritated me to no end!

I stand up to wipe chardonnay from the table, raise my voice just a fraction of a decibel and turn to the open seating dining area to deliver a standing address to almost no one, “It just seems important to avoid words like ‘sick, sicker, and sickest’ when describing children — can we leave room for resilience, miracles, and hope? Please?”

My father is laughing. “There she is!” he says with a smile.

“For the record, however you phrase it, it feels like I may be falling into a pit of despair. On repeat.”

He stops smiling, and somberly delivers his own marketing ploy, “Jesse Van Leeuwen, admired by all, envied by none.”

I laugh, “Isn’t that the truth…” I say and reach for the cocktail sauce.

“I know it’s hard Jesse, but you’re doing great. You really are,” he tells me before offering me peppermint bark, “The really good kind from Harry and David.” 

We continue to talk over smoked cheeses, brie and crackers, until my phone vibrates — I read the text from my mother out- loud, “Nora’s room is ready, we are heading there now.”

We pack up the portable cocktail party. He convinces me to stash the bag of peppermint bark in my purse and we make our way to Nora’s hospital room to find my mother sitting with Nora, holding a well-lit, glittering, swirling snow globe — discarded Christmas wrapping paper is strewn across her hospital bed, and Nora is smiling — oxygen cannula tucked tight against her nose.

“Did Nanna bring you a snow globe?!” I say to her excitedly.

“And Nanna has more surprises,” my mother says as she lifts herself off the bed and reaches for a large purse (the equivalent of Mary Poppin’s carpet bag) and she pulls out a miniature Christmas tree and an extension cord, “Nora will you help me decorate it?” she asks across the room.

Nora kicks her feet in delight and raises her hand to her mouth, “Yes!”

My dad pulls up a chair and begins to play the harmonica.

I arrange Nora’s overnight bag and medications on the counter and in the cupboards of the hospital room as a medical resident enters the space, and introduces himself, computer in hand. He quickly explains there have been technology issues with the hospital computers, and he might need a minute before we can complete Nora’s admission paperwork. “We literally have no place to be,” I say, but he doesn’t smile, instead he hunches tight over the keyboard and stares intently at the screen.

“Just let me know when you’re ready,” I tell him before asking my dad to toss me the thermos.

He lobs it across the room, I catch it, take a sip chardonnay and watch my mother decorate Nora’s Christmas tree on a hospital tray as my Dad plays “Silent Night” on the harmonica. Nora leans in close, enchanted, and smiles. I hear her occasional “coo” and eventually watch her sit up tall and straight, to look for me. When she finds me across the room, I tell her softly, so as not to disturb the resident, “You have the most beautiful voice.”

She smiles, points her toes, and searches for Nanna, who wheels the hospital tray and Christmas tree close enough for Nora to touch. I glance down at the resident, but he’s still staring, fixated, on his computer screen, unbothered, and possibly unaware of the Christmas revelry unfolding just over his shoulder. I notice, for the first time since he entered the room, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead. I watch as the beads of sweat roll down his temples. I glance up at a clock — the dial is positioned well past Nora’s bedtime. His hands shake as he wipes his forehead with his sleeve, and I watch his face as his cheeks begin to turn bright red.

I hear my parents sing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas,” as I reach into my purse for the peppermint bark, grab a paper towel, select the thickest piece of candy I can, and hold it outward towards the doctor with a smile,

“Can I offer you some peppermint bark? It’s Christmas you know, and it’s the really good kind, from Harry and David.”

He stares at my hand with delight, lifts the peppermint bark from the paper towel and says, “Oh, why yes, thank you so much.”

I offer the bag of chocolate to my parents, now singing “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid and pop a candy cane sprinkled chocolate into my mouth as suddenly, and without warning, I’m struck with the realization that this moment— sharing peppermint bark with a sweaty resident the night before Christmas Eve at Children’s Hospital — is not something I ever envisioned for my life.

I push myself back against the counter, an attempt to quickly ground myself in this bizarre, unexpected role that is my life as Jesse Van Leeuwen, mother to one of San Diego’s sickest children, and stare across the room to my parents. They continue to sing to Nora:

“Just look at the world around you
Right here on the ocean floor
Such wonderful things surround you
What more is you lookin’ for?”

My mom leans in close and kisses Nora’s nose, Nora smiles as I realize, that for my parents, this moment — visiting their granddaughter, and their daughter, at Children’s Hospital (yet again) is not likely what they envisioned for my life, their granddaughter’s life, or for their own grandparenthood. They didn’t ask for, or anticipate, cancelled holiday parties on account of respiratory distress, or decorating a hospital room for Christmas, fourth of July, or Easter. But they still show up, wholeheartedly, with love, cheer, and hospitality.

I glance at the resident, now nibbling on his peppermint bark, and I know:  I never could have envisioned this moment, or the people in it, but all we have is today. And today is a gift.

As I write this today, in the year 2020, and as I consider this strange and unprecedented holiday season, and as I consider what is important and essential for myself and my family, it is the poignant question, from the Little Mermaid, which surfaces: “Such wonderful things surround you, what more is you lookin’ for?”

Merry Christmas.

Photo: Christmas 2018, Jessica Rice Photography