Bah Humbug

Bah humbug. It’s cold, wet and snowy. Why do people like this holiday? There’s too many lights, so many Christmas songs on repeat. How many Christmases will Mariah Carey want ”you.” I hope she finally gets that this year so it can stop. It’s so expensive, so many subliminal messages for people to buy the most expensive, trendy things. Christmas Eve in New York is terrible. Christmas is terrible. So many shoppers, so many carols, it’s my least favorite holiday. I just want to get home and sleep. The days are getting longer because of the holidays. 

When the snow falls and hits the ground, so do I. Traveling home in snow. Public transportation. Christmas Eve. New York. A recipe for disaster. Getting up and heading for the subway, I’m met with so many smiles and season’s greetings, so many well wishers and too many beggars. Due to the fall, I missed the train by 19 seconds, having to wait another 40 minutes for another one. This. This is why the day gets longer. Trains don’t run on schedule, and when they do come, all of the cars are full. I wait by the wall, ignoring the lady attempting to chat it up about the weather or something. Like The Rolling Stones, I imagine painting everything black. I just want to go home and sit in nothingness, lying down until I fall asleep. 

I’m so tired that I actually sit down on the steps to the subway. 25 minutes is too long in this too cold weather. 

…

He wakes up in the hospital, knowing who he is but not really. He knows his name. Not how he got there, why he was there, or who was coming to get him. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t able to be discharged anyway. He sat down on the steps. The weather was too cold. The train was taking too long. He hadn’t realized his body temperature had dropped, and that he sat in a puddle of water that someone had spilled. He had fallen asleep on the steps, working so much that he could fall asleep anywhere. It’s the small, unexpected things that get you. 

…

I look around the hospital room, looking for some sign of what my life is like. Who’s in it, where do I work, what do I like to do. Did I have someone to send me flowers? Was there a coworker that dropped off some tasks for me to do? Did someone drop a card off wishing me to get well? 

I check my phone and I have no messages. No missed calls. From the looks of the decorations, and the date and time on my phone, it’s Christmas Eve. Maybe someone, somewhere will be giving me a call. I’m sure I’m missing from a family event. As I’m looking through my messages threads and phone logs, the nurse walks in. She informs me that I have amnesia. She asks me my name, where I live and what today is. My name is Jared Kingsley. Today is Christmas Eve. My address is 4501 Westchester Ave. 

Two out of three correct. How do I not remember where I live? Whose address did I regurgitate flawlessly? As I sit in the hospital bed wondering what other information I’m remembering incorrectly, a woman walks in. I hope I never forget this moment; she’s divine. Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas” is playing over the hospital speakers, ever so lightly that it seems like a scene is being set for the main characters in a movie. It’s the perfect song for how I feel when I first see her. Maybe this is my wife coming to visit me after hearing the news. She has an angelic glow about her. Her short, curly hair makes it so there’s a curtain of soft looking coils brushing her face, bouncing as she turns her head. She has a warm smile. It melts me. 

This woman is not my wife, but my angel, the one that found me on the subway steps. She’s coming to check on how I’m doing. There is an eerie presence about her, in the way that one has many secrets. Exposing one could lead to a line of them. She sits in the chair in the corner of the room, staring with egg shaped, brown eyes. They reveal a storm inside, one that comes with much turmoil and loss. 

She speaks first, with sadness in her voice. She tells me about how she found me, what I looked like, how I felt. I notice then that her fuzzy coat is with my belongings, she must have put it on me when she saw me. I thank her and ask her name. She just keeps talking, as if she can’t hear me. Then I realized she can’t because I’m talking but nothing is coming out.

She looks over to me with worry, trying to calm me. Nothing else matters in this moment. I calm down and just look around. I’m at peace. The Christmas lights hanging in the hospital are cheery and bright, the presents on display are wrapped beautifully, and everyone looks like they have a bit of holiday cheer. I fall asleep listening to Christmas carols over the speakers of the hospital. 

…

When I wake, the delightful woman in my room is gone. I’m sure I didn’t imagine her because her coat is still with my belongings. I wasn’t able to talk to her but I hope she knows how thankful I am for her being there to find me on the steps and coming to check on me. It’s Christmas Day. I’m being released from the hospital. My name is Jared Kingsley. Today is Christmas Day. I’m not sure what home I’m going to, but it will feel good to get out of here. 

I sign my release paperwork, minimal injury has occurred, although the damage should have been greater. I’m just fortunate that it wasn’t. Walking out the doors, I feel the rush of cold air, I hear the sounds of children’s laughter from the pediatric section of the hospital, as they open their presents you can hear the smile in their voices. I’ve come to realize I’m being released and I have no idea what family I have or who I belong to. I check my phone again and still no messages. No calls. At this point, who’s to say I have family? From the looks of my email, I was a workaholic, steadfast on being in the hustle and bustle of business. 

I take this opportunity to go across to the shopping center and find whatever stores are open that have toys. Hardly any. Then at the last desperate moment, I see a craft store. I run back to the hospital and kindly ask one of the nurses on lunch to assist me, as I do not know what crafts can be done with children. We find yarn, scissors, construction paper and a few other things. I thank her for her time and carry all of the bags back over to the hospital. I ask the staff if I can sit with the children and their parents and make crafts with them. They happily allow it. 

Although my holiday started with a fall, and ended with amnesia, I’m lucky. That woman. The woman who saved me helped me see through her gestures that there is a meaning to kindness, there is hope. And after all, maybe I’ll see this mystery woman around somewhere. When I do, I’ll be able to tell her that all I want for Christmas is…you.