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I was asked last week by Deanna to provide a Christmas
memory, and I'm afraid that Christmas brings out the
procrastinator in me, be it shopping or penning stories.
So please forgive this post-Christmas Christmas story. I
have no excuse; in fact, it is extremely easy for me to
conjure up images of my best Christmas. It was December
25, 1986. My son, Jimmy, came home from the hospital that
day, having been born the day before. How could one ever
imagine a better Christmas present than that?
We had been going through even more anticipation and
concern than usual with the birth of a child; Jimmy
was supposed to join us around Thanksgiving, but,
always one for the dramatic, he waited four weeks to
be a Christmas baby instead. It was worth the wait.
I'm not one who experiences vivid memories, but his
birth is as fresh in my mind as if it had occurred
yesterday - the green delivery room, the bustle of
the white-clad medical personnel, and my wife, looking
pained but radiant. The labor was difficult, and the
anxiety in the room was palpable when, with each
contraction, we could see and hear Jim's heart rate
drop on the beeping monitor. The doctor, a large but
gentle man, took charge. He softly encouraged Sue while
marshalling the nurses, preparing to do all that he could
to assure that this child would arrive safely in this world.
While all of this was going on I was shuffled to the periphery,
feeling helpless.
There was a sudden burst of activity at the bedside, the
doctor moved quickly, and in a moment he was holding my
newborn son up in his huge hands. Jim was motionless at
first, but then opened his eyes and scanned the room with
a gaze that seemed to assert he was somehow wiser than us
all. And at that moment, having just come from heaven, he
was. His pigmentation, starting from the top of his head
and working down to the tip of his toes, changed before my
eyes from a pale, bluish tinge to a healthy pink, and it
would have been less amazing to me to if lightning had
flashed through the window and brought this child to life.
I was dazzled.
"Is the father all right?" a nurse asked me, seeing
the astonished look on my face and thinking I was on
the verge of collapsing. I tried to answer but couldn't
talk; there were no words to describe the miracle I had
witnessed. I could only stare at Jim, who was now in his
mother's arms.
I went home that evening euphoric, and, with a good friend,
went out to buy a Christmas tree (we had not yet done any
shopping or decorating, all of our attention for the past
four weeks being focused on the upcoming birth). It being
late Christmas Eve, no places were open, but we did find
unsold trees piled by a dumpster, and took what to this day
I consider our best Christmas tree ever. We drank champagne
and decorated the tree, trying to give Jim and his mother a
Christmas as good as the one they gave me, though that would
not be possible. The following day they came home to a house
appropriately decorated for both his birth and the birth of
a Savior. (When he was three I told him the best Christmas
present I ever received was when he came home from the hospital
on Christmas day. "Why was I in the hospital?" he asked,
which was something I hadn't anticipated. "Well," I tried
to explain, "when you were real little you were inside momma's
belly, but then you got too big so we had to go to the hospital
to take you out." Much to my surprise, he went back to playing
with his toys. "Do you understand?" I asked. "Yea, just like
a kangaroo," he replied.)
Jim turned 19 this Christmas Eve. He graduated from high school
with honors, and is now a straight A student at the Massachusetts
Maritime Academy, looking forward to a career on the ocean,
which he loves (wonder where he got that?). And though he is
a man now, when I look at him, especially this time of year,
I still see the small baby who delayed his entry into this
world by four weeks to give his parents the greatest Christmas
present they could ever receive. ~ Dave
About Dave:
Dave Micus lives in Ipswich, Massachusetts. He is an
avid striped bass fly fisherman, writer and instructor.
He writes a fly fishing column for the Port City Planet
newspaper of Newburyport, MA (home of Plum Island and Joppa Flats)
and teaches a fly fishing course at Boston University.
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