It's a Wonderful Life

By Leandra Lynch, MD, from Medical Economics

Fresh out of residency, I moved to Woodland Hills, Calif., to take a job in a small community hospital's emergency department. As the newest member of the group, I got last dibs on shifts. No one wanted to work on Christmas Eve, so the shift went to me. I kissed my family goodbye and went off to spend the night in the hospital. It was a thankless job.

At 9 p.m., the
ambulance brought in a man in his 60s who was having a heart attack. His face was pale, gray, and he was frightened. In the early '80s, clot-busting drugs weren't generally available. My patient was unstable, but I did my best and he hung in there. Eventually we were able to move him out of the ER and into the ICU. Before I left in the morning to spend Christmas with my family, I stopped by to see how he was doing. It was still touch and go, but he had survived the night and was sleeping.

Emergency physicians don't have continuing relationships with patients like other doctors. We get the suddenly sick, the wounded. Often they're scared. Sometimes they're angry at us, just because we're there. They pass through our hands and out the door. We rarely see them again. I thought no more about my heart patient. The following year, still the newest member of the group, I got Christmas Eve duty again and dragged myself off to work. At 9 p.m. sharp, the ward clerk told me there was a couple in the lobby who wanted to speak with me.

Spreading Light

When I approached them, the man introduced himself as Mr. Lee and said, "You probably don't remember me, but last Christmas Eve you saved my life. Thank you for the year you gave me." He and his wife hugged me, handed me a small gift, and left. I was more than a little surprised -- and touched.

The following year a new doctor had joined the group, and my family was delighted that I could stay home Christmas Eve. But I wanted to see if Mr. and Mrs. Lee would return. This time, I volunteered for the shift.

I kept an eye on the door. Once again, at exactly 9 p.m., the Lees appeared, carrying a snugly wrapped bundle. It was their new grandchild. We all embraced, and Mr. Lee said he'd come see me every Christmas Eve, and that if he didn't come, well, I would know that it just wasn't his year.

I worked the emergency department for the next ten Christmas Eves, and though I treated a great many trauma patients, there was never anyone quite like Mr. Lee. Each year at exactly 9 p.m. he'd appear, twice with new grandchildren. One year he came with a great-grandchild.

Mr. Lee, his family and I spent 13 Christmas Eves together. In the later years the staff all knew about the ritual and would work to give me time with him in the break room. In this small space cluttered with bulletin boards, the coffeepot, a microwave and refrigerator, we spent a half-hour each Christmas Eve.

The last year I saw him, he brought me a gift. I carefully unwrapped the package and found a crystal bell inside. It was engraved with a single word: Friendship. Mr. Lee died the next year, the year I moved to Crested Butte, Colorado. Now, my family, friends and I ring that bell every Christmas Eve at exactly 9 p.m. and offer a toast to the man who didn't forget.