I married Maggie in 1963 on Christmas day. It wasn’t planned that way, we were set to tie the knot on November 23, but after President Kennedy was assassinated by that idiot Oswald, Maggie was so overcome with sadness that we postponed the ceremony. Maggie loved Jack Kennedy, his wife and the idea of Camelot. My wife was that type of person; she loved romance and happy endings, and angels. I think that might be why she ended up setting Christmas as the day for our wedding. Boy did that upset her family and mine. Who the heck gets married on Christmas day? My older and often wiser sister warned her that the turnout would likely be very small, “People want to be with their families on Christmas, and they are not going to want to be at a wedding!”
I remember Maggie smiling politely at her future sister-in-law and saying, “Only three people have to be there, your brother, the preacher and me. Anyone else that shows up will be icing on the cake.”
It turned out that my sister was right, less than a couple dozen people showed up to the church that day. But it didn’t bother Maggie at all. In fifty years she never once mentioned the paltry turnout, in fact whenever she spoke about our wedding day she only talked about the angel.
One of the few guests that did come to the ceremony was Maggie’s best friend from high school, Virginia something or other. Virginia walked into that church holding in her hands a small gift, wrapped in silver paper with a silver bow. When it came time to open presents, Virginia’s small box was the first one Maggie grabbed for. Inside the box was a ceramic angel. It stood about three inches high and was a work of art. The details of the angel had been painstakingly hand painted by the artist. The tips of the small sculpted wings were brushed with gold while the tiny lips of the cherubim wore scarlet. In her hands she carried a basket filled with small flowers, each one with amazing detail and life-like color. I’m not one much for nick-knacks and such, but even I could appreciate the beauty of that tiny angel. Every year after, on Christmas Eve, my wife would add another angel to her collection, but that small ceramic angel from Christmas of 1963 always stood front and center.
Yesterday was December 24. And just like the forty-nine previous Christmas Eves, Maggie woke up early, (also making sure that I rolled out of the bed) and prepared to go into the city. It was an all too familiar routine; we would drive to town, have a small breakfast at her favorite diner and then begin the annual quest for her angel. We would walk through the old downtown, where a dozen little shops trimmed in Christmas décor placed their goods behind festively painted windows. I don’t recall Maggie having ever bought a single angel at any of these shops, but she enjoyed browsing every aisle of every single one of them. I had learned over the many years to follow just a few steps behind her, nodding affirmation when she saw something she admired and to never complain about the snail’s pace of a woman shopping. Besides, this time of year most of the shops offered free copy or hot apple cider to the husbands in tow.
After a few hours of walking around and too many cups of cider filling my old bladder we would drive out to the mega shopping mall where Maggie would be certain to discover the perfect angel to add to her collection. This year’s angel would be number fifty. With great anticipation and excitement Maggie had informed me, “This one will be special.” I didn’t point out to her that every year she proclaims, “This one will be special.” You learn some things after being married for almost half a century, like what to say and more importantly what not to say.
The December snow started falling as I pulled the car onto the interstate. The mega mall was about twenty miles north of downtown and under good driving conditions it would only take a brief car ride to get there. But with each mile the Lincoln traveled the heavier the snowfall became. Maggie seemed oblivious to the sudden winter storm, gabbing on and on about all the Christmas gifts she had already bought for the grandchildren. Checking them off her list one by one, making sure she had not left anyone out. This was her time of year; Maggie Joyce loved everything about the holidays. Her green eyes shined brighter than any Christmas ornament when she talked about her grandchildren. Tomorrow morning they would all show up on our doorstep bright and early. Our house would be transformed into Grandma’s house, and Maggie loved every bit of it.
The Lincoln MKT handled the slippery roads just fine. It wasn’t a heavy vehicle like the old Continentals I had driven in the past, so I had slowed down considerably. No reason to take any chances. It wasn’t my own driving ability that I was worried about, I’ve been driving for more than sixty years; it’s all the other idiots on the road. Of course, I didn’t say this out loud either.
It has been a slow year for snowfall, so the roads had started out clear. The day had also begun unseasonably warm, so most of the snow melted as it landed on the asphalt highway. My worry, which helped tune out Maggie’s yakking about grand-kids and Christmas music on the car radio, was for the drive home that would come later. Later after the sun went down and would no longer be there to warm the roads. Snow covered roads are bad news, ice covered roads are worse. I came close to suggesting to Maggie that we turn around and head home, I knew it would disappoint her and I don’t think she would have argued. But I didn’t. Now I wish I had.
By the time we arrived at the mall only a few flakes danced down from the heavens. But the dark gray heavy clouds promised more snow. The mall’s parking lot was filled with cars belonging to last minute shoppers. I drove around for ten minutes before finding a space that wasn’t a quarter of a mile away from the mall. The warm temperatures were now a part of the past and the bitter cold wind greeted us as we climbed out of the car.
I spied the old lady before we had walked ten steps. She was heading right towards us. The woman carried all the markings of what we use to call a “bag lady”. I guess “homeless” is the more appropriate term now. She wore an over-sized, worn out coat. It was so faded and dirty that it was hard to know what color it had once been. Around her neck she wore a long green knitted scarf, filled with holes. Rubber boots, which also appeared to be too big but protected her feet from the winter snow. Her wiry gray hair stuck out in all directions from under a Green Bay Packers knit cap, era 1970’s. Her face was worn with age and much exposure to the harsh climate of Wisconsin. Beneath it all she had smile on her face, revealing teeth almost too perfect for a woman in her condition.
“Oh, good God,” I said. “Just ignore her and maybe she will go away.”
“Never a stranger,” my wife whispered.
I had heard Maggie speak those very words hundreds of times. She would usually follow them by quoting from the Bible, the book of Hebrews, something about entertaining angels. Maggie knew her Bible better than most and whole lot better than I do. She could quote scripture for just about anything that could happen to a person. But this time she didn’t, instead she said, “She’s a Packer fan, you ought to like that.”
“She probably stole the hat,” I replied.
Maggie elbowed me in the ribs, “Hush, its Christmas.”
I rubbed the spot where her elbow had landed, “Does the Bible say anything about elbowing your husband of fifty years in the ribs?”
“Not a thing about it or against it,” she said with a smile, “and it won’t be fifty years until tomorrow.”
The gap between us and the old lady had closed to just a few feet; all three of us stopped walking at the same time.
“Merry Christmas,” the old lady chimed.
Smiling, Maggie returned cordially, “And Merry Christmas to you.”
Here it comes; I knew it wouldn’t take long. The haggard stranger shifted her weight, extended a gloved hand and said, “Do you think you could…”
Maggie interrupted the homeless woman before she could finish her appeal, “Where did you get that?” Maggie was pointing at a golden brooch pinned to the old ragged scarf. The piece of jewelry seemed so out of place in the unkempt appearance that embodied this strange woman. The brooch was shaped like an angel on bended knee, hands folded and head bowed in prayer. The jeweler had crafted a small halo out of diamonds. It was beautiful.
The old woman lifted her scarf which held the angel brooch, the thin material pinched between her finger and thumb. She stared at the angel for more than a moment before answering, “It is mine,” she said with exaggerated indignation. “A friend gave it to me.”
I wondered if the friend knew she “gave” it to her. I didn’t allow this thought to depart through my mouth; my ribs wouldn’t handle another jab from Maggie’s elbow.
“What a nice gift, it truly is lovely,” Maggie smiled again. Continuing she turned her attention to me, “Joe, give her the ten.”
“The ten” was a sawbuck Maggie periodically slips in my wallet behind the picture of our newest grandchild. She has been doing that for more years than I can remember. Her motive is for occasions just like the one taking place in the mall parking lot. Maggie has always believed that if you can help someone with the abundance the Lord provides then you should. There was a time when ten dollars was more money than we had in our bank. But over the last fifteen years or so, the Lord has provided abundance. Just in time too, it allowed me to retire at a reasonable age and for the two of us to enjoy or last years together. So, the ten was there for others. Not strangers mind you, remember Maggie’s motto, “Never a stranger.”
I looked at the woman who had suddenly entered into our quiet circle. She didn’t look too homeless to me, other than the worn out clothes she wore. My hesitation was noticed by Maggie and her elbow responded with another trip to my ribs, barely a tap this time but enough to make me pay attention. I reached for my wallet and removed the ten dollar bill. The woman took it from my hand and it disappeared inside her over-sized coat in the blink of an eye.
“Merry Christmas and God bless you,” she offers, “both of you.” She added the last after glancing my way for just a brief moment. “You should get inside before the storm comes. It is a Christmas storm, those can always be the worst.”
I wasn’t sure about her forecasting ability, but it was getting colder with each passing minute. It would be dark before long; Maggie doesn’t like me driving when it’s dark outside. I hoped the change in weather and the imminent nightfall would mean a shortened shopping venture.
Maggie replied, “And Merry Christmas to you, and God’s blessing also.” She reached out and lightly touched the angel brooch, “It is so beautiful.” The old lady smiled and turned away, walking back to her staging ground, waiting for the next Good Samaritan to cross her path. My wife stood still for just a moment, watching the old woman walk away. Maggie has always worn her heart on her sleeve; I could see her compassion for this unusual woman written all over her. That my friend is why I have loved her for more than a lifetime.
The shopping mall was still bustling with last minute shoppers hurrying from store to store seeking the perfect present. The mall has more than a hundred stores where one can spend too much money, but as tradition Maggie would only really shop for her annual angel in the Hallmark store or the Christmas Shoppe. The latter stayed open year round, I could never understand that myself but it was Maggie’s favorite place to go regardless what month was showing on the kitchen calendar. On the way to the Hallmark store Maggie steered us into a couple of shops where our stay would be brief, staying long enough to glance into the jewelry showcases; I don’t think she knew that I had noticed. The old woman’s angel brooch must have stirred an uncommon desire inside Maggie. She was never one to get giggly over jewelry, she owns some earrings and bracelets and of course her wedding rings, but I am quite certain she has never worn a brooch. I do believe if she had happened upon an angel brooch on her way to Hallmark or the Christmas Shoppe it would have been coming home with us.
As it turned out the only package she carried back to the car contained a gold and topaz colored angel made from cut glass. The shape of the angel was almost identical to the brooch the old woman had worn, except this one did not have a halo. Maggie had spotted it almost immediately after entering the Christmas Shoppe and for the second time that day she surprised me with her behavior. Most years she would mull over half a dozen or so angels before finally making her purchase, this time it was quick and decisive. I’m not complaining mind you, in fact I was rather pleased that the shopping trip would end sooner than later.
Now as I look back on it, I wish we had stayed at the mall longer. I wish we were still there. Then she would still be with me.
Maggie found a radio station that was playing non-stop Christmas music and she turned the volume up when Nat King Cole came on singing The Christmas Song. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and snow was falling at a steady pace. By time I took our exit I had turned the wipers on full speed to clear the windshield. Traffic was much lighter now, so I didn’t mind slowing my speed, not worrying about being hit from behind by some idiot honking and cussing at an old man driving too slowly. Nat finished his song and was replaced by Michael Bublé crooning Let it Snow, Let it Snow. Maggie had removed the new angel from the bag and was trying to admire it in the mostly dark car. Reaching up, she turned on the passenger side courtesy light and said something about there being a small crack in the base she hadn’t noticed it at the store.
“Well maybe it’s not a crack sweetie; it is awful dark in the car,” I offer.
“No, I think it’s cracked. Look at it.”
The next part of this story is hard for me to tell. Bear with me, if you will. When I think back on that moment in the car, I remember everything in slow motion, like an old movie. But it wasn’t in slow motion; in fact, it went so damned fast I still have a hard time believing it. If you and I were talking, if I had to tell you what happened instead of putting the words on this paper...well, I don’t think I would be able to without crying like a baby.
”No, I think it’s cracked. Look at it.”
I turned my eyes from the road in front of me just long enough to see the little angel resting on Maggie’s palm. I only saw the little angel for a second because the headlights of the eighteen-wheeler shining through the passenger side window were bright and blinding. Why is he so damn close, I thought? I sat frozen, unable to do anything.
That’s the part that hurts now. Not the worst of it but knowing I didn’t do anything...hurts. The rig was traveling at about fifty miles per hour. ‘He’s going too fast.’ I think I might have said that out loud, I don’t know. I remember thinking if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch those lights, maybe push them away before they hit us. Then I felt the impact as the rig slammed into the side of the Lincoln. Maggie’s side. The sound it made was the loudest thing I have heard I all my years. Metal on metal, glass shattering. Bublé’s voice suddenly silenced, replaced by my wife screaming. The rig pushed the Lincoln across the road like it was nothing more than a card board box. The second impact came when the driver’s side, my side, slammed into a city bus that was parked along the curb. The pain in my shoulder was immediate and severe. I turned to look towards Maggie but the pain intensified as it shot through my shoulder and up into my neck. I managed to turn at the waist towards the passenger seat. Before I passed out, I saw the topaz and gold glass of her newest angel lying on the seat between us. It wasn’t even broken. “I don’t think there’s crack in it sweetie.” I look at Maggie. She was broken.
When I open my eyes, the light is blinding. I couldn’t understand how the headlights of the rig could still be shining so brightly. I know I had heard the crash, it was so loud. As my head began to clear I realized the lights were coming from overhead and not from the truck. I wasn’t in my car; I was lying on a hospital bed. The pain in my left shoulder throbbed dully. Standing beside the bed with her back to me was a woman wearing nurse’s scrubs.
“Excuse me,” my voice producing little more than a whisper.
The nurse turns and smiles, “Well, you’re finally awake. How do you feel?”
“Where is my wife?”
The nurse’s smile falters just slightly as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Your wife is in the I.C.U, she got out of surgery about an hour ago. The doctor will come down to speak with you soon. We were waiting for you to wake up.”
“I want to go see her please.”
“The doctor will come down and see you shortly. I think you should probably wait here. You took a pretty good knock yourself.”
“I want to go see her now.” I start to get out of the hospital bed but was overcome with dizziness. I hadn’t moved far enough to fall down but the nurse grabbed my arm none the less.
“Sir, I know you are concerned about your wife, but if you fall down you may not be in any condition to see her. I promise you the doctor will be down to speak with you soon.”
I look at this “We Care Person” knowing that I will surely lose this battle. I also know what her answer would be if I asked her about Maggie, but I did anyway.
“How is my wife doing?”
“You will have to wait for the doctor.”
I told you.
I lay back down and close my eyes. The image of the big rig barreling down the side road is clear as a summer sky. Everything after that is blurry. I remember there being two impacts just moments apart. I wouldn’t remember hitting the bus until later. I look at my left shoulder and discover that it had been wrapped in an ace bandage. I figure I must not have broken anything since it was just the soft wrap on it. I found out later that I only had a slight dislocation. God only knows how I walked away (well I didn’t really walk anywhere) from the accident barely bruised while my wife lay in the Intensive Care Unit. The thought brings up an image of Maggie’s little angel lying on the seat unbroken. For a moment I wonder where that angel is now, Maggie will want it. I open my eyes to flee from the memory of the accident but only for a second. My eye lids were heavy and I suddenly wanted to sleep more than anything. I don’t know how long I dozed off for before the voice of the doctor calling my name brought me back to awareness.
“Mr. Collins.” The doctor speaks softly. I knew right away that the news would not be good.
“Is my wife okay?” I hope.
“Sir your wife was injured very badly in the accident. Numerous bones were broken including four ribs. The ribs punctured her right lung and damaged other major organs as well. Ironically it was the impact of the airbag that likely caused the damage to her ribs. Her head injuries are critical, but because of her current condition we have not been able to determine the extent of injury. During surgery I was able to stop much of the internal bleeding, but not all of it. Her heart stopped twice during the surgery so I elected to close her before we could finish.”
“Is my wife dead?”
“No sir, not yet. It is highly unlikely that she will survive. We have her sedated and resting comfortably in the ICU.”
“Can I see her?”
“I think you should Mr. Collins. The nurse can get a wheel chair for you if you would like.”
I sat up in the bed to test the dizziness; it was still there but not as bad. I looked at the nurse and nodded that I would use the wheel chair. After she left to get the chair I thanked the doctor for taking the time to speak with me. It was his turn to nod and offer a slight smile, “I am sorry the news isn’t better.” With that the doctor turned and left the little area formed only by long white curtains.
The nurse returns with the chair after just a few minutes. She helps this old man into the chair with the type of care that only comes with years of experience, yet she looks like she is barely old enough to drive. We roll down the long hallway until we arrive at a bank of elevators. My guide presses the UP button and we wait silently. I begin to wonder if the doors would ever open when I hear the bell alerting the arrival of the elevator’s car. The car was empty except for the nurse and me. It was as if the privacy of the elevator gave leave to the nurse to end the reign of silence that had prevailed over the past few minutes.
“I am sorry the news about your wife isn’t better.” She begins.
“Thank you, so am I.” I really didn’t feel like talking, especially to someone I had only a brief acquaintance with. Yet I wanted to be polite. I needed to be polite…never a stranger!
“This is an awful time for something like this to happen with tomorrow being Christmas and all.” She sounds sincere in her assessment of there being a time worse than another to learn that your wife is likely dying. I resist replying with sarcasm, be polite…never a stranger!
I add to the conversation, “Tomorrow is also our anniversary, fifty years.”
“Wow, fifty years, that’s the silver anniversary. That’s awesome”
I don’t point out to this young nurse that it was gold not silver, it wouldn’t have made a difference. She is still very young, too young to even comprehend fifty years of anything.
“It is awesome, thank you again.”
The bell on the elevator rings again announcing our arrival to the floor which houses the Intensive Care Unit which keeps my wife…of almost fifty years. The hallway was dimly lit and without all the merriment that came with Christmas decorations on the previous floor. Across from the nurse’s station stood one lone artificial Christmas tree decorated with some garland and a few red and green glass balls. There isn’t even a tree topper. My guide wheels me down the hallway stopping in front of the nurse’s station. She exchanges a whispered conversation with the woman behind the counter, another nurse but quite a bit older. The older nurse points to a room just a few feet away and across the hallway. The sign to the left of the door reads ICU 3. Written below that, in the neat handwriting of some attendant, M Collins.
I stand up, getting out of the chair with no dizziness. The young nurse asks if I am okay to walk rest of the way. I don’t answer her; I just walk towards Maggie’s room. The door is open to the room and I can see my wife lying in the bed. There are monitors on both sides of the bed with red and green flashing numbers that mean nothing to me. A third monitor on the right side of the bed Is an electrocardiogram; I recognize the green EKG waves traveling across the front display. To me the pattern seems slow, too slow. On the wall above her bed is a digital clock, the lime green numbers tell me that the time is 11:49 pm.
I walk over and stand next to the bed, looking down at my wife. She looks frail; the bed seeming to swallow her up. Her right-hand rests on her chest as if she was saying the pledge. Her left is secured to her side with I.V. needles protruding from the back of her small hand. Her face, her beautiful face is without color.
“It is okay to hold her hand if you would like, and you should talk to her.” The young nurse, I learned later her name is Jennifer, had followed me into the room. I turn to look at her, silhouetted in the light of the hallway she looks like an angel. In that moment the reality of what was happening to my wife flows over me with incredible power. I felt like I was going to fall down. Jennifer was immediately at my side, her small frame somehow managing to support me. The feeling passed after a minute, I thanked her and turned again to my wife.
I hold her hand and say a quiet prayer, asking God to protect her and to comfort her. I open my eyes and look at the clock on the wall, 11:53 pm. I look down at Maggie’s face and her eyes are open, she was looking at me.
“Talk to her.” Jennifer urges.
Rarely in my life have I ever been at a loss for words but I didn’t know what to say.
11:54 pm.
I try to open my mouth, to make the words come out. Hell, it didn’t even have to be words, I just wanted to hear something other than the damn beeping of the hospital machinery. And I wanted my wife to hear me, to know I was with her. More than that I wanted to hear her. Her eyes were still open but I don’t think she saw me or understood what she was seeing. The brightness that had always shined in Maggie’s eyes is gone.
11:55 pm.
I start to tell her how much I loved her. My mouth forms the word “I” but again no sound comes out. I hear a clicking sound; I didn’t know what it was. I look at the heart monitor and see the wavy lines slowly straightening into perfectly flat lines. On the bottom left of the screen a small readout marked BPM is reading 47. I look again at my wife’s face; her eyes are still open. The BPM number reads 32. The clock on the wall flashes 11:57 pm. When I look back at the monitor the red number have fallen to 24.
Dear God, no! Don’t take her now.
The number 24 flashes out. No numbers replace it. I hear an alarm somewhere far off. But it wasn’t far off, it was right there beside me. The alarm that sounds when a heart stops beating. In panic, I turn to find the nurse. I couldn’t understand why there were now three people standing there, Jennifer, the nurse from the desk and the doctor. When had they come in?
The doctor announces, “Time of death 11:58 pm.” He glances at me for just a moment then turns and leaves the room. Jennifer is standing by my side saying something to me, but I can’t understand what she was saying.
I look at Maggie, her eyes are closed. My wife died.
I was overcome with the need to leave the hospital. I wanted to be outside. I wanted to feel the cold winter night air on my face. I walked as fast these seventy three old legs would carry me. First to the elevator, then down the main hallway; I couldn’t find an exit. I turned to the left and then to the right, walking aimlessly, the image of that damn clock declaring 11:58 pm burned into my mind.
At last I found the main entrance to the hospital. Through the glass doors I could see snow falling from the dark night sky. I walked through the automatic doors, the cold air slamming into my face. It felt good, it was what I wanted. I wanted to go numb.
I stood just outside the awning looking up into the heavens, letting the snow fall on my face like a little child trying to catch a snowflake on his tongue. My tears feel warm rolling down my cold cheeks. Maggie was gone. After almost fifty years she is gone. Two more minutes, God. I couldn’t have just two more minutes.
I felt her before I saw her standing there. The sodium vapor lamp casts its light down on her over-sized coat and Green Bay knit cap. Her face was hidden by the scarf and the dark shadows created by the very same lamp. But there was no doubt that it was the homeless woman from the shopping mall.
She raises a gloved hand and waves at me as if we were old friends. Why was she here? As she starts towards me, I hear Maggie whisper in my ear, “Joe, give her the ten.”
She removes the scarf from in front of her old face, “Hello again.” The cold night air turns her breath into a gray fog that hangs for just a moment before disappearing. I looked at the woman, not saying anything in return.
“Joe, how is your wife?”
I continue in silence staring at her. Was her question a generic how’s your family question. Or did she ask because we happened to be standing in front of the hospital. There was no way she knew about the accident. No way could she have known that Maggie was in this hospital.
“Joe?”
“She died.”
“Oh Joe, I am so sorry. And on Christmas Day, that is so sad.”
She truly sounded sincere, like an old friend, not like a stranger that I barely know.
Never a stranger Joe, never a stranger.
I look around as if I might see the owner of the voice that was in my head. No signs of Maggie. Of course not, she was dead.
“It wasn’t on Christmas Day, she died before midnight.” I respond as if arguing a point in a friendly conversation. Why was I even speaking with this woman?
Never a stranger, Joe.
“Is Maggie speaking to you Joe?” The old woman smiles.
How did she know my wife’s name? “No” I reply, looking down at the freshly fallen snow.
This old woman wearing an old faded coat too big for her frame and a Green Bay Packer knit cap that had seen better days reaches out and takes my hand in hers.
“Joseph, God loves you and He loves Maggie too, and it is Christmas day. Those things all combined together can lead to wonderful happenings. You should go be with your wife.”
“My wife is dead.”
“I know, you told me. Go to your wife Joe, it is too cold to stand out here. Go to your wife.”
With that the old woman turned around and walked away. I stood there watching her, wondering where she would go on this cold night. I looked down at my hand, the one she had been holding. Resting in the palm of my hand was the gold angel brooch.
I went inside.
I followed the carefully placed signs back to the ICU, without them I may still be wandering the halls, they all look the same. The old woman’s words of hope echoed in my mind over and over, “those things combined can lead to wonderful happenings”. What did she mean? Is it wrong for me to think a Christmas miracle could possibly happen? Maggie was my life; I can’t find the words to tell you how much I love her. She had been gone for less than an hour and the hole in my life already seemed too much, too large.
I stop a few feet away from the door to room ICU-3. Her name, M Collins, is still written on the placard. I can see inside the room from where I stand but I can only see the foot of the bed. I wasn’t able to tell if they had removed my wife’s body yet. The hallway is still. Somewhere down the dimly lit corridor, coming from another room I can hear the steady beeping of a monitor. The beeping means that patient is still alive; when it stops beeping large dark caverns open in your life.
There was no one at the nurse’s station. I peek over the counter to see if someone may be sitting down but both chairs are empty. I turn back towards room ICU- 3. I take a deep breath like I am getting ready to jump into the ocean instead of walking into the room where I had last seen my wife alive and cross the hallway.
She was there. I could see her lying in the bed. She was covered with a thin sheet all the way up to her chin. I try to see if there were any signs of life. No I hoped to see any sign of life.
I walked over and stood next to the bed, looking down at my wife. She looked frail; the bed seemed to swallow her up. Her right hand rested on her chest as if she was saying the pledge. Her left was secured to her side with I.V. needles protruding from the back of her small hand. Her face, her beautiful face was without color.
“It is okay to hold her hand if you would like, and you should talk to her.”
The young nurse, (Jennifer?) had come into the room; I hadn’t heard her. The light from the hallway causes a silhouette around her. There was no reality in the moment. I didn’t understand what was happening. I turn to the bed and look down at the lifeless body of my wife. I feel dizzy, I thought I might fall so I close my eyes tight and wait for the impact of the hard floor. The dizzy spell subsides as quickly as it had come on. I open my eyes and look at the clock on the wall.
11:57 PM.
That can’t be right. Midnight has come and gone. The colon flashed between the 11 and the 57, ticking away another second. Passed forward, not backwards! I don’t understand.
“Talk to her Joe.” The nurse urges me on
.
I looked down at Maggie and her eyes are open.
11:58 PM
“Joe.” Barely a whisper. I feel again as if I will fall at any moment. Maggie is alive. My wife just said my name like she has so many times over the last fifty years.
“Joe, talk to her!” The urgency in the nurse’s voice has increased.
I wanted to take her hand but I couldn’t. “Maggie, I love you.”
She smiles, just a small one, but it was a smile. “I love you too.”
The tears started rolling down my face. I reach up to wipe them away, my hand was shaking like an old oak tree in a wind storm.
“What’s wrong Joe?” Maggie asks, “Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know.”
“Joe, what time is it?”
I looked up at the clock, 12:01 AM. “It’s a minute past midnight.”
Maggie’s smile brightens, “Happy Anniversary Joe Collins and Merry Christmas too!”
I start to tell her how much I love her when the alarm on the EKG blares to life. The BPM number reads 32. I turn around and the doctor is standing between the two nurses. I turn back and the BPM reads 24.
Dear God no! Don’t take her again.
The line on the heart monitor goes flat.
I hear the doctor say, “Time of death 12:02 AM.” He looks at me for a moment, then turning he leaves the room. Jennifer comes over and places her and on my shoulder.
“You made it to fifty years Mr. Collins. She loved you so much, she hung on for you.”
For just a moment I thought God had given me my wife back. But he didn’t, instead he called her home. What God gave me was four minutes. Four minutes more with the woman I have loved all my life. Four minutes that turned one day into the next. God gave me a Christmas miracle.
I never saw the old woman again but I believe one day I will. You see I believe she was Maggie’s angel. I believe she held Maggie’s hand when she crossed over to God’s house. And I believe when the good Lord calls me home I will see that old woman again. I need to give her the little gold angel back.
Do you believe in angels?
“Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.” Hebrews 13:2 NIV
