Peppermints and Midnight Presents

The year my teens waited sixteen hours for Christmas, I was working as the charge nurse on a rehab unit. They were old enough to understand why I had to work, but still determined to wait until I got home before opening presents. They said it like it was a normal thing people do.

I wasn’t thrilled about missing the day, but none of my patients had chosen to spend Christmas in rehab. So I tried to make it feel like something. I wore bright red scrubs and a Santa hat that kept sliding down over my eyebrows. I told everyone I was the Santa nurse and passed out candies. Some laughed. Some cried. One man held his peppermint like it was the first good thing that had happened to him in a while.

At some point I started singing Christmas songs. I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe I was trying to convince myself it was Christmas. I launched into Jingle Bells, and the unit joined in with whatever rhythm they felt like. One lady sang a completely different song. The bed alarms chimed along like percussion. It was messy and loud and strangely cheerful. The kind of holiday chaos only healthcare can produce.

When I finally walked through my front door that night, I felt wrung out from the long shift. My teens were awake, waiting, trying to look casual about it even though they’d clearly been watching for headlights. We opened presents at midnight, sitting on the living room floor in the glow of the tree. They teased me about the Santa hat. I told them about the off‑key choir. It wasn’t the Christmas morning I imagined, but it’s one of the sweetest ones we ever had.

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