If You Don’t Believe in Christmas Miracles, Maybe You Should Reconsider

I believe, without reservation, that the Christmas season is a time for miracles.  I witnessed one.  You can decide for yourself if it qualifies.

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This story actually begins in August of 1960.  Our mom had just celebrated her fortieth birthday. I was the oldest of five kids and what I remember about her birthday was that she kept saying that her back hurt and that she did not feel good.

I honestly do not remember the next few weeks. Having just turned 16 I had other things on my mind, mostly Babs McNulty, who lived around the corner and who was occupying my thoughts most of the time.

All I remember about Mom from that time was that she began going to the hospital and staying there for four or five days at a time. School had recently started, and for the first time, she was not at home with us. Dad told us, “She has the ‘grippe’ real bad, and they need to keep an eye on her for a few days.”

We were just kids

Okay, what did we know? Back then, it seemed that everyone got the ‘grippe’ (today, we call it the flu). But Mom’s was “real bad,” so we accepted that.  We were kids.  We didn’t know any better.

My brothers were ten, six, and going on two.  My sister, Carolyn was 13.  I had no idea how they were doing with their mommy being absent, but that was because Grandma was in charge and things seemed almost normal to me.

Personally, I was a bit upset that Mom never looked quite right. She was thinner, had this pasty complexion, and black and blue marks covered her arms from her hands up to her shoulders. Carolyn told me it was from the IV needles. Carolyn was in eighth grade and, since she wanted to be a nurse, I figured she was speaking with some authority on the subject. The thing of it was you could tell she did not believe her own explanation.

Dad, well, he said nothing that helped. It was always the same thing, “Don’t worry, it’s just the grippe, a real bad grippe.” But he was noticeably more quiet than usual. He was also getting home much later because he would go to the hospital every afternoon.

When Mom was home, she always tried to act like everything was normal. Unfortunately, she was a lousy actress.  She also could not hide her strange bruises or the fact that she was sleeping so much. As for Grandma, she was quite happy to accept the “real bad grippe” story. Today I understand this is what is called Denial. Grandma had truly embraced it.

Thanksgiving to December

Mom was home for Thanksgiving, but Grandma did most of the work. I don’t remember much about that Thanksgiving Day or exactly when Mom went back into the hospital, but I know it was a few days or maybe even a week before December 18. That was the day Dad, Grandma, Carolyn, and myself took the subway downtown to Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan for a simple Sunday visit. That visit turned out to be anything but simple.

Dad had left our little brothers with his good friends, John and Adeline Tosarello, who lived downstairs.  We arrived at the hospital around 1:30. I only remember the time because it seemed to take forever to get there.

I believe Mom’s room was on the third floor. And when we got to the room, a swarm of doctors and nurses were working around her. She was on the bed, head to one side, and her eyes were closed. She was not moving.

Carolyn and I stared at our mother as an ominous fear grabbed hold of us. Grandma placed her hand over her mouth and started to cry. One of the doctors pulled my dad to the side and quietly talked to him. I watched him shake his head ever so slightly. Then he turned to me and said (and this is almost a direct quote from that day), “Please, take your sister and Grandma to the chapel and say a rosary together. She needs all the prayers she can get right now.”

Grandma gasped, and I remember putting my arm around her shoulder and saying, “C’mon Grandma, let’s do like dad asked.” (I was trying to be grown-up).

Rosaries in the Chapel

We headed toward the elevator to go to the small, interdenominational chapel that was down on the second floor. When the elevator door opened, we moved aside as a priest stepped out and headed down the hallway toward Mom’s room. Grandma had tears running down her face but was stoic and got onto the elevator without saying anything. Carolyn and I followed, and we went down to the chapel.

The chapel was empty and serenely quiet.  There were about ten small pews on each side of the center aisle. Flowers had been placed on the plain, flat altar. A stained glass window of an angel was centered high up on the wall in the back of the altar. There were no kneelers, so we sat down and began to say the rosary together. Grandma broke down and began to sob. I remember putting my arm around her and crying too. Carolyn leaned her head into my other shoulder and cried along with us.

I have no idea how long we were there, but we did pray two rosaries together. At some point, a nurse came in and asked us to please come back to mom’s room. We were a bit shocked because the nurse was smiling and not somber.

Grandma asked the nurse, “How is my Lily? How is my Lily? Can I see her?”

“Please, ma’am, just go back upstairs. You can see her. She is anxious to see you” the nurse replied.

The Miracle

Grandma, on her worn-out arthritic knees, actually tried to run to get back to her daughter. I hurried after her. She had, just for the moment, seemingly shredded 30 years of age.

When we walked into the room we were confronted with a sight to behold. Mom was sitting up in the bed, smiling. Dad was next to her leaning against the bed with his arm around her shoulder. He was sporting a grin that went from ear to ear and tears were streaming down his face.

Standing on the other side of the bed was the priest we had seen leaving the elevator.  He was standing with his hands clasped together with a look on his face I cannot describe. I did not know it then but this was to be a moment etched in time.  I can still see that ‘moment’ as clear as I did then.

Our mom, who we were sure was dead or almost dead, extended her arms and said, “Well, don’t I get a hug from you two? Come on, get over here.”

Carolyn ran over, and I sheepishly walked. Dad stayed right where he was, and then Grandma had her turn. She had mom’s face between her hands and was saying over and over, “Oh mein Gott, Oh mein Gott,” (“Oh my God” in German).

Inexplicably, Mom was better, ALL better. Her arms were clear, her face had color, and her eyes were bright and cheerful. There were several doctors outside the room in deep conversation with each other. They were baffled. They had no explanation for her sudden recovery.

The Best Christmas Ever

We learned that Mom had Leukemia, and, in 1960, your chances with that disease were virtually non-existent. Dad had asked us to go to the chapel and pray because the doctors had told him she had only a very short time to live. He wanted to spare us having to watch her die.

My father and the priest believed they had witnessed a miracle. Grandma, Carolyn, and I had seen the results of that miracle. Mom came home the next afternoon.

Christmas fell on Sunday in 1960, so it was still a week away. All the previously stifled Christmas “spirit” exploded in the Peterson house. By Tuesday, a tree had been bought and was up and decorated.  Mom was the tinsel expert, and she, with Carolyn as her pupil, finished the tree off by meticulously hanging the shiny aluminum strands one at a time.

Mom and Grandma baked cookies and cakes and pies, and there was singing as they did their work. Neighbors stopped by all week long with Christmas cheer and greetings.

It turned out that the Christmas of 1960 was probably the best Christmas any of us had ever had.  Monsignor Martin even mentioned Mom at midnight Mass and how she and her family were given the great gift of her recovery during Christmas.

Epilogue

Danny’s birthday is January 12, and he turned eleven that year.  Johnny’s birthday is January 17, and he turned two. Mom continued to remain healthy and strong, and both boys had great birthdays.

But the discoloration on Mom’s arms began reappearing about a week after Johnny’s birthday. Mom tried to hide it, but she could not.  She began to get weaker and weaker, and by the beginning of February, she was back in the hospital.

Mom passed away on February 18, 1961, exactly two months after our family Christmas miracle. She was 40 years old. We had all been granted one more Christmas to share with the lady of our house and home. It was the most beautiful Christmas we ever had.