Being Santa Claus : What I Learned About the True Meaning of Christmas (9781101600528) (10 page)

After an hour, all the children there had spent their time on Santa’s lap, and Lisa came to take Paul and me upstairs to visit with the children who were in private rooms prepping for or recuperating from chemo and radiation. The children on that floor were all lying in beds, so I would sit down next to each one to talk for a while. I kept things light and happy without forcing cheer on anyone. I had learned early on that day not to ask these children what they wanted for Christmas. Most said, “I just want to get better,” and as much as I wished I could magically heal each and every one of those kids, that was a gift that was beyond Santa’s power to deliver. I would simply answer, “I hope so, too. I really do.”

Many of the kids, remarkably, seemed to be in good spirits. One young teenager named Randy, however, had a huge chip on his shoulder—and with good reason. The chemotherapy treatments had left him weak, bald, and pale with dark shadows under his eyes, and he was generally miserable and angry. He scoffed bitterly at the idea of taking a picture with Santa.

Randy’s father took me aside. “Santa,” he whispered, “this is really important to us. Can you please try to get him to take just one picture with you?”

I looked into this man’s eyes and saw a world of anguish, and I knew I had to try. I glanced around the room and spotted my two lovely Santa’s helpers.

“Those gals are really cute, aren’t they?” I said, pointing to them.

Randy nodded.

“And I’m sure you’d rather have a picture with the two of them, maybe one on each side with their arms around you? That might be fun to show your friends, don’t you think?” I looked at the attractive young doctors, who had been watching the whole time, and they nodded with big smiles.

“Yeah, it would…,” Randy said, showing just the hint of a smile.

“Well then, here’s the deal. You’ve gotta get through me first. One picture with Santa with a full smile from you, and then I send over my two helpers. You get to keep the picture with them, and your parents get the one with you and me. Deal?”

“Deal,” Randy said, his smile widening. I posed for a picture with him grinning, and then my two helpers posed for a photo that I’m sure made Randy the envy of all his friends.

On the way out, Randy’s parents stopped me, both with tears in their eyes. “We don’t know how to thank
you. This will probably be Randy’s last Christmas, and we just wanted one more picture of him looking happy. You don’t know how much this means to us.”

I smiled and quickly turned away to take off my glasses and wipe away my own tears. By then we were done making the rounds upstairs, and Lisa brought me back down to where we’d started. I returned to the filing room to change, and as soon as the door closed behind me, I started sobbing. I just couldn’t help it. These poor children—many of them acting so brave, all of them much too young for anything like this. It’s unfair enough when an adult has to suffer through cancer, but for a child, it’s unthinkable. I managed to compose myself and said good-bye to Lisa on my way out.

The next day, I returned to a similar routine. And again, at the end of the day, I went back to the filing room and shed the tears I’d been holding in check the past three hours. I heard a knock on the door and quickly dried my cheeks.

“Come in,” I called.

Lisa walked in and shut the door behind her. She sat down on one of the chairs and pulled out a few tissues from a box on the table next to her. “I hope you’ll excuse me,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “But this is the room I come to when I need to cry.”

“Oh, then I’m not the only one…”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I’ll be honest with you, Lisa. I was afraid to come
and do this hospital stuff. I was so scared that I might choke up in front of the children. It’s hard not to.”

“Don’t worry,” she said reassuringly as she quietly blew her nose. “All of us cry at some point, because we care so much. We wouldn’t be in this job in the first place if we didn’t care. We just don’t cry in front of the patients. We each have our own little space—a filing room, a broom closet, a bathroom stall—where we go to just let it out.”

I hadn’t ever thought about that. I had been so caught up in my own fear of facing these kids for just five days. But these people went through this
every single day
. “Well, then I don’t feel so weird for wanting to cry so much,” I said.

“Oh, no! You’re not weird at all. It would be weird if you
didn’t
cry!”

And somehow, in that one moment, everything changed for me. Call it a catharsis, or whatever you will, but Lisa’s words suddenly made everything I felt seem okay. I don’t think I will ever stop feeling overwhelming sadness at seeing so many ill children and the pain of their families. But that day, I realized that it’s all right to feel that way, and that letting myself cry when I met a sick child doesn’t make me a bad Santa. It makes me a real Santa. I cry because I care.

Some of these children might not have much time left, but they deserve just as good of a visit from Santa as everybody else. I hope that my showing up as Santa
can raise their spirits. It is one thing to spread cheer to healthy children through winks, smiles, and candy canes, but an entirely different experience being called upon to deliver joy to children who are truly suffering. If it means easing their pain even for a few minutes, then I am wholeheartedly up for the task.

By Friday afternoon, after I said my good-byes to all of the staff, I headed back to my break room. It seemed so empty now. Nearly all of the donated toys and gifts had been handed out. Just as I was finishing lacing up my shoe, Lisa walked in and sat down at the table across from me.

“So, can we sign you up again for next year?” she asked matter-of-factly.

My first thoughts went to my Santa friend who had asked me to fill in. Professional Santas consider it very bad form to steal a client from a fellow Santa Claus, so I politely let Lisa know that I couldn’t do that to my friend.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t suggesting that,” she said. “We’ll still use him for something else. The hospital has tons of work for Santa Clauses. But we’d really like to have you back here again next year.”

I didn’t hesitate at all. “I’d love to, Lisa. Just call me with the dates and I’ll block off my calendar for next season.”

Five days earlier, I had been dreading the experience. I’d spent fifteen years avoiding appearances at
hospitals, fearing I would mess up again. But I had been given a second chance. I drove home that day with a deep sense of satisfaction and completion. This time, I’d gotten it right.

They say that what we give is what we receive, and after this experience, I finally understood what that adage really meant. I’d been asked to deliver cheer to those who needed it most, and in return, I got something far greater. I’d given from the depth of my being, and as a result, my broken heart had finally healed.

I STILL THINK OF LITTLE TIMOTHY, EVEN TO
this day. I imagine him, somewhere up there in heaven, happily making toys for children and granting their wishes. And instead of feeling anguish, I’m comforted by the thought that maybe, just maybe, there isn’t all that much difference between being an angel and being one of Santa’s elves after all.

S
ANTA CLAUS ALWAYS SEEMS TO KNOW THE
right way to go.

That’s why, as I found myself wearing the red suit more and more in public, I frequently came to ask myself:
What would Santa do?
I was becoming increasingly conscious of wanting to live up to Santa Claus’s benevolent, honorable standards. And my days as a mall Santa Claus gave lots of opportunities to check in with the bearded beacon of Christmas wisdom for guidance.

By Christmas of 2000, my family and I had relocated to New Hampshire, where I eventually turned my Santa life from a hobby into a sideline career. I built a festive website so people could find me, printed business cards, and joined some networks of professional Santas that I could turn to for guidance, ideas, and advice (including
one that my genes gave me proud access to: The Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas). My Christmas seasons were happily filled with home visits and a few local store events.

I had also, after doing serious homework about the world of professional Santas, begun charging a nominal fee, mostly to cover my costs for gas and supplies, including a second Santa Claus outfit (you’d be surprised how hot it gets under all that velvet, and Santa must always show up smelling of nothing other than candy canes and cookies!) and to ensure I could still support my family through the holiday seasons while I took time away from my business. I wish there were some way I could donate all my time to being Santa for free, but the reality is that Santa has to eat, too. He and his family can’t live on just cookies and milk!

AS HAPPY AS I WAS IN MY SANTA LIFE, ANOTHER EXCIT
ing turn was right around the corner. One morning in late December 2001, my phone rang. It was a gentleman named Mark from a company called Photo Promotions, asking me in a panicked voice if I could get to a nearby mall within an hour to do an emergency fill-in for the mall Santa they had hired.

“Sure can!” My voice may have sounded calm, but my heart was racing with excitement. My first job as a mall Santa—I’d finally made it to the big time!

Fully dressed in Santa Claus regalia, I raced over to the shopping center and followed the instructions Mark had given me. Apparently, mall Santas don’t simply walk in through the main entrance, nor do they cut through Sears or Macy’s. Instead, they enter through a special employee service door, unmarked so that mall patrons won’t notice it.
That was smart
, I thought. Kids shouldn’t see Santa waltzing in the front doors like a regular holiday shopper.

Unfortunately, it being the Saturday before Christmas, the parking lot was jam-packed, and the only spot I could find was far from my special entrance.
This isn’t good,
I thought. Kids shouldn’t see Santa picking his way through the slush and snow in a mall parking lot, either!

As I headed toward the mall, I saw a family walking through the lot with their kids in tow.
Oh, no!
I ducked down and hid between two cars, crouching until I saw them safely pass by. I took a few more steps toward the mall when I saw another family approaching, and I quickly ducked back down until they were gone. Then another family walked by…and another. I probably hid about six or seven times. The whole episode was like some crazy scene from a spy movie, except the spy was a forty-six-year-old bearded fat man dressed in a full Santa Claus outfit.

I finally made it to the unmarked door, where Mark greeted me and led me through what felt like a secret
passageway (really, it was a dimly lit corridor between stores, but I was so filled with excitement that everything seemed enchanted). We paused in front of two double doors and he said, “Okay, are you ready?”

I nodded and took a deep breath.

Mark opened the doors into the atrium, and time suddenly stopped for me. I had stepped into a brightly lit mall, glittering from the floor to the rafters with tinsel, ornaments, and other Christmas decorations that adorned every storefront and balcony. Then I spotted the set where Santa would sit.
Oh, my!
Everything radiated outward from a green, velvet-covered, throne-like chair placed next to a fully decorated Christmas tree. Leading up to all of this ornamental splendor, a long red carpet traced its way between two small white picket fences, each covered with large candy cane decorations. I’d finally arrived!

My days as a mall Santa were under way. That first time, I quickly learned the ropes of greeting children, listening as they whispered to me what they wanted for Christmas, and then snapping a picture. At the urging of the Photo Promotions staff, I had to move the long line of holiday patrons along quickly, which I didn’t love, but I figured that they knew their business best. Five hours flew by in the blink of an eye. I probably talked to nearly two hundred children, more than I had ever seen in a single day. Some laughed, some cried, but
every one had their special moment with Santa. And I felt wonderful.