Page 2 of Christmas at Watson Memorial

Her heartbeats grow fainter, the murmur more pronounced. She's fading, though she doesn't know it.

“When I'm better, Selene's gonna let me fly her helicopter over Manhattan. I'll be a helicopter pilot like her and-”

“What did I say about not talking?”

The subsequent echocardiogram confirms my fears. Her heart's failing faster than anticipated. Our transplant window shrinks by the hour.

“Mrs. Thomson, could I speak with you outside?” I gesture toward the door while Holly makes helicopter sounds, flying her toy through the air.

Vivian Thomson recognizes that tone — the one all parents of sick children learn to dread. Fear clouds her eyes as she waits for words she knows won't bring comfort.

I sigh, double-checking numbers I wish weren't true.

“Her BNP levels have doubled since last week,” I lower my voice. “It's a hormone the heart releases under excessive strain, suggesting rapid deterioration. The left ventricular dysfunction has worsened, too.”

“That's bad, isn't it?” Her voice trembles.

“I'm updating her transplant status to priority. She needs a new heart within days. Otherwise…”

I pause, watching pain contort her features. She bites her index finger, tears streaming down her face. Through the door, Holly continues playing with her plastic helicopter.

“But… it's Christmas. She's so excited about the holidays-”

“Her illness doesn't care if it's Christmas or summer, Mrs. Thomson. We'll find that heart, don't worry,” I squeeze her arm awkwardly, attempting comfort.

Back in my office, I update Holly's transplant status. She requires absolute priority, or she won't see New Year's. A child's laughter echoes down the hall — that helicopter pilot telling more impossible stories.

I shake my head, close my eyes. For a moment, another little girl appears. Different bed, different hospital. Different time. Laura's laughter rang out until the very end too.

Passing the nurses' station, hushed whispers trail me like shadows.

“Who's stuck with the Ice Queen for Christmas and New Year's Eve shifts this year?” the head nurse asks.

“She's taking both again?”

“Like every year. No surprise there. Not like she has a life,” a third nurse adds.

They either think I can't hear them or don't care if I do.

In my office, Holly's priority status confirmed on screen, I sink into my leather chair.

My eyes drift to the sole photograph on my meticulously organized desk.

Two eleven-year-old girls smile through time. Flour dusts their faces as they point to freshly baked cookies. Christmas lights twinkle in the background. My fingers trace the glass, brush Laura's curls, wild around her face, covering her left eye. We knew true happiness that day. The last Christmas I spent at her house before everything changed forever.

The photo's turning yellow after twenty-four years, but the memory stays crisp.

That night, curled up in Laura's bed, we whispered our future dreams in the dark.

“We'll be doctors together. The best doctors,” Laura declared, moonlight glinting off her braces. “We'll cure every disease and throw huge Christmas parties.”

Three months later, her health problems started. Six months passed before her first hospital admission. The following December twenty-third, I held my best friend's hand while she tried to smile, and I promised to become the kind of doctor who could save her.

She died two days later.

Maybe I did become that doctor. One who might have saved her with today's medical advances.

As for Christmas parties... I never found the strength to fulfill that promise.