Page 33 of Christmas at Watson Memorial
“Have you ever seen the Christmas elves at Watson Memorial?” pipes up a five-year-old. “The ones who decorate the halls at Christmas and steal papers and pens for us to draw with?”
“Oh, absolutely. I even gave them a ride in my helicopter once so they could get to the hospital faster. One of them lost his hat in the wind,” she says as the children giggle and gasp, imagining the scene.
“Really?”
“Yes, those same elves sometimes change the time on the clocks to give us more time, because even though miracles take a while to arrive, it doesn't mean they're not on their way,” she concludes,despite many children begging her for another story.
“Christmas elves who change the time on clocks? Seriously?” I whisper when she sits beside me.
“Sometimes a story is the best medicine,” she teases, leaning in to kiss my cheek.
***
Thirty minutes later, my heart swells as I watch Holly bouncing with excitement, her small hand clasped in her mother's as we stand on the hospital's helipad. The wind whips around us, carrying the sharp scent of jet fuel and winter air.
“Let's move before they figure out we stole the helicopter,” Arya says with a mischievous grin, her dark hair dancing in the breeze.
“Am I really going to fly?” Holly's eyes sparkle with wonder.
“A promise is a promise, Captain Holly, and I always keep my word. Up you go.” Selene lifts her with practiced ease into the cockpit, her strong arms steady and sure.
“Dr. Kumari's coming with us too?” Holly's jaw drops in surprise.
“You bet. She needs to help us fight those giant pigeons in Central Park. Got the donut box?”
Holly nods, clutching a box of assorted donuts to her chest. I pray we won't actually have to throw them at any birds.
In the air, I position my phone to capture the moment Selene guides Holly's tiny hands over the controls. She keeps her fingers wrapped protectively around the girl's, but Holly's face — that pure joy radiating from every pore as her dream comes true - steals my breath away.
“Give me that phone, you sap. You're gonna ruin the video with all your crying,” Arya snatches my phone, but I catch the softness in her voice.
“Look! Central Park! The trees look just like broccoli from up here!” Holly squeals.
“There! Giant pigeons!” Arya shouts.
“I can't see them!”
“Quick, throw the donuts — they're right below us!”
Before I can protest, donuts sail through the crisp morning air. I wince, hoping no unsuspecting pedestrian gets pelted with flying pastries. Selene, Arya, and Holly dissolve into uncontrollable laughter that fills the cabin.
“Do you think I could be a pilot like you someday?”
“I thought you wanted to be a doctor at Watson Memorial?”
“Helicopter pilot sounds better.”
“You absolutely can.”
“Even with my special heart?” Holly's voice wavers.
“Especially with your special heart,” Selene says firmly. “It makes you stronger and braver. Just like Dr. Winters' lucky pen makes her the best surgeon around.”
Holly beams, declaring this the best Christmas gift ever — tied with the new heart the Christmas elves brought her last year. As I watch them, I realize that sometimes the best medicine isn't found in textbooks or operating rooms.
Sometimes it's found in a helicopter pilot who claims to see giant pigeons and Christmas elves. A pilot who fears escalators but makes children smile even on their darkest days. A pilot who's made me believe in magic and fulfills her little sister's final wish daily: bringing joy to sick kids trapped in hospitals.