Being Santa Claus : What I Learned About the True Meaning of Christmas (9781101600528) Page 7

  “Exactly the way you just did it,” she answered.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I said. “I had no idea how to do it.”

  “Really?” she looked surprised. “You did that so naturally, I just figured you’d done it lots of times before.”

  As the line moved on, I realized that not all of these children were patients. Families traveled to the clinic together, with brothers and sisters joining their siblings, and many of the healthier children had gotten into line first. But slowly and steadily, I began to notice more sick and weakened children—their skin a paler color, tubes in noses or arms, a lack of hair on many of their heads, and even a number of children in wheelchairs, too weak to stand up.

  All my hesitations vanished as my Santa Claus persona took over completely. I refused to see these children as anything other than children—not sick children or weak children, but just children who each wanted or needed to see a jolly Santa. And so I pushed aside my fears and simply put myself fully at ease with each and every one of them. In turn, they all seemed to be totally comfortable with me.

  By the time we got further down the line, some of the children appeared too weak to be lifted out of their wheelchairs. For those kids, I just kneeled down next to them and talked at eye level, allowing Paul to take some wonderful photos.

  Some children felt embarrassed to have their picture taken because they had lost their hair. I would never force a photo on any child, but a few parents of some of the more reluctant children asked me if I could maybe convince their son or daughter to take a picture anyway. And so I would try a number of different approaches. In one case, I posed with my chin on top of a boy’s head, my beard completely covering up his baldness, which made him giggle.

  Another girl who looked to be around ten years old told me that she felt ugly without her hair. I responded in a soft and gentle voice, “You know, you don’t need hair to look beautiful,” and I took her chin and lifted it up to look directly into her pretty eyes. “I can see that you’re a very beautiful little girl. I bet your parents think so, too, right? They’d love to get a photo of you with Santa. And I’ll be honest with you: it would be a true honor for me to have a picture taken with such a beautiful little girl.”

  She smiled for the photo—a sincere and touching smile from the heart—and I caught a glimpse of her parents, off to the side, crying when they saw a joyful look on their precious daughter’s face as she sat next to Santa Claus. It was all I could do to keep from shedding a tear myself. None of these children, none of these families, deserved this misfortune. But I held myself together. Santa remained jolly for every child in that waiting area.

  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.

  SEVEN

  What Would Santa Do?

  SANTA 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 EXCITing 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.

  But as I drove home from the mall, despite the glow from my first day as what I considered a bona fide professional Santa, I had a nagging feeling that something was wrong with the entire setup. The pressure of having to hurry children along through their encounter with Santa didn’t seem right to me. Santa Claus’s whole world revolved around interacting with children and making them happy, not rushing kids through a line in order to make more money.

  There had to be a way, I mused, to be a successful mall Santa and still give children all the attention and love they deserved. How could I make the experience even better for the kids who came to see me? And then I chuckled to myself. I knew exactly where to turn for inspiration.

  What would Santa do?

  As it happened, I’d have plenty more chances to find out.

  THE THREE-YEAR-OLD WHO STOOD NOT THREE feet from my Santa chair was screeching. Not in excitement, mind you—in holy terror. Her mother, likely exhausted from a long day of holiday shopping, tried pleading, cajoling, and finally scolding the child for not cooperating. “We need this for your Christmas card, Ava!” She turned to me and said, defeated, “Just grab her so we can get a picture, okay?”

  The Photo Promotions manager nodded and silently motioned for me to do it so we could move the line along. They had a business to run, and I fully appreciated that. But I wasn’t in the business of traumatizing kids for the sake of selling a snapshot. The children must come first, and Santa Clau
s would know this.

  What would Santa do?

  I looked down into the eyes of this frightened little girl, and the answer was right there, plain as day. I could only imagine how intimidating I must have looked to this itty-bitty child, looming from that humongous throne. So I did the unthinkable. I got up out of my Santa chair and sat down on the floor in front of her. Scandalous! A mall Santa does not get out of his chair, except when he heads off to check on the reindeer (in other words, take a break). The photographer was furious, as he had to completely reset his camera and tripod to take a picture of us far below where he had so perfectly framed the shot. But in my heart, I knew Santa wouldn’t let something like that stop him. He would do whatever he needed to do in order to comfort a frightened child.

  It worked. Ava calmed down and actually giggled, seeing Santa plopped on the floor. Although the managers and photographers weren’t too pleased with this stunt, it turned Ava’s experience with me into a happy one, and that’s what mattered.

  Over the years, I’ve given a lot of thought to what frightens children when they see Santa Claus. Imagine it for a moment from their perspective. Santa, they know, is very powerful. He is the giver of toys. And if you think about it, the most important thing to children, after love, is their toys. He decides whether you’ve been naughty or nice, and how many toys you’ll get as a result. That’s a lot of power for one person to have! And no one seems to question his authority.

  But the awe and intimidation don’t end there. As a young child walking into a large mall, everything about Santa and the elaborate North Pole Village is regal. He sits up on a grand throne, wearing plush velvet with helpers all around him. Meeting Santa, for a child, would feel like meeting a king.

  After waiting in a long line for their audience with this important, imposing figure, children find themselves marched unceremoniously up onto a raised platform to meet this “king of toys.” The child gets placed, all alone, on the lap of this great icon (who, really, is a total stranger to them), and then is expected to make his or her plea for gifts. I don’t know about you, but all this feels a little intimidating even to me—and I’m the one who plays Santa Claus!