Posted on 12/18/2011 7:30:37 AM PST by JoanVarga
Finally, one day that December, I had to tell her. Medically, we were beaten. The decision lay with God. She took it quietly, lying there, wasting away, only 23 and the mother of a year-old child. Eleanor Munro (her name has been disguised) was a devout, courageous woman. She had red hair and had probably been rather pretty, but it was hard to tell anymore, she was so near to death from tuberculosis. She knew it now, she accepted it, and she asked for just one thing. “If I’m still alive on Christmas Eve,” she said slowly, “I would like your promise that I can go home for Christmas.”
It disturbed me. I knew she shouldn’t go. The lower lobe of her right lung had a growing tubercular cavity in it an inch in diameter. She had what the doctors call open TB and could spread the germs by coughing.
But I made the promise. Frankly, I did so because I was sure she’d be dead before Christmas. In the circumstances, it seemed little enough to do. And if I hadn’t made it, I wouldn’t be telling this story.
(Excerpt) Read more at primordialslack.com ...
Thanks for posting this. Amazing.
Merry Christmas!
I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’ve been reading it to my family every Christmas since 1988, along with the other story referenced there.
It’s a beautiful life. We should celebrate it more.
A bump for the after-church crowd.
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