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facts & arguments

Globe Facts - A Very Different Christmas Matt French Illustration for The Globe and Mail by Neal CresswellNeal Cresswell FOR THE GLOBE AND MAIL/The Globe and Mail

Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

The matron in the tuberculosis convalescent home wanted to see me. "Where will you go for Christmas?," she asked. "Oh, I will just stay here," I replied. "I am sorry, the place is closing down and everybody is going home for the holidays." "I have nowhere to go," I muttered.

When my native Hungary was taken over by the communists after the Second World War, I managed to leave the country and move to Britain. Shortly after my departure, the Iron Curtain came down and all communications with Hungary ceased. I couldn't get in touch with my parents for years to come. In Britain I stayed in a hostel and learned to lead an independent life; I got a good job, led a busy social life and expected to spend the rest of my life there.

I was in my early 20s when one day during a routine medical examination I was diagnosed with tuberculosis.

The doctor who examined me was having his afternoon tea and told me that I would need to have treatment and stop working. "What will become of me?," I asked in a panic. "Will I be able to have children?" The doctor took a large bite of his cucumber sandwich, took a sip of tea and finally shook his head and said, "I don't think that's a good idea."

I went back to my hostel in a daze and didn't tell anyone about my illness. Next day I told my employer I had TB and asked for six months' sick leave. He rose from his seat and opened the window. It was at that moment I realized that from now on people would be afraid of me and no one should find out I had tuberculosis.

I told all my friends I was moving to Switzerland and would get in touch with them when I had a permanent address. So, on a September afternoon in 1954, alone with a small suitcase in my hand, I took a train and then walked to the TB convalescent home in Kent, southeast of London. The patients, recovering from surgery, were young and cheerful. After a few months' treatment, my X-ray showed great improvement.

The matron wanted to see me again. "I have good news for you. We found a bed in a TB hospital where you can spend the holidays. We will drive you there on Christmas Eve and pick you up after Boxing Day." She did not tell me that the hospital was a place for incurable patients.

As the girls at the convalescent home were excited about going home, I packed my small suitcase and left for the hospital. I was driven there in a blinding snowstorm and was put into a large ward with 23 terminally ill patients.

The ward was badly lit and poorly heated. The wind howled through the windows. The patients were either in bed or huddled around a wood stove in the middle of the room.

I went to bed, trying to warm up, but the thin blanket did not help. That night there was a lot of commotion in the bed next to me. A doctor and two nurses came to see the patient on my right. They drew the curtains around her bed and later two orderlies took her out on a stretcher. The nurse came back to inform us that the patient had died. The other patients burst into tears. I cried too as I didn't know how I was going to survive four days in that miserable place.

When I woke up next morning, the sun was shining through the windows, warming up the ward. They stoked the stove with more wood and suddenly the place seemed bright, warm and friendly. After breakfast the patients in my ward came up to my bed and handed me small presents, wrapped in tissue paper. They smiled happily when they saw my surprise. That evening, even the bedridden ones got dressed and we had Christmas dinner around a large table in a makeshift dining room. We opened our crackers and put on our funny hats. I don't think I ever enjoyed a turkey and plum-pudding dinner more. Afterwards we sang Christmas carols, told funny stories and went to bed late, exhausted but happy. I was sad to leave the hospital four days later and say goodbye to my new friends, who probably would not be alive next Christmas.

After two more months at the convalescent home I was told that my disease was arrested and that I could leave and lead a normal life.

I got together with an old boyfriend, a Canadian, married him and moved to Toronto. I have now been married for 59 years to that same wonderful man. The doctor at the chest clinic was wrong. I was able to give birth to three healthy children and we are blessed with six lovely grandchildren.

Every year my family gathers in our house for the traditional turkey dinner. When I look around the dining room table and see all the happy, smiling faces, I realize how lucky I am.

But, once in a while, I think back on my Christmas in the terminal hospital. I feel the sun shining through the windows, I smell the wood burning in the stove and I see the other patients standing around my bed with their gifts, smiling. Many, many smiles. And I think that perhaps it might have been the happiest Christmas of my life.

Gloria Boyd lives in Toronto.

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