Twas the Night Before Christmas at Walmart

I haven't updated the blog in a while, even though I have plenty to blog about.  Oh well, it will make it onto my New Year's resolutions.  In the mean time, here is my take on a holiday classic.

Twas the Night Before Christmas at Wal-Mart

‘Twas the night before Christmas at Wal-Mart, and all through the store,


Not a shopper was stirring; we chased them all out the door.

The last few hours spent helping customers on last-minute shopping sprees,

Hunting for video games and for big screen TV’s.

As closing pages were made, shopper’s faces filled with dread,

“Help me find a present for Great-Uncle Fred!”



The merchandise flew out the door with great speed,

Along with wrapping paper and food for the Great Christmas feed,

Panic showed in the faces of the last straggling few,

As they searched for a gift, not knowing what they should do.

The cashiers were ready; they knew what to say,

“A gift card will be welcome under the tree Christmas day.”



At last we were finished, the shoppers sent away,

The money locked in the safe, and the shopping carts rounded up, not leaving a single stray.

When in the lounge arose a cheer, one would wonder what was wrong,

But it was just me breaking the CD that played Christmas song after song.

One would think Christmas music playing would be so much fun,

But it’s been on since Halloween, and we’re glad that it's done!



As the last cashier and greeter waited for their ride,

My partner Dusty stepped back inside.

The registers lay silent, no bells and no beeps,

He let out a yell as he made his final security sweeps,

His voice echoed off of the now empty walls,

Not even a walkie-talkie answered his calls.



He punched in his alarm code, and looked at the clock,

Then hurried outside as I turned my key in the lock.

The alarm arming tone sounded as we drove away,

Dusty leaned in and said, “Aren’t you glad we aren’t working on the Big Return Day?”

A few snowflakes fell as I drove out of sight,

Merry Christmas to all, and from Wal-Mart, good night!

Mike's Writing Workshop post

This is a post I wrote for Mike's Writing Workshop on December 22nd. I thought it might be worthwhile to post it on my blog as well.

Merry Christmas to all,
Lisa Kovanda



It's now 11:35 pm, and I just finished a 13 hour shift at the big box retail store where I am a manager. In any event, it's fair to say that the next two days will be equally "pleasant." We are heading into a major winter storm here in Lincoln, Nebraska, so I can look forward to 3/4 of my staff calling in due to road conditions, but without a doubt, nearly all of the shoppers will show up.

As much as I lament the retail woes of holidays, this Christmas is different. Two days before her second birthday on December 7th, my granddaughter Abigail started getting huge bruises all over her body. Her mother is my 19 year-old daughter. She and her husband--also a 19 year-old--knew something was wrong, and carted her off to the doctor, even though they were terrified that not only would no one believe something was wrong, but that someone might think these awful bruises had been inflicted by them, and yank their daughter away from them.

Fortunately for them, and for Abigail, she saw the doctor that delivered her. He immediately called for lab tests, that showed Abigail's platelets dangerously low. She could have had a brain bleed sitting still they were so low. The "big word" for what she has is Idiopathic Thrombocytopenia Purpura. In English; she had a virus, her body made antibodies to kill the virus. Her anitbodies have also decided that platelets are viruses, and are killing them too. You can't just transfuse platelets, her body would simply destroy them.

By the time I met them at the hospital, she was in bad shape. Bleeding from her nose, mouth, and in her urine. Nearly every inch of her little body was covered in big, ugly bruises. I swear, it looked like she'd been beat with a ball bat. The nurses needed to start IV's to transfuse blood products to help stop the response, and as a former RN, I can tell you that sticking fragile two year-olds is not easy. There was lab to be drawn, and this poor baby couldn't clot to stop the bleeding from any of the needle pokes.

After all of the poking was done, and neon bandages were wrapped around her little arms, Abigail looked at the nurses and lab techs, smiled through her tear-swollen eyes and said, "Thank you."

Yes, I cried.

So did the big, burly lab tech.

She responded quickly to the immune globulin infusion, and we had high hopes she'd be one of the lucky kids who have this uncommon problem, but get over it with a single course of treatment. However, her platelet count has steadily dwindled. Today, she hovers right on the bubble of needing additional transfusions. Her condition could become a lifelong problem--if she survives to long-life. It's all a game of "if's."

To say that this adds stress to an already stressful holiday season is an understatement. It does force me to put things into perspective. My languishing manuscript will be there waiting for me to finish the polishing edits. I am fairly certain the big box retail store will keep on saving people money so they can live better no matter what I do. I didn't send out a single Christmas card, and everybody is getting gift cards this year. The holiday dinner might come from Stauffers, I don't care--it might just as easily come from the hospital cafeteria.

When my daughter, still a child herself, needs her mother's comfort, I'll be there. I'll be there when Abigail wants Nana to tell her a story. I'll be there when my son-in-law needs a friend, or when any of my other four children, assorted in-laws, or grandchildren need me. That's the spirit of Christmas in a nutshell.

My wish for all of you is a holiday filled with the important things in life. And economy be damned, that has nothing to do with the presents under the tree. I thank you for giving me a forum to share what wisdom Abigail's illness has taught me. I'm not ready to say "thank you" to the big things in life that poke me and make me hurt, but with some grace, I pray someday I'll be as noble as Abigail.

Merry Christmas.