My manager canceled the first Christmas vacation I had requested in six years because another nurse had a baby, and she expected me to smile, put on my scrubs, and cover the holiday like I always did.
Chapter 3
Christmas morning found us in Salzburg.
Mom had rented an apartment with a small balcony overlooking snow-covered rooftops. My sister cooked eggs while Dad destroyed a pan of bacon and claimed European stoves were “hostile to Americans.”
We exchanged simple gifts.
Mom gave me a small silver ornament shaped like an airplane.
“For your next adventure,” she said.
I turned it over in my hand.
“Why an airplane?”
She shrugged.
“Maybe you’re supposed to go somewhere.”
At the time, I thought she meant emotionally.
She turned out to be more literal than either of us knew.
We extended the trip by two weeks.
After my siblings returned to work, I traveled with my parents through Austria, Germany, and France. We met relatives outside Stuttgart, visited cathedrals older than our country, rode trains through snow-covered countryside, and ate far too much bread.
One afternoon in Strasbourg, Mom and I sat in a café while Dad wandered off looking for a public restroom.
She stirred her coffee.
“You seem different.”
“Different good or different concerning?”
“Quieter.”
“I’ve always been quiet.”
“No. You were busy.”
I looked at her.
She continued gently.
“After Daniel died, you made sure you never had enough empty time to miss him.”
I stared through the window.
Pedestrians moved beneath holiday lights.
“I missed him anyway.”
“I know.”
We sat without speaking for a while.
Then I said, “I think I was afraid that if I started living again, it meant I was leaving him behind.”
Mom reached across the table.
“Sweetheart, you’re not a waiting room.”
That sentence stayed with me.
When I returned home in January, I didn’t immediately apply for another hospital job.
I updated my résumé.
I talked to recruiters.
Then an advertisement caught my attention.
Critical Care Flight Nurse.
A private medical transport company based outside Chicago needed experienced ICU nurses to accompany critically ill patients on domestic and international flights.
I read the listing twice.
Then five times.
Critical-care experience required.
Advanced certifications required.
Travel availability essential.
No children at home suddenly wasn’t something someone could use against me.
It was an advantage.
I applied.
Three interviews later, they flew me to Chicago.
The medical director, Dr. Marcus Grant, studied my résumé.
“Six years ICU?”
“Almost ten total.”
“Ventilator experience?”
“Daily.”
“Cardiac drips?”
“Yes.”
“Trauma?”
“Plenty.”
He leaned back.
“What do you think about being called at midnight and told you’re flying to Seattle?”
I smiled.
“Sounds better than being told in October that my approved Christmas vacation disappeared.”
He laughed.
I received the offer two days later.
It paid more than St. Matthew’s.
The schedule was flexible.
The work was demanding, specialized, and unlike anything I had ever done.
I accepted immediately.
Then news from my old ICU began reaching me.
Melissa had spent December telling coworkers that anyone with a cold should simply celebrate Christmas on a different day so they wouldn’t expose her children.
One of the nurses apparently stared at her and said, “Interesting. So Christmas can be celebrated on another day now?”
Melissa did not appreciate the observation.
Then Christmas Eve arrived.
Melissa called out sick.
Christmas morning, she called out again.
The unit was already dangerously short.
Hospital policy required documentation after repeated holiday callouts, particularly when an employee had openly announced she would not work assigned shifts.
An investigation followed.
By January, Melissa was gone.
A former colleague told me she had taken a position at a doctor’s office where she wouldn’t have to work weekends or holidays.
I hoped it suited her.
Oddly enough, I wasn’t angry with Melissa anymore.
She had asked for what she wanted.
Management had chosen to take something from me to give it to her.
The responsibility belonged largely to the people who made that decision.
Then Denise called.
I nearly let it go to voicemail.
“Rachel, how are you?”
“Good.”
“I heard you were back from Europe.”
“I am.”
“How was it?”
“Wonderful.”
There was a pause.
“We’d really like to discuss bringing you back.”
I leaned against my kitchen counter.
“I’m starting another job.”
“We can increase your base rate.”
“Thank you, but—”
“Substantially.”
She named a number.
It was nearly twenty percent above what I had earned.
Six months earlier, I might have accepted it without thinking.
Instead I said, “No.”
“Can I ask what they’re paying you?”
“It isn’t about the money.”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry about how the Christmas situation was handled.”
That surprised me.
I waited.
Denise continued.
“HR reviewed the aftermath. We’re changing how approved holiday leave can be revoked.”
“That’s good.”
“I should have handled it differently.”
“Yes.”
“I assumed because you always volunteered that you wouldn’t mind.”
There it was again, but this time she seemed to hear the problem herself.
She sighed.
“I took you for granted.”
For the first time, I didn’t need her apology.
That was how I knew I’d finally moved on.
“I loved working there,” I told her. “But I’m not coming back.”
“I understand.”
After we hung up, I took Daniel’s old coffee mug from the cabinet.
I hadn’t used it since he died.
I washed it.
Then I made coffee in it.
