• leaflet

    . . .a thin triangular flap of a heart valve. . . a small book usually having a paper cover . . . a medical lit-art e-journal from The Permanente Press
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Spread the Word

See Bio & Other Work

Joanie Aasen, MSN, RN

Contributor's Note

This chronicle was written during my first exposure to narrative medicine. The prompt for this piece unwittingly directed me to a sadness-suppressed Christmas memory from my first year of marriage. The act of participation in the narrative medicine process pulled these words from the deep and reminded me of the beautiful little one that I cared for in his last moments on earth. The pen in my hand transformed this memory into a raw story of appreciation and provided a peaceful resting place for that sweet child in my heart.

Christmas 1997

Vol 6: Iss 2, Prose

He complained that nothing was turning out right from the oven.  
He forgot some of the key ingredients. The bread was burnt. The steak too fatty.  
Everything was a mess.  All he wanted to do was make a nice Christmas Eve dinner 
to celebrate his first Christmas with his new, young wife, me.

I had come in the door, a bit glazed over, and he didn’t notice.
He complained for a while longer.
Finally, he asked, “How was your day at work?”

“I put a toe tag on a 4 year old. His name was Dylan.”

My husband has stopped complaining.  He learned.
Every Christmas Eve, we celebrate all aspects of living, 
which includes burning the bread.