24/12/2025
𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘 | A Christmas Eve Shift
She checked the schedule twice, as if the numbers might flinch under her stare and rearrange themselves into what she was hoping for.
December 24 — 2:00–10:00 PM — Group 3
She sighed. At that particular time, while laughter would fold itself into the corners of the living room, she knew she would be folding herself into scrubs that smelled faintly of antiseptic and duty. The hospital clock would be ticking while dinner plates were being set at home.
Well what can she do? She's just a student—an OJT nurse in training—still learning how to stand properly at the bedside without trembling, and memorizing the unspoken grammar of hospitals.
Alas, that afternoon duty came, and she called it… her Christmas Eve shift.
Walking towards their group meeting place, irritation sat heavy in her chest. She was angry at the schedule, angry at the system, angry at the quiet injustice of missing Christmas Eve.
“Haayyy, mga amo ni nga oras excited nako tani mag-una kaon mango float mong.”
She began imagining her family's table: rice steaming, candles being lit, chairs slowly filling, but one empty seat which is hers.
By 7:30 PM, the ward had swallowed her whole. Jealousy clouded her mind as she realizes how happy her sisters might be celebrating with their parents and watching movies right now.
Lost in thoughts, she was startled by her clinical instructor's phone ringing. She pulled out her phone and answered the call, stepping aside, phone pressed to her ear, and her voice softened in a way it never was during endorsements.
“Yes, langga. Mommy will be home later.”, she said. Promising a child who did not yet understand why promises sometimes bent around duty.
She tried not to stare and eavesdrop. But that sentence alone struck a needle in her chest. She started to remember her mama, and to stop herself from crying she decided to walk along the hallway where the nurses’ station sat.
At the nurses’ station, phones rang like restless bells. One nurse laughed into the receiver—too brightly—assuring her lola she'd try to come home early. Another shook his head, mouthed no leave again, and returned to charting as if it didn't sting.
Later, she passed a doctor in the hallway, voice low, almost worn thin. “Every year,” he said to whoever was listening on the other end.
“Every Christmas. It's okay, I'm used to it.” His words landed heavy, practiced, and far too familiar.
“Good evening, doctor.” She smiled, as if she didn't hear the doctor talking to the phone.
Her groupmate came to her and told her it was time for vital signs to be taken. Although feeling like she was floating, she nodded and told him she'll get her stuff.
And as she entered their room, a tear fell from her eye. A single gentle drop yet so powerful it almost felt like she had to scream and bawl her eyes out. Emotions started to fill her entire body. She tried her best not to cry much. She wiped her tears, grabbed her equipment, and went outside like nothing happened. The realizations were starting to hit her, that she wasn't the only one suffering.
Room D25. She knocked twice and entered the room quietly. Careful not to disturb or cause any loud noise.
She greeted her only patient for this shift once again. And as she wrapped the cuff around the patient's arm, she heard a laughter spill from a phone on the bedside table.
It was the patient's family on video call.
And just as she thought her day couldn't get any tougher, someone on the phone starts saying.
“Next year kompleto na ta liwat ya, pa. Basta paayo ka lang da. Tomorrow, ihatod namon da amon mga foods.”
At that moment, something shifted. She bit her lower lip to stop herself from crying. Celebrating Christmas, alone, in a hospital is a peculiar kind of courage. The needle that was struck in her chest a while ago became a knife lodging up to her lungs, like she can't breathe just by stopping her emotions from flowing out from her eyes.
As she went out of her patient's room, she went straight to the comfort room and began slightly sobbing.
She realized that the nurses weren't just missing dinner, they were choosing presence. The doctors weren't sacrificing holiday, they were guarding lives. The clinical instructors weren't just there for their license, they were guiding and helping. And all the families weren't incomplete, they were yearning, loving loudly across distance and circumstance.
And she—she wasn't just completing her duty hours.
She was holding hands steady while blood pressures were taken. She was passing supplies before they were asked for. She was easing discomfort, answering bells, offering small reassurances that mattered more than grand celebrations.
The Christmas spirit, she understood then, was never about perfection or completeness.
It wasn't about everyone being home.
It was about the ache of wanting to be at one table, and still choosing to serve at another.
It was about finding joy in borrowed moments: a patient's smile, a nurse's quiet thank you, a doctor's nod, a clinical instructor's laugh at your silly mistake, and the shared understanding that care does not take holidays.
At 10:15 PM, her shift finally ended. Now waiting for her ride, she checked her phone. A dozen missed texts from home, photos of half-eaten ham and smiling faces. She didn't feel jealous anymore. Instead, she typed a simple reply: Papuli na ako, kabay pa may mango float pa bilin xD.
She giggled and breathed deeply. The faint scent of antiseptic caught in her hair, the smell she hated hours ago. Now it felt like incense. She looked back at the hospital windows, glowing like uneven stars against the dark. Behind one of those lights, a family was holding on because she had been there to help.
The ache in her chest now turned into a quiet, heavy calm. Her eyes were still slightly watery, but no longer from the sting of injustice.
“Merry Christmas Miss Noelle!” her clinical instructor called out, waving as she climbed into a taxi.
“Merry Christmas man, Miss. Halong ikaw!”
She smiled.
That night, she didn't just witness Christmas.
She practiced it.
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Writer | Irene Montealto
Layout | Rosh Immanuel Moyong
