Charitable December - The Power of Small Deeds

Holidays always bring me back to hospital corridors. To the late-night alarms and the glow of monitor lights, and the anticipation of early-morning rounds. Every time I drive past the hospital, looking at all those windows shining in the dark – pretending to be bright – I wonder... Who is on the other side, slouching their shoulders under the heaviness of worry and fear? Forgetting the outside world lit by Christmas lights, and children impatiently checking if Santa's rounds brought the gifts they hoped for.

Someone on the inside is emptying their last tissue pack right now. Wiping tears that just won't stop.

I know exactly how that looks – on holidays, just as on any regular day. I was them. That was my home, and my life, for seven months.

Our daughter Emanuela was born just after the Christmas lights were turned off and the decorations quietly taken down. During the first months of multiple complications, I silently planned to have her home by Easter. As if I was ever asked. Dug deep into my own world, my tunnel vision never expanded enough to notice whether there were any bunnies, daffodils, or coloured eggs decorating the walls. The true meaning of the holiday – the message of hope, of life, the promise of light brightening the dark – felt like a distant planet.

We brought our baby girl, seven months old, home just in time to catch the last days of summer.

Later that same year, we had to go back. It was the last week of November – a week of tests and check-ups. I walked the hospital hallways like I owned them. My step was lighter. I knew this time we were there only for a short while. I remember watching the nurses putting up a Christmas tree, decorating rooms and common areas, and stringing up lights that switched on December 1.

A few days later, we were home again. We spent that Christmas visiting family. It was our first time abroad.

The Story that Found Me

Seven years have passed since then, and the emotions faded long ago. Slowly, the memories fade too. But even so... holidays are always a bit bittersweet. I can't help but think of those whose celebrations are stolen, while at the same time searching for ways to offer support and ease someone's moment. And just as I was thinking about this again this year, my algorithm took care of the answer when Jessica and her son Isaiah appeared on my screen.

Isaiah spent his whole first year of life waiting — for a miracle, for stability, for a new heart that could carry him home. His entire first year. Every single day lived inside a hospital room at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP).

Isaiah was born with Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome – one of the most complex congenital heart defects a tiny human can have. He has known machines, surgeries, and waiting lists before he ever knew the warmth of his home. Jessica and her husband Quentin have lived in more uncertainty than any parent should ever have to carry. They moved away from everything familiar just to give their son a chance at life. They waited for a transplant. They hoped for a miracle. They held their breath. They let themselves hope again. And again. And again.

From her pain, a poem bloomed. Words turning the mess into beauty.

December Looks Different this Year

By Jessica McCain
@Isaiahs.Got.Heart

December looks different this year,
My sweet baby sleeps behind metal bars.
A crib not fit for an infant so small,
Trapped within these hospital walls. 

Alarms replace the bells of cheer,
Angels rush in, thank God he’s still here.   
The murmur goes on, blood passes so quick,
Whooshing snowstorms, turmoil within. 

He’s starting to smile at the lights strung above,  
We decorate his room so he won’t feel alone.
A baby so tender, it’s hard to believe,
He’s only known needles and surgeries. 

Maybe he knows that Santa is near,
Will he stop by if my baby is here?  
Bring him the heart he so desperately needs, 
Wrapped with a bow underneath the tree. 

My baby who’s fought since the day he was born, 
Who doesn’t deserve the cross that he’s worn.  
Full of poking and prodding, worry and fear,  
My baby, I pray, on Christmas is here.

December looks different this year.
Born with a heart that’s half of its size,
Outshone by the courage he carries inside.
My mother-heart swelling with gratitude,  

Sweet baby, I’m blessed that I still have you.

This December will be sweeter for them – Isaiah is home, and they get to start building a life that might feel normal again. But with every opening of an envelope, a new bitterness sets in. Instead of greetings and best wishes, medical bills are still coming. And while costs pile and numbers twinkle red, the savings melt. That's why they set up a GoFundMe account.

They are Not Alone

1 in 100 children is born with a heart defect. It is the most common birth anomaly.

Many of those children will spend this Christmas in hospital beds instead of next to a tree. Many parents will be staring at monitors instead of Christmas lights.

If you feel moved, you can make a small part of their burden easier.
It might be a moment for you – but it will mean the world to them.

Bring toys, books, or clothes your children have outgrown to the nearest children’s hospital.
Buy simple supplies — diapers, wet wipes, toiletries — and donate them.
Support organizations that stand with heart families.

And if you want to directly help individual families, just write to me. I will help you connect.

Because in this community, we take care of each other. We know what it means to be cracked open and still keep going.

We know what it means to rebuild a world with trembling hands.

We know that a “small thing” is never small when life inside a hospital hangs by threads.

And maybe that’s the point.

We are all much more than our broken hearts. We are humans who choose to show up — again and again — for someone else.

That’s how change happens. Not by grand gestures, but by little deeds of good in your own courtyard.

So go.
Find your courtyard.
Make it kinder. Make it softer. Make it yours.

And remember — by changing just one courtyard, we slowly, quietly, beautifully change the world.