At the medical center,
in the ER:
"Doctor, I've got stuff to do—the kids are still waiting for me!" the Santa Claus pleaded, sounding frantic.
"No matter how urgent, we've gotta check you out first," Adam replied, brushing aside the big white beard and decorations to start the exam. "Have you taken any meds lately?"
"Nope," Santa shook his head firmly. "I'm fine. Just a little dizzy before—probably from overdoing it lately. But when I think about the kids' happy faces, I get my energy back. Doc, just let me go, please!"
In good ol' American tradition, tons of folks dress up as Santa during Christmas to hang out with kids—think sitting on Santa's lap for photos and all that jazz.
Hmm…
Not just kids, though. If this were Rachel a few months into her pregnancy around Christmas, she'd probably plop down on every Santa's lap in New York City!
Here in the States, everything's a hustle. These Santas? No exception. Some do it full-time, others part-time, mostly hired by the Santa Claus Association to show up at store entrances and draw crowds. Stores pay the association, the association pays the Santas, and the middlemen skim the difference.
Same deal with clowns and other classic characters. Like in that Joker movie—the guy starts out as a clown, holding a shop sign, bringing in foot traffic.
So, are there Santas who try to cut out the middleman and deal directly with stores? Sure. But going up against the association? Light punishment is getting your turf snatched and a beatdown from their Santa squad. Worst case? You're toast.
Christmas is short, and to rake in enough cash in that tiny window, forget 9-9-6—think 0-0-7, nonstop. Of course, the official line is all noble: "It's all worth it to bring joy to the kids!"
"Sorry, no can do," Adam said, shaking his head. "You don't want to freak out the kids, right? Imagine Santa, the symbol of joy, keeling over right in front of them. How many nightmares would that spark?"
"What?!" Santa froze. "Is it that bad?"
"You need an MRI first," Adam said, gesturing him back. "Any meds lately? What's your name? Got a medical history?"
Santa was starting to panic under Adam's serious vibe. Sure, he said it was about the kids' happiness, but let's be real—it's a gig. Dying for it? Not worth it. He wasn't that selfless.
Suddenly, all those symptoms he'd been ignoring—dizziness, weakness, nausea—came rushing back, and the more he thought about it, the scarier it got.
"Duncan, I told him to see a doctor, but he wouldn't listen," John Carter piped up, finally adding his two cents.
"I get it," Adam nodded.
Doctors give advice; patients choose whether to take it. If Santa had insisted on leaving earlier, Adam wouldn't have stopped him.
After all, it's your life.
Americans, right? Born free, die whenever.
In the MRI room:
"Call Dr. Shepter," Adam said to Carter after glancing at the scan.
"On it," Carter replied, dashing off.
Moments later, Dr. Shepter showed up.
"What's up?"
"Our Santa's got late-stage brain cancer," Adam said, pointing at the MRI.
"Man, that's rough," Shepter agreed after a look, shaking his head. "The kids are gonna cry when they hear this."
"Good thing Dr. Duncan stopped him," Carter said, still shaken. "If he'd collapsed in front of all those kids, it'd haunt them forever."
"Let's go convince him to get surgery," Shepter said. "If it works, he could get a few more years. Today might just be his lucky day."
"He might not see it that way," Adam countered, shaking his head.
Sudden death versus knowing you've got terminal brain cancer with months to live? Tough to say which is the "better" news for Santa. Both suck!
Sure enough, when Santa heard, his hefty frame wobbled, and his face went pale as a ghost.
"How long do I have?"
"Hard to say," Shepter mused. "With successful surgery and good post-op care—plus a positive attitude—maybe 2 or 3 years, maybe more…"
"And without surgery?" Santa cut in.
"With your condition, a few months tops," Adam explained. "Plus, you could drop dead any second."
"Got it," Santa said, voice hollow. After a long pause, he nodded, grabbed his Santa hat, and stuck on the white beard.
"Sir, you're not getting the surgery?" Shepter asked, stunned.
"I just wanna go home to my family," Santa said, heading for the door.
"Sir, I strongly recommend surgery now," Shepter warned. "You could collapse any moment."
"I know," Santa mumbled, brushing it off as he walked out.
"Ugh," Shepter sighed, watching him go. "People only realize what matters most when they're staring death in the face."
"Hope so," Adam sighed too.
"Hm?" Shepter glanced at him, surprised. "You don't think so?"
"I just hope he's really going home to his family," Adam said grimly. "Otherwise, after today, some kids might never want to celebrate Christmas again."
"You mean…" Shepter's eyes widened.
"If he drops dead on the job, even with late-stage brain cancer, his company's gotta pay something to his family, right?" Adam said. "Or maybe he steps outside and 'gets hit by a car'—the driver and insurance would have to cough up some cash too."
"…"
Shepter and Carter were speechless.
But thinking back to Santa's attitude, it didn't seem so far-fetched.
Most people, hearing this, would opt for surgery to squeeze out a few more years. Not Santa—he was way too resolute. And if he was just going home to his family, why slap on the beard and hat here, dressing up as Santa again?
"We're not doing anything?" Carter asked hesitantly.
"We're doctors," Shepter sighed. "We treat. That's it. The rest? Not our job, and we can't control it."
With that, he turned and left.
"Come on, back to the ER," Adam said, patting Carter's shoulder. "Better to save a few patients than stand here daydreaming about what-ifs."
They headed off.
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