A hospital is a very lonely place at Christmastime. In my early teens, I spent more than 1,000 days in a hospital, including on Christmas and other holidays. But not as a patient. I was selling newspapers. My paper route was unique: no subscribers, only patients and some medical staff members at St. James Hospital in Chicago Heights. Typically, I arrived at the hospital by 6:30 a.m. on school days. Loaded up with copies of the Chicago Tribune and Chicago Sun-Times under my arm, I stopped at patient rooms, except for those with a “do not disturb” sign. “Newspaper?” I called out in a clear but not annoyingly loud voice. Patients responded from inside darkened rooms. Then I would quietly approach their bedsides and ask which morning paper they wanted. Some bought both. People who were hospitalized for days or even weeks recognized my voice and knew my daily routine. Many had their 15 cents for a newspaper ready for me. The good tippers gave me a quarter. I usually finished within an hour with pockets full of change. Then I repeated my paper route after school when I sold the evening newspapers to patients. Looking back, I was more than a paper carrier trying to earn money for college. I was a welcome link to the world outside the hospital. I was the fulfiller of a habit that people had back then to stay abreast of current events through newspapers. This was decades before people would get the news on digital devices or have access to nonstop cable news channels. My customers who were not too sick to read looked forward to my daily visit. Whatever illness hospitalized them did not weaken their daily need to keep informed. I remember the guy who was always chomping on an unlit cigar when he bought the afternoon papers. “How’s Royko today?” he would ask. Another man sought my opinions about Chicago sports teams and local politics. I was somehow a connection to a normal life he and other patients wanted to return to at home. Maybe I didn’t realize it then, but this year-round job gave me a distinct purpose. That mission, especially at Christmas, was to divert some of the sadness and anxiety of hospitalization from those who could still enjoy a newspaper despite their condition. Those who could turn on a light, scoot up on a pillow and take the newspaper from my hand as if it were a wrapped Christmas present. I had arrived before their breakfast trays. Now they had something meaningful to occupy their time. On Christmas Day, I met hospitalized mothers and grandmothers who didn’t seem to care all that much about the news but bought papers anyway. They just wanted to talk to somebody, wishfully or wistfully, about their own Christmas remembrances. About what they baked and their elaborate dinners for their families. Occasionally, I would see someone in a hospital room who was a friend of my parents or a prominent member of the community. One time, I saw a classmate there who had a rare disease. He did not return to school. And I was happy to be greeted warmly on Christmas morning by nurses and hospital staff and during the afternoon visiting hours by family members of patients. They all contributed something to the Christmas spirit. Nursing staff members dutifully attended to the needs of the sick, as they would any other day, children brought Christmas treats and kindness to parents sidelined by one illness or several, and maintenance workers hummed a carol as they cleaned and polished floors. Like so many other important places in a city that had its best days long ago, St. James Hospital, founded in 1911, eventually became economically unsustainable at its location in “the Heights.” It disappeared like the people who struggled with illnesses in its 300 beds. The six-story building was demolished in 2019, leaving behind a forlorn block where the old Lincoln and Dixie highways, now U.S. 30 and U.S. 1, intersect. I wonder whether anyone is still selling newspapers in medical centers like I did back then. There are probably safety reasons and health concerns not to have a paper carrier walking hospital halls. But I’d like to think someone is doing it as I once did. This Christmas, I’ll spend a little time thinking of those today in hospital beds — that someone is there to keep them connected to the world outside and the true spirit of this special day. Jack Modzelewski is a Chicago-based business communications consultant, author and former international public relations agency executive and journalist.   Submit a letter, of no more than 400 words, to the editor here or email [email protected].