I Took a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from peaky to scarcely conscious on the way.
He has always been a man of a truly outsized character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to involve a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.
It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.
The Day Progressed
The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.
Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.
The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?
A Deteriorating Condition
When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air filled the air.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.
Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.
It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?
Healing and Reflection
While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
