I Drove a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from peaky to barely responsive during the journey.
He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. At family parties, he is the person discussing the latest scandal to involve a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.
We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.
The Morning Rolled On
The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.
Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.
The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?
A Deteriorating Condition
Upon our arrival, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted 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. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.
Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.
By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?
Healing and Reflection
Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. 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”.
How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year 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”.