I Drove a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from unwell to barely responsive on the way.
This individual has long been known as a truly outsized figure. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to another brandy. During family gatherings, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.
Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.
The Day Progressed
Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.
So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air was noticeable.
Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer 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 bedside tables.
Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.
It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – 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 a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, 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 the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
