I Drove a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from peaky to barely responsive on the way.
This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one chatting about the most recent controversy to befall a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.
It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.
The Day Progressed
Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine 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 did not manage.
So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
By the time we got there, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.
Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.
Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.
Heading Home for Leftovers
Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?
Healing and Reflection
Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, 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”.
