I Drove a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from unwell to scarcely conscious on the way.
He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy 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 the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, 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 broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.
The Morning Rolled On
The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.
Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided 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 Rapid Decline
Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air was noticeable.
Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.
Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.
By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?
The Aftermath and the Story
While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
