I Drove a Family Friend to A&E – and he went from unwell to barely responsive during the journey.
He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the newest uproar to catch up with a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.
It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.
As Time Passed
Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.
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 how long would that take on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.
The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.
Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.
A Subdued Return Home
When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.
It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?
Healing and Reflection
Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
