I Took a Family Friend to A&E – and he went from unwell to scarcely conscious on the way.
He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one gossiping about the newest uproar to involve a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.
We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.
The Day Progressed
The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.
Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.
The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
By the time we got there, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.
Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit all around, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles 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 charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.
A Subdued Return Home
After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?
The Aftermath and the Story
Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, 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”.
