I Drove a Close Friend of the Family to A&E – and his condition shifted from peaky to scarcely conscious during the journey.
He has always been a man of a larger than life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to catch up with a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club for forty years.
It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.
The Morning Rolled On
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 tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, 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.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.
Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.
Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?
The Aftermath and the Story
Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling 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”.
