I Took a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from unwell to barely responsive on the way.

He has always been a man of a truly outsized figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase 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, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety all around, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. 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”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.