I Drove a Family Friend to A&E – and he went from unwell to scarcely conscious during the journey.
He has always been a man of a larger than life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. At family parties, he would be the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to befall a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.
Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.
The Day Progressed
Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.
So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.
We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
Upon our arrival, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.
Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.
Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
It was already 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 truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, 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 couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.
