I Drove a Close Friend of the Family to A&E – and his condition shifted from unwell to barely responsive on the way.
Our family friend has always been a truly outsized character. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to a further glass. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to befall a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.
It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.
The Morning Rolled On
The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming 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 was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.
So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.
The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind permeated the space.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.
Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?
The Aftermath and the Story
While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
