I Took a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from peaky to barely responsive during the journey.

He has always been a man of a larger than life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the latest scandal to catch up with a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, 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 festive gaiety all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

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

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

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

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.