I Took a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from unwell to scarcely conscious during the journey.
Our family friend has always been a truly outsized figure. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to catch up with a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.
It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.
The Day Progressed
The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. 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 drive him to the emergency room.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.
Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.
Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
When visiting hours were over, we returned home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?
The Aftermath and the Story
Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, 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”.
