I Took a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and he went from peaky to scarcely conscious during the journey.
This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he would be the one chatting about the latest scandal to befall a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.
It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.
As Time Passed
Time passed, yet the stories were not coming 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 couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.
Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to take him to A&E.
We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air filled the air.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.
Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.
Heading Home for Leftovers
When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?
Healing and Reflection
While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, 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”.
