I Took a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and he went from peaky to scarcely conscious during the journey.
He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the newest uproar to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.
We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.
The Morning Rolled On
The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.
Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, we resolved to take him to A&E.
We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?
A Rapid Decline
By the time we got there, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind was noticeable.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.
Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.
By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?
The Aftermath and the Story
While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
