I Took a Close Friend of the Family to A&E – and he went from peaky to scarcely conscious on the way.
He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one chatting about the latest scandal to involve a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.
We would often spend 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 scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.
The Morning Rolled On
The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, 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 take him to A&E.
The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?
A Rapid Decline
When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed 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.
Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.
Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.
The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?
Healing and Reflection
While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has become part of family legend 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”.
