I Drove a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and he went from unwell to barely responsive on the way.
Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one chatting about the newest uproar to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.
Frequently, we would share 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 tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.
The Morning Rolled On
Time passed, yet the stories were not coming like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.
So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to get him to the hospital.
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 poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.
Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.
Heading Home for Leftovers
When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.
By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?
The Aftermath and the Story
Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, 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”.
