I Took a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from peaky to scarcely conscious during the journey.
Our family friend has always been a truly outsized figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. At family parties, he is the person discussing the most recent controversy to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.
It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.
The Morning Rolled On
The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. 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, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.
Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. 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 tables next to the beds.
Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.
Heading Home for Leftovers
After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.
By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?
The Aftermath and the Story
While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, even if that particular 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 contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
