I Took a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from unwell to barely responsive on the way.

He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the newest uproar to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, 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”.