I Drove a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and he went from peaky to scarcely conscious during the journey.
This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to befall a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.
Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, 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 broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.
As Time Passed
The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.
Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.
We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
By the time we got there, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind filled the air.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.
Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.
A Subdued Return Home
Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.
It was already 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
Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, while that 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 involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
