I Drove a Close Friend of the Family to A&E – and he went from peaky to scarcely conscious on the way.
This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life character. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.
Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.
The Morning Rolled On
The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. 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 put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.
The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?
A Deteriorating Condition
By the time we got there, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.
The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.
Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
When visiting hours were over, we returned 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 Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?
Recovery and Retrospection
Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, 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”.
