I Took a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and he went from peaky to scarcely conscious during the journey.

He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life personality. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to involve a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK 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 did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to take him to A&E.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit in every direction, 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.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

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 Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend 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 hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.