I Took a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from peaky to scarcely conscious during the journey.
Our family friend has always been a larger than life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.
It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.
As Time Passed
Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.
So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided 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 Worrying Turn
When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.
The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; 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 unique to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.
It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?
The Aftermath and the Story
Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
