I Took a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and he went from unwell to barely responsive on the way.

He has always been a man of a truly outsized character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one discussing the most recent controversy to involve a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; 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

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

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

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday 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 contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.