I Drove a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and he went from unwell to scarcely conscious during the journey.

He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the latest scandal to befall a local MP, or entertaining us with stories 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. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine 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 was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We watched something daft 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 – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history 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 its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.