I Took a Close Friend of the Family to A&E – and he went from unwell to scarcely conscious during the journey.
Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life character. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to another brandy. At family parties, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to involve a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.
We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.
As Time Passed
Time passed, yet the stories were not coming like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go 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, we resolved to take him to A&E.
We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?
A Deteriorating Condition
By the time we got there, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.
The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.
Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.
Heading Home for Leftovers
After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.
It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?
Recovery and Retrospection
While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
If that is completely accurate, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, 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”.
