I Took a Close Friend of the Family to A&E – and he went from unwell to scarcely conscious on the way.

This individual has long been known as a truly outsized figure. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend Christmas morning 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 fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped 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, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer all around, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

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

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.