I Took a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and he went from peaky to scarcely conscious on the way.
He has always been a man of a larger than life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. During family gatherings, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to catch up with 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 the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.
The Morning Rolled On
The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK 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 failed.
Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?
A Deteriorating Condition
Upon our arrival, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind was noticeable.
Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.
Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
When visiting hours were over, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?
The Aftermath and the Story
Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year 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”.
