I Drove a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and he went from unwell to barely responsive during the journey.
Our family friend has always been a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club for forty years.
It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.
The Morning Rolled On
The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.
So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.
The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?
A Deteriorating Condition
By the time we got there, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.
Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?
The Aftermath and the Story
Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
