I Drove a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from peaky to barely responsive on the way.

This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one chatting about the latest scandal to befall a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we made our way 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 a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.