🔗 Share this article I Drove a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and he went from peaky to scarcely conscious during the journey. Our family friend has always been a larger than life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person gossiping about the most recent controversy to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades. It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell. The Morning Rolled On The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful. Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital. We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day? A Rapid Decline When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air was noticeable. What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables. Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”. Heading Home for Leftovers After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game. By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas? The Aftermath and the Story Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore 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 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”.