I Drove a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and he went from peaky to scarcely conscious during the journey.

Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one chatting about the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in 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 looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to 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 what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

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 Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas 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 a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, 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”.