I Drove a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and he went from unwell to barely responsive during the journey.

He has always been a man of a larger than life character. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to another brandy. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players 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. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, 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, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, 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 having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, 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 its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.