I Drove a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and his condition shifted from peaky to barely responsive during the journey.
He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one gossiping about the newest uproar to involve a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.
Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.
The Morning Rolled On
Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.
Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?
A Deteriorating Condition
When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.
Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.
A Quiet Journey Back
When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.
The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?
The Aftermath and the Story
Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
How factual that statement is, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
