🔗 Share this article I Took 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 larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to a further glass. During family gatherings, he would be the one 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 over the past 40 years. 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, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse. The Day Progressed The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful. So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room. The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day? A Rapid Decline Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space. What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables. Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”. A Subdued Return Home Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly. It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas? Recovery and Retrospection Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”. Whether that’s strictly true, 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. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.