🔗 Share this article I Took a Close Friend of the Family to A&E – and his condition shifted from unwell to barely responsive during the journey. He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the newest uproar to involve a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years. Frequently, we would share the holiday morning 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 planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell. The Morning Rolled On The hours went by, however, 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, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed. So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to take him to A&E. The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day? A Deteriorating Condition When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air permeated the space. Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds. Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”. Heading Home for Leftovers After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game. It was already late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday? The Aftermath and the Story Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get DVT. 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 involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.