🔗 Share this article I Took a Close Friend of the Family to the Emergency Room – and he went from unwell to scarcely conscious on the way. He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years. Frequently, we would share the holiday morning 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 fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky. As Time Passed The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful. Therefore, before I could even 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 how long would that take on Christmas Day? A Rapid Decline When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air permeated the space. The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds. Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”. A Quiet Journey Back Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly. By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday? The Aftermath and the Story Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore 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 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”.