🔗 Share this article I Took a Close Friend of the Family to A&E – and he went from unwell to scarcely conscious on the way. He has always been a man of a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years. It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell. The Morning Rolled On The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage. Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, 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 Upon our arrival, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space. The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables. Upbeat nursing staff, 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”. A Subdued Return Home When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game. The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas? Recovery and Retrospection 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 a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.