🔗 Share this article I Took a Close Friend of the Family to A&E – 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 not one to say no to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to involve a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years. It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky. The Morning Rolled On The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful. Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to get him to the hospital. We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day? A Worrying Turn By the time we got there, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air filled the air. The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds. 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 Quiet Journey Back After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game. It was already late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas? Recovery and Retrospection Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”. How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.