🔗 Share this article I Took a Close Friend of the Family to A&E – and he went from peaky to barely responsive on the way. This individual has long been known as a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one chatting about the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades. Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell. The Morning Rolled On The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed. Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room. We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day? A Rapid Decline When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air permeated the space. What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds. Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”. A Quiet Journey Back When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game. The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas? The Aftermath and the Story Even though he ultimately healed, 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”. Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, 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”.