02 Mar 2026
I Drove a Family Friend to the Emergency Room – and he went from peaky to scarcely conscious during the journey.
Our family friend has always been a truly outsized personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.
Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.
The Morning Rolled On
The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.
Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind filled the air.
The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.
Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.
A Subdued Return Home
Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.
The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?
The Aftermath and the Story
Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. 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 contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.