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He has always been a man of a truly outsized character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit all around, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. 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 hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.