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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. 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, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, we resolved 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 Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer all around, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get DVT. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.