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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life character. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the newest uproar to catch up with a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; 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 moving busily and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, 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 – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. 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 involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.