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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person discussing the latest scandal to befall a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.