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This individual has long been known as a larger than life character. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. At family parties, he’s the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – 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 DVT. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, 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 am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling 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”.