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He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to a further glass. At family parties, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, 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. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to take him to A&E.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, 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 having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get DVT. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.