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He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to befall a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.