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He has always been a man of a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one chatting about the newest uproar to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

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

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

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit in every direction, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, 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”.