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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to another brandy. At family parties, he’s the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to befall a regional politician, 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, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board 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 went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.