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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

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

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned 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 a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling 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”.