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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one chatting about the latest scandal to catch up with a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, 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?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.