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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the newest uproar to catch up with a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, 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 how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. 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 tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.