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He has always been a man of a larger than life figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to another brandy. At family parties, he is the person discussing the newest uproar to catch up with a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, we resolved 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 Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.