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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as 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 how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment 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 charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.