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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. At family parties, he would be the one chatting about 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, before going our separate ways. But, one 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, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

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

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, 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”.