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This individual has long been known as a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. At family parties, he is the person chatting about the newest uproar to catch up with a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. 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 in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.