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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to a further glass. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, 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 couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, we resolved to take him to A&E.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted 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 couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.