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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to an extra drink. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent 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 found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a 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”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling 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”.