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Our family friend has always been 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 most recent controversy to catch up with a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. 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 stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided 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 poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get 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”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling 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”.