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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life character. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. At family parties, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

We would often spend 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 fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

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 found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

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

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.