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This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to an extra drink. At family parties, he is the person gossiping about the newest uproar to catch up with a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, 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 Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

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

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get 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”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.