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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to another brandy. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the newest uproar to involve a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore 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 hearing it told each year 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”.