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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to involve a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit all around, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore 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 the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.