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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one discussing the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase 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.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung 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”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling 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”.