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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to a further glass. During family gatherings, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program 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 snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed a serious circulatory condition. 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 couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling 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”.