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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized personality. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to catch up with a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment 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 bustling about and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.