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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized figure. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to involve a local MP, or amusing us with accounts 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. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, 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 was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, 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. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.