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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to another brandy. At family parties, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer all around, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, while that 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 contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, 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”.