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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person chatting about the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

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, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

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

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.