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He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to an extra drink. 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 outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

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

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted DVT. 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, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.