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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized figure. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to a further glass. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

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 attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

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

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.