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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. At family parties, he’s the one gossiping about the newest uproar to involve a local MP, 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. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.