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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the most recent controversy to involve a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

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

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, 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 am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year 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”.