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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one discussing the most recent controversy to catch up with a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. 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. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

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 it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling 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”.