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This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the most recent controversy to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase 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 seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

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

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.