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Our family friend has always been a larger than life figure. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the most recent controversy to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.