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He has always been a man of a truly outsized character. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the newest uproar to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage 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, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

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, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history 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 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”.