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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

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

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. 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 all around, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, 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”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

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

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get DVT. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, 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”.