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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. At family parties, he would be the one chatting about the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas 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 fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.