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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life personality. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one chatting about the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming 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 was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. 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. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.