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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, 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 feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore 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 the story’s yearly repetition 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”.