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He has always been a man of a truly outsized character. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. At family parties, he would be the one chatting about the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to take him to A&E.

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 guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, 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 made our way home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung 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”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.