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He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to another brandy. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the most recent controversy to befall a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering 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, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

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

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, 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”.