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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one discussing the newest uproar to catch up with a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

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

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer all around, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – 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 subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history 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”.