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This individual has long been known as a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky 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 appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

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

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

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling 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”.