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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one gossiping about the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.