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Our family friend has always been a larger than life personality. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. At family parties, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

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

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.