🔗 Share this article

This individual has long been known as a truly outsized personality. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one chatting about the newest uproar to involve a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, 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 broke 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 appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent 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, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung 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 involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year 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”.