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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the most recent controversy to catch up with a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright 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 failed.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, we resolved to take him to A&E.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety all around, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, while that 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, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.