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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized character. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the most recent controversy to involve a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.