🔗 Share this article

He has always been a man of a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person discussing the most recent controversy to catch up with a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, 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 considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, 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”.