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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized figure. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one chatting about the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

It was common for us to pass 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 scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety all around, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.