🔗 Share this article

This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. At family parties, he’s the one discussing the most recent controversy to befall a local MP, 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 morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, 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. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a 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 couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.