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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. At family parties, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas 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 contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.