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He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to an extra drink. At family parties, he would be the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to catch up with a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a 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”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.