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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the most recent controversy to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular 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, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

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

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.