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Our family friend has always been a larger than life character. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. At family parties, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, 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 in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. 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”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.