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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the newest uproar to catch up with a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.