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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take 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 help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; 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 charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, 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 – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get 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”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.