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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized figure. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one chatting about the latest scandal to catch up with a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts 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, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.