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Our family friend has always been a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one chatting about the most recent controversy to catch up with a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular 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, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

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

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments 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 snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year 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”.