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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized character. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person discussing the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming like they normally did. 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, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety all around, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; 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 lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling 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”.