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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the most recent controversy to involve a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, 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 – had we missed Christmas?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, 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 hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.